I was exhausted. I was totally stressed. I was utterly delighted! It was an afternoon with our friend in Paris, Henri DeLord and his wife Michele.
I was exhausted because you don’t just “look” at art with Henri – you endure it. I was stressed because I was in way over my head talking about esoterica like what makes great art great and what makes some art “calendar” art – to use Henri’s words? The stress was because I had to do it all in French, struggling for words and trying to keep up with Henri whose explanations came in torrents.
But mostly, I was enchanted, entranced, delighted, and transported. It was my first visit to Giverny and its riot of flowers, its black tulips, it’s twining wisteria, the camellias still blooming, azaleas in a cascade of b right red – and with it all – Henri, who never stopped talking.
But I know that I have found a true friend and even soul mate because we share the same relentless characteristic: intolerance. The word “snob” is used in French. He is one and perhaps I am too. Perhaps it is a French characteristic to accept the excellent and reject the meaningless, and do it as vigourously as possible. He agrees with me that there is no point in being tolerant of people who don’t know what they are talking about – especially if you are convinced that you do!
He is.
Strolling through the wonderfully preserved Monet home we come to a wall of “Monet” paintings. “Terrible” grumbles Henri. “Horrible” he repeats. “They are copies, and bad copies at that.” And it is almost as if only he, among the hundreds of visitors we were sharing the house with, really knew that these were fake Monets. Just as quickly however, he was drawn to the exquisite Japanese wood block pictures. Vibrant colours, Fine lines. 18th century. Room after room of them. And endowed with the tranquility that only a Japanese wood block print offers.
Then it was to the Impressionist Museum. It was originally a museum for American Impressionists, but they dropped sponsorship. It is now maintained by the Monet foundatin and offers an exceptional display of Impressionism. Henri of course had to quibble about exactly when Impressionism ended and Post-Impressionism began. More of this kind of attitude and I know I like him.
He stops by a Sisley. It is a country lane winding through an arbour of trees. Henri sniffs: “Arte de calendare,” then goes on to say that people collect stuff like this because they are swept away by the name and have no idea if the work is any good. Then I look across the room. I exclaim: “Renoir.” Henri smiles. I am accepted into whatever select group Henri is head of. He, of course knows the difference between calendar art and unique art. In his mind, he is right. He accepts that he is a snob. He accepts that he is intolerant of ignorance, especially when it comes to art. And all the while I am becoming more and more stressed because he is rattling it all off in high speed French (despite my continuing requests that he speak more slowly) and I am trying to respond in kind. I use words I never have used before. I “Francify” English words and more often than not I have hit the right word – or close to it.
Everyone who comes to France should have an Henri DeLord. He will not let you simply take in the sights. He will insist that you really see, that you are not afraid to be critical, and that when something is be loved, you love it with the same degree of passion you give to your snobbery.
Of course Giverny is not like any place on earth. The lilies have not yet flowered but everything else has. Do you really feel the presence of Claude Monet? Some people say you do.
Just a footnote: Henri DeLord is a very successful artist and designer. If you want to see some of his work you can visit his website at delordesign.com
Friday, April 30, 2010
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
LETTER FROM PARIS #10 farewell
It’s Rachel’s last day and we have nothing special for her. Then it becomes truly “April in Paris.” I’ll explain.
We agree on a last day visit to the Marine Museum at Trocadero. It is very imposing, with very large models of warships and in one prominent place – the famous picture of Napoleon saying goodbye to his army.
The museum is closed. It’s Tuesday. But there is the aquarium. Why not?
The harbinger of good fortune is our “April in Paris” experience. We walk along the road behind the Chaillot Palace. We are under a joyful canopy of “chestnuts in blossom.” I want to sing the whole song.
The Aquarium is magical. It has the most innovative displays of fish: everything from the perch that inhabit the Seine, all the way to the exotics, plus corals, plus starfish, plus hundreds of school kids having the time of their life. You can tell, they run happily from one display to the next and they scream. Like schoolchildren everywhere they scream just for the fun of screaming.
Highlight turns out to be an utterly superb film of the oceans. Best thing I have ever seen. Better even than some of the Attenborough masterpieces. I watch the credits and see names from everywhere. Because it is so detailed; because it has so many exquisite underwatrer scenes; because it has every kind of creature that swims I am reminded of the multi-year project of filming “March of The Penguins.” It is more dramatic. There are killer whales taking a young whale from its mother. There are waves breaking over rocks.
There is everything that one could dream of in a film of its kind. Rachel, being either “cool” or knowing tells me they see these films all the time at school.
She stops in the plaza by the Trocadero for a few last beauty shots of the Eiffel Tower. And we are gone.
PS: I have taken note of comments from some readers, often about my being too critical instead of taking people on a pleasant journey. One correspondent referred to my comments as “vituperative.” I ask neither to be forgiven for my bluntness or praised for my insights. It is who I am. It is who I have always been. Perhaps I am too critical, but I’ve been around so long I can’t remember when I wasn’t - critical that is. I write these "letters" for two reasons: to please my friends, and to help me remember.
We agree on a last day visit to the Marine Museum at Trocadero. It is very imposing, with very large models of warships and in one prominent place – the famous picture of Napoleon saying goodbye to his army.
The museum is closed. It’s Tuesday. But there is the aquarium. Why not?
The harbinger of good fortune is our “April in Paris” experience. We walk along the road behind the Chaillot Palace. We are under a joyful canopy of “chestnuts in blossom.” I want to sing the whole song.
The Aquarium is magical. It has the most innovative displays of fish: everything from the perch that inhabit the Seine, all the way to the exotics, plus corals, plus starfish, plus hundreds of school kids having the time of their life. You can tell, they run happily from one display to the next and they scream. Like schoolchildren everywhere they scream just for the fun of screaming.
Highlight turns out to be an utterly superb film of the oceans. Best thing I have ever seen. Better even than some of the Attenborough masterpieces. I watch the credits and see names from everywhere. Because it is so detailed; because it has so many exquisite underwatrer scenes; because it has every kind of creature that swims I am reminded of the multi-year project of filming “March of The Penguins.” It is more dramatic. There are killer whales taking a young whale from its mother. There are waves breaking over rocks.
There is everything that one could dream of in a film of its kind. Rachel, being either “cool” or knowing tells me they see these films all the time at school.
She stops in the plaza by the Trocadero for a few last beauty shots of the Eiffel Tower. And we are gone.
PS: I have taken note of comments from some readers, often about my being too critical instead of taking people on a pleasant journey. One correspondent referred to my comments as “vituperative.” I ask neither to be forgiven for my bluntness or praised for my insights. It is who I am. It is who I have always been. Perhaps I am too critical, but I’ve been around so long I can’t remember when I wasn’t - critical that is. I write these "letters" for two reasons: to please my friends, and to help me remember.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
A BRIEF AFTERTHOUGHT
We take EBook readers withg us whenwe travel. Easier than heavy books. Has anyone else read "I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell?" It was on the New York Times best seller list. If you did get to it, did you manage to finish it?
LETTER FROM PARIS #9
It has been a bad couple of days. First downer was a comment from “anonymous” on my blog site. (I think I know who it is because she always chides me for negativity.) She said that if I had so many bad things happen from graffiti to tourists blocking my view to lack of artistic judgement of the mob at the Louvre – I “should have stood in bed.”
Next hit: Rachel and I went to the supermarket for supplies. On the way through the checkout the cashier asked me: “Allemande?” Rachel could hardly contain her laughter. She had been telling me that my accent was neither American nor Canadian but it also was not French. This otherwise charming woman at the checkout said I sounded like German!
Next: on the Metro where I am always delighted by the kindness of the French, (my wife is always given a seat by an obliging gentleman or young woman.) an older man who identified himself as once being from Montreal declared that the French only want to appear to be what they are not: polite.
The final straw. I woke up this morning and made my usual trip to the computer to read the Toronto papers. No Globe – only the Star. Yikes! It is Sunday. I have lost a whole day!
Now Rachel has only three more days. We must do something interesting: the Bon Marche! It’s a huge market with everything and it is thronged with Parisians and tourists of course. The final blow: forgetting I am not in Toronto where everything is open on Sunday, we emerge from the Babylone Metro and the place is closed! Everything but restaurants – closed.
I am getting desperate for something good. I know exactly where to find it: St. Germain de Pre. We detour first to see St. Sulpice, which is being totally remodeled. A few more blocks and we face the three restaurants most famous for being where the soon-to-be-great authors and artists met and argued. Directly ahead: Les Deux Maggot, to the left Café Flore, then our choice Brasserie Lip. We had arrived at the literary crossroads and it was time to spend money.
Just a sidelight: the best people get the best tables. Many of us call those the “yoo-hoo” tables because if you are anyone at all you can greet all the others and of course, be seen. Classically, among the elite, it is understood that the farther back you sit the less important you are. If you find yourself at the in the very bowels of the restaurant, usually near the noise of the kitchen, you are next-to-nobody. The yoo-hoo table - that you get only if your name has been on a marquee recently. Our waiter was attentive, but not fawning. The food is pretty good and elegantly served and you get linen napkins. The purpose of Brasserie Lip is not the food it is the privilege of being there.
The good day is beginning. From Lip we head to a sidewalk café for dessert. Rachel, who says she always gets “looks” orders du lait. Shirley forces herself to have a gateau chocolate which comes with a scoop of ice cream and the interior of the cake liquid chocolate bliss. My simple tarte aux pommes is beyond the ordinary,
From there another “must.” Rue Buci lined with temptations: exquisite chocolates, irresistible patisseries, and everywhere restaurants and sidewalk tables crowded with pleasure seekers.
Side note: the contrast to Montmartre, where we were yesterday, is revealing. The Montmatre crowd seemed almost all to have cameras hot-wired to their brains. The crowds at Rue Buci are just as big, but more fun, more Paris, more engaged, more amiable. I know, I am idealizing, but remembering the chastisement for carping about tourists I need some redemption. I love crowds. It all depends on why they seem to be there.
Let me simply say that Montmatre, in spite of it having been home to Renoir and Picasso is garish. St. Germain de Pre is Parisian, even though the tables where Hemingway argued with Fitzgerald (I’m inventing) and Picasso harangued Braque and where the Dadaists met to plot artistic anarchy – are now filled with everyday pleasure seekers, most of whom appear to be French. (If you are sitting down you hear them)
Meanwhile, I cannot pretend to be immune from the allure of celebrity. Where Rachel, when she saw the Moulin Rouge, probably remembers Nicole Kidman, when I see Follies Bergere I remember Jose Ferrer walking on his knees being Toulouse Lautrec. I am not immune from foolish worship. However, to maintain my standing as an angry elitist, I miss the “starving artists” who used to be in the square (now full of restaurants) and the only “artist” being of the carnival variety importuning passing tourists to have a cameo of their profile cut or a sketch of their face done. They are artists who have to make a living and they have found the mother lode. Who blames them? If it is schlock, let someone else decide.
Then came the icing on our cake-of-a-day. The corridors connecting the metro stations are very long. Entering one I heard heavenly music. There before me, and in front of dozens of others who had stopped to listen, was a string orchestra of about 12 pieces in the middle of a wonderfully played scherzo from one of the Brandenberg concertos. They finished. The crowd applauded. We had to leave and as we walked down yet another long passageway I heard the beginning of a Bach violin concerto – perhaps the double.
Not since I had the pleasure of hearing a group from the Glenn Gould School of Music play a Mozart string quartet in the fountain area of St. Lawrence Market, had I heard a performance that demanded one stop and listen. Bravo!
I may take a holiday from these letters for a few days. We have time to spend with Rachel and on Thursday our friends are taking us to Giverney. Perhaps I'll unload some of my opinions and prejudices about fine Post-impressionist art.
Next hit: Rachel and I went to the supermarket for supplies. On the way through the checkout the cashier asked me: “Allemande?” Rachel could hardly contain her laughter. She had been telling me that my accent was neither American nor Canadian but it also was not French. This otherwise charming woman at the checkout said I sounded like German!
Next: on the Metro where I am always delighted by the kindness of the French, (my wife is always given a seat by an obliging gentleman or young woman.) an older man who identified himself as once being from Montreal declared that the French only want to appear to be what they are not: polite.
The final straw. I woke up this morning and made my usual trip to the computer to read the Toronto papers. No Globe – only the Star. Yikes! It is Sunday. I have lost a whole day!
Now Rachel has only three more days. We must do something interesting: the Bon Marche! It’s a huge market with everything and it is thronged with Parisians and tourists of course. The final blow: forgetting I am not in Toronto where everything is open on Sunday, we emerge from the Babylone Metro and the place is closed! Everything but restaurants – closed.
I am getting desperate for something good. I know exactly where to find it: St. Germain de Pre. We detour first to see St. Sulpice, which is being totally remodeled. A few more blocks and we face the three restaurants most famous for being where the soon-to-be-great authors and artists met and argued. Directly ahead: Les Deux Maggot, to the left Café Flore, then our choice Brasserie Lip. We had arrived at the literary crossroads and it was time to spend money.
Just a sidelight: the best people get the best tables. Many of us call those the “yoo-hoo” tables because if you are anyone at all you can greet all the others and of course, be seen. Classically, among the elite, it is understood that the farther back you sit the less important you are. If you find yourself at the in the very bowels of the restaurant, usually near the noise of the kitchen, you are next-to-nobody. The yoo-hoo table - that you get only if your name has been on a marquee recently. Our waiter was attentive, but not fawning. The food is pretty good and elegantly served and you get linen napkins. The purpose of Brasserie Lip is not the food it is the privilege of being there.
The good day is beginning. From Lip we head to a sidewalk café for dessert. Rachel, who says she always gets “looks” orders du lait. Shirley forces herself to have a gateau chocolate which comes with a scoop of ice cream and the interior of the cake liquid chocolate bliss. My simple tarte aux pommes is beyond the ordinary,
From there another “must.” Rue Buci lined with temptations: exquisite chocolates, irresistible patisseries, and everywhere restaurants and sidewalk tables crowded with pleasure seekers.
Side note: the contrast to Montmartre, where we were yesterday, is revealing. The Montmatre crowd seemed almost all to have cameras hot-wired to their brains. The crowds at Rue Buci are just as big, but more fun, more Paris, more engaged, more amiable. I know, I am idealizing, but remembering the chastisement for carping about tourists I need some redemption. I love crowds. It all depends on why they seem to be there.
Let me simply say that Montmatre, in spite of it having been home to Renoir and Picasso is garish. St. Germain de Pre is Parisian, even though the tables where Hemingway argued with Fitzgerald (I’m inventing) and Picasso harangued Braque and where the Dadaists met to plot artistic anarchy – are now filled with everyday pleasure seekers, most of whom appear to be French. (If you are sitting down you hear them)
Meanwhile, I cannot pretend to be immune from the allure of celebrity. Where Rachel, when she saw the Moulin Rouge, probably remembers Nicole Kidman, when I see Follies Bergere I remember Jose Ferrer walking on his knees being Toulouse Lautrec. I am not immune from foolish worship. However, to maintain my standing as an angry elitist, I miss the “starving artists” who used to be in the square (now full of restaurants) and the only “artist” being of the carnival variety importuning passing tourists to have a cameo of their profile cut or a sketch of their face done. They are artists who have to make a living and they have found the mother lode. Who blames them? If it is schlock, let someone else decide.
Then came the icing on our cake-of-a-day. The corridors connecting the metro stations are very long. Entering one I heard heavenly music. There before me, and in front of dozens of others who had stopped to listen, was a string orchestra of about 12 pieces in the middle of a wonderfully played scherzo from one of the Brandenberg concertos. They finished. The crowd applauded. We had to leave and as we walked down yet another long passageway I heard the beginning of a Bach violin concerto – perhaps the double.
Not since I had the pleasure of hearing a group from the Glenn Gould School of Music play a Mozart string quartet in the fountain area of St. Lawrence Market, had I heard a performance that demanded one stop and listen. Bravo!
I may take a holiday from these letters for a few days. We have time to spend with Rachel and on Thursday our friends are taking us to Giverney. Perhaps I'll unload some of my opinions and prejudices about fine Post-impressionist art.
Friday, April 23, 2010
LETTER FROM PARIS #8 Idealizing again
I could excuse myself by saying that just about everyone has something or someone they idealize; something or someone who has to be purely and simply better in every way. My sister, for example, a total Francophile, remembers everything she has ever seen, or experienced, or eaten in France. She is, even more than I, held in a kind of mindless thrall.
So why now do I have to confess to my elevation beyond reality of this city and its people? Picture this: you are riding the Metro. It moves quickly. Someone has given you their seat. (It almost never happens in Toronto.) This time I am riding the RER, a double-decker train system that operates alongside the Paris Metro. I am looking at the windows, or rather; I am looking at the carefully scratched out “tags” on the windows. Unlike any other surface, they can’t be erased, washed off, or painted over. In my idealization of this city, I can’t accept that there are brain-dead miscreants who do this criminal vandalism living in the City of Light. I wonder about it all the time.
When I am home, it simply makes me angry. No subtle shades of distaste and disappointment, just anger. The police say that “tagging” unlike creative graffiti, is done by gang members. They are I guess, like dogs with fire hydrants, marking their territory and daring anyone else to invade. Now I am really flying far too high for such a low subject.
What do you think? Are there thousands of these people among us? Or are we being besieged by a small but active number? I don’t know. I have no idea whether or not authorities could tell me how many of these “taggers” there really are.
I am deeply offended. Not that the “crime “is so heinous, but that I live here too, or my heart lives here, and you are stepping all over it. You make me a non-person.
I think sometimes about how the people who developed “fixing broken windows” dealt with the problems of social misbehaviour. They insisted that minor things, if unattended, became major. They wouldn’t overlook minor stuff. A few years ago we had a great man David Gunn, running our transit system and not appreciated nearly enough – he and Howard Moscoe were like cats and dogs. Anyway, he left for New York. He dealt with the epidemic of graffiti on that city’s transit. He simply did not tolerate it. Every night, if necessary, he would have the cars washed or even repainted so the taggers would not have the satisfaction of seeing their work immortalized.
It is in a way, not unlike the nonsensical love messages people paint all over the beautiful pre-Cambrian rocks that run through Muskoka.
Like I say: if it happens at home – I get mad. If it happens in Rome, where it is rampant, I am sad. But when in happens in Paris I am devastated. Someone make them stop.
So why now do I have to confess to my elevation beyond reality of this city and its people? Picture this: you are riding the Metro. It moves quickly. Someone has given you their seat. (It almost never happens in Toronto.) This time I am riding the RER, a double-decker train system that operates alongside the Paris Metro. I am looking at the windows, or rather; I am looking at the carefully scratched out “tags” on the windows. Unlike any other surface, they can’t be erased, washed off, or painted over. In my idealization of this city, I can’t accept that there are brain-dead miscreants who do this criminal vandalism living in the City of Light. I wonder about it all the time.
When I am home, it simply makes me angry. No subtle shades of distaste and disappointment, just anger. The police say that “tagging” unlike creative graffiti, is done by gang members. They are I guess, like dogs with fire hydrants, marking their territory and daring anyone else to invade. Now I am really flying far too high for such a low subject.
What do you think? Are there thousands of these people among us? Or are we being besieged by a small but active number? I don’t know. I have no idea whether or not authorities could tell me how many of these “taggers” there really are.
I am deeply offended. Not that the “crime “is so heinous, but that I live here too, or my heart lives here, and you are stepping all over it. You make me a non-person.
I think sometimes about how the people who developed “fixing broken windows” dealt with the problems of social misbehaviour. They insisted that minor things, if unattended, became major. They wouldn’t overlook minor stuff. A few years ago we had a great man David Gunn, running our transit system and not appreciated nearly enough – he and Howard Moscoe were like cats and dogs. Anyway, he left for New York. He dealt with the epidemic of graffiti on that city’s transit. He simply did not tolerate it. Every night, if necessary, he would have the cars washed or even repainted so the taggers would not have the satisfaction of seeing their work immortalized.
It is in a way, not unlike the nonsensical love messages people paint all over the beautiful pre-Cambrian rocks that run through Muskoka.
Like I say: if it happens at home – I get mad. If it happens in Rome, where it is rampant, I am sad. But when in happens in Paris I am devastated. Someone make them stop.
LETTER FROM PARIS #7 revelations
Rachel told me that if you visited the Louvre every day it would take four months to see gallery. Not only that it is too vast, but there seems to be almost no organized way to see it. Unlike say – the Uffizi, which is so viewer-friendly you simply follow your nose in and out each room and see everything. And because it is more orderly, like the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam, you do not appear to trip over people going every which way.
I’ll try to avoid another screed against boisterous and uncaring tourists, even though nothing, with the possible exception of the palace at Versailles, more exemplifies that sort of thing than the Louvre.
I was both irritated and amused. Irritated by the “guardiens” who seem so busy chatting with each other that it became an interruption to ask them a question. In one case two of them stopped talking long enough to confer over the answer to my question about where to find the Breughel paintings. They agreed and sent me in precisely the wrong direction.
Is it because visitors have little taste? Is it because they know little about art? Is it because they have all heard of the Mona Lisa? They crowd the room, choking one end of it, jostling, shoving and pushing to take a photo. I wonder if any really see what they are photographing. The other traffic jam is at Nike or as explained to Rachel, The Victory at Samothrace. But when I visited the room that is full of enormous Rubens painting, it was virtually empty. Maybe I just got lucky.
When my granddaughter leaves, my wife and I will lose something special: the chance to show it all to someone who truly wants to see. She wants to soak it up. She wants to Email friends about it. She spends time on Skype talking home about it. She is thrilled to be here. We are thrilled to have her with us.
I am going to try to attach a picture of her standing in the Promenade Pereire, the slender flowered park that runs down the middle of Boulevard Pereire just around the corner from us. You would not care to see more pictures of the Arc de Triomphe or the Eiffel Tower or the pyramid at The Louvre, or any other standard Paris beauty shot.. But this picture is so very Paris. It is leafy and flowery. It is full of children sometimes with parents, sometimes with nannies. Unlike Toronto, where nannies tend to be Philippina, here they are I think from places like Senegal and Mali.
Finally – on the way back from the boulangerie for a baguette to make a tomato/cheese/lettuce, ham sandwich – I stopped at the corner pub. An older man and his wife were having an angry conversation with the bartender and owner (he also owns the boulangerie) and pointing next door to a large office building which houses, among other things, a school where the French learn English. I took a deep breath \and approached him. I explained why I was in Paris. He agreed to speak a little more slowly. I asked him why he seemed so angry. He told me because these people stood outside and threw “detritus” “ordure” on the sidewalk. I suspect his anger runs a little deeper but I did not persist. France does have a record of intolerance for strangers. But that is, once again, another story.
P.S. We met again yesterday. He was ready to leave but when I ordered a blonde Pelfort, he ordered another and we began to talk. He continues to try hard to speak slowly enough for me to get it all. We talked about the great wind that blew through Paris about eight or nine years ago, destroying so much of the gardens at Versailles. He says he contributed to the fund to rebuild. Then he used a word that sounded like “cockall.” He kept trying. Finally he got it right. I learned another French word: “cocktail.” And it was pronounced exactly that way. Go figure French.
I’ll try to avoid another screed against boisterous and uncaring tourists, even though nothing, with the possible exception of the palace at Versailles, more exemplifies that sort of thing than the Louvre.
I was both irritated and amused. Irritated by the “guardiens” who seem so busy chatting with each other that it became an interruption to ask them a question. In one case two of them stopped talking long enough to confer over the answer to my question about where to find the Breughel paintings. They agreed and sent me in precisely the wrong direction.
Is it because visitors have little taste? Is it because they know little about art? Is it because they have all heard of the Mona Lisa? They crowd the room, choking one end of it, jostling, shoving and pushing to take a photo. I wonder if any really see what they are photographing. The other traffic jam is at Nike or as explained to Rachel, The Victory at Samothrace. But when I visited the room that is full of enormous Rubens painting, it was virtually empty. Maybe I just got lucky.
When my granddaughter leaves, my wife and I will lose something special: the chance to show it all to someone who truly wants to see. She wants to soak it up. She wants to Email friends about it. She spends time on Skype talking home about it. She is thrilled to be here. We are thrilled to have her with us.
I am going to try to attach a picture of her standing in the Promenade Pereire, the slender flowered park that runs down the middle of Boulevard Pereire just around the corner from us. You would not care to see more pictures of the Arc de Triomphe or the Eiffel Tower or the pyramid at The Louvre, or any other standard Paris beauty shot.. But this picture is so very Paris. It is leafy and flowery. It is full of children sometimes with parents, sometimes with nannies. Unlike Toronto, where nannies tend to be Philippina, here they are I think from places like Senegal and Mali.
Finally – on the way back from the boulangerie for a baguette to make a tomato/cheese/lettuce, ham sandwich – I stopped at the corner pub. An older man and his wife were having an angry conversation with the bartender and owner (he also owns the boulangerie) and pointing next door to a large office building which houses, among other things, a school where the French learn English. I took a deep breath \and approached him. I explained why I was in Paris. He agreed to speak a little more slowly. I asked him why he seemed so angry. He told me because these people stood outside and threw “detritus” “ordure” on the sidewalk. I suspect his anger runs a little deeper but I did not persist. France does have a record of intolerance for strangers. But that is, once again, another story.
P.S. We met again yesterday. He was ready to leave but when I ordered a blonde Pelfort, he ordered another and we began to talk. He continues to try hard to speak slowly enough for me to get it all. We talked about the great wind that blew through Paris about eight or nine years ago, destroying so much of the gardens at Versailles. He says he contributed to the fund to rebuild. Then he used a word that sounded like “cockall.” He kept trying. Finally he got it right. I learned another French word: “cocktail.” And it was pronounced exactly that way. Go figure French.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Letter from Paris #6
I knew it would not be long before I burdened all of you with my most profound thoughts about the “conflicted” character of the French. You will no doubt find yourself saying, with all charity to me, that it is presumptuous of me (as it always is) to pose as an expert on matters of national character. But it is what I do, even with all the flaws attendant on fragmented opinion with little fact except my own brief historical understanding and my inherent prejudices. How’s that for an apology in advance?
I asked Henri what the word in French would be for “hubris.” He was little help He suggested “vanite.” Since then we have continued to kick it around. His latest is “vaniteu.” I tried to characterize hubris for Henri with one example: the Biblioteque Nationale in the east end of Paris is an enormous fortress of a building. It is a “tribut4e” to Francois Mitterand and his hubris. It is part of his “legacy.” Every President must be remembered. It’s what people do, not only the French,
I didn’t expect to be talking to an etymologist who grasps every nuance. I do have a French friend who, when he reads this will making learned noises about the word, and he really is a linguist.
I suppose the French really do not have a precise word for hubris. But they certainly do display it. Example: impressions on visiting Les Invalides, the cathedral of St. Louis, the tomb of Napoleon and the war museum: “l’honneur” and “la gloire” take precedence over any other kind of more sanguine human utterance.
Regardless, the French (and I try to say this with love and kindness and all the Francophilia I can muster) seem ambivalent about themselves – rushing between pride and guilt, between achievement and failure, between heroes and scoundrels. How do you like those dualisms? Point in evidence: Napoleon, who literally reformed most of the antiquated legal and social codes of Europe was both reviled and beloved. (To all the feminists reading this, I know I know – Code Napoleon did not accept the existence of wmen as people.) It was not until 1840, many years after his death on St. Helena that his remains were returned to France and interred in the magnificent porphyry and marble tomb at Les invalides.
Rachel, wide eyed at the size and splendour of the casket had questions about Napoleon. So, doing what I like best, I tried to explain that the winners never say nice things about the losers. We were all taught, living in a culture that was Anglocentric, that Napoleon was a monster, a dictator and a tyrant. The bad thing about losing is that your enemies are seldom charitable. Like the Tudors, who took the throne from the Plantagenets, were probably responsible for characterizing the last Plantagenet, Richard III as a crippled monster. A total loser.
But here is what puzzles me about the French. (It also puzzles me about every imperial power from Britain to America to China) how they re-invent the past to bring glory to their history and to create a mythology whose value far exceeds reality. The cathedral of St. Louis with its golden dome memorializes one of the worst kings ever to rule. He who slaughtered the Cathars, who financed his crusades by seizing all the property of the Jews. But he prayed. He was the most pious of all French kings. For that they canonized him. To the credit of the French it was probably also the Vatican who made Louis’ sainthood possible, just as they did to another miscreant – Pius IX. But I wander.
The War Museum glorifies the French military as if they had never lost a war. They were a significant power in Europe, but they more often than not came out on the losing end of a struggle. Louis XIV may be the Sun King who raised the standing of France to the apex of cultural superiority. But this guy also had a son (le Monsignor) who was famous for being Europe’s most accomplished roué. He also insisted on fighting wars that sapped the treasury and may have contributed to the long financial slide that ended in 1789.
The French uniforms were the best. A guy could feel really proud stepping into a hail of grapeshot wearing such wonderful finery.
Again I say: I am an outsider. And nothing is more annoying to a Frenchman than an outsider, especially one presumptuous enough to analyze their tortured psyche. My dear friend Sandy, who was married to a Frenchman, claimed that it was all because of Descartes. The French was caught up in Cartesian theory, in the world of “I think therefore I am” that they were really the first true existentialists. They have reason to cheer for the ascendancy of man and the human brain. They have given us Diderot and Racine, Voltaire and Balzac, Rousseau and Montesquieu. Their artists were supreme. Their theatre sublime. All this perhaps because of their fixation on Descartes.. Perhaps they need no word for hubris. They simply exemplify it. (I know I know, you could say that about the Americans for whom mythology and history seem to be tangled together.
to positions of honour in spite of serious shortcomings.) The aforementione Pius IX deserves sainthood I suppose. Didn’t he formulate the theory of the Virgin Birth and establish Papal infallibility?. (I’ll get letters.)
Mercifully I close, but not without one final note: walking today through the Luxembourg Gardens, looking at all the people snnning, looking at the children playing with sail boats, seeing all the chairs lined u-p for people. Yes – “people” are at the heart of what may not all be a conflicted psyche. Paris is, like no other city I have visited, a city for people. People have a kind of supremacy. Viva la France.
I asked Henri what the word in French would be for “hubris.” He was little help He suggested “vanite.” Since then we have continued to kick it around. His latest is “vaniteu.” I tried to characterize hubris for Henri with one example: the Biblioteque Nationale in the east end of Paris is an enormous fortress of a building. It is a “tribut4e” to Francois Mitterand and his hubris. It is part of his “legacy.” Every President must be remembered. It’s what people do, not only the French,
I didn’t expect to be talking to an etymologist who grasps every nuance. I do have a French friend who, when he reads this will making learned noises about the word, and he really is a linguist.
I suppose the French really do not have a precise word for hubris. But they certainly do display it. Example: impressions on visiting Les Invalides, the cathedral of St. Louis, the tomb of Napoleon and the war museum: “l’honneur” and “la gloire” take precedence over any other kind of more sanguine human utterance.
Regardless, the French (and I try to say this with love and kindness and all the Francophilia I can muster) seem ambivalent about themselves – rushing between pride and guilt, between achievement and failure, between heroes and scoundrels. How do you like those dualisms? Point in evidence: Napoleon, who literally reformed most of the antiquated legal and social codes of Europe was both reviled and beloved. (To all the feminists reading this, I know I know – Code Napoleon did not accept the existence of wmen as people.) It was not until 1840, many years after his death on St. Helena that his remains were returned to France and interred in the magnificent porphyry and marble tomb at Les invalides.
Rachel, wide eyed at the size and splendour of the casket had questions about Napoleon. So, doing what I like best, I tried to explain that the winners never say nice things about the losers. We were all taught, living in a culture that was Anglocentric, that Napoleon was a monster, a dictator and a tyrant. The bad thing about losing is that your enemies are seldom charitable. Like the Tudors, who took the throne from the Plantagenets, were probably responsible for characterizing the last Plantagenet, Richard III as a crippled monster. A total loser.
But here is what puzzles me about the French. (It also puzzles me about every imperial power from Britain to America to China) how they re-invent the past to bring glory to their history and to create a mythology whose value far exceeds reality. The cathedral of St. Louis with its golden dome memorializes one of the worst kings ever to rule. He who slaughtered the Cathars, who financed his crusades by seizing all the property of the Jews. But he prayed. He was the most pious of all French kings. For that they canonized him. To the credit of the French it was probably also the Vatican who made Louis’ sainthood possible, just as they did to another miscreant – Pius IX. But I wander.
The War Museum glorifies the French military as if they had never lost a war. They were a significant power in Europe, but they more often than not came out on the losing end of a struggle. Louis XIV may be the Sun King who raised the standing of France to the apex of cultural superiority. But this guy also had a son (le Monsignor) who was famous for being Europe’s most accomplished roué. He also insisted on fighting wars that sapped the treasury and may have contributed to the long financial slide that ended in 1789.
The French uniforms were the best. A guy could feel really proud stepping into a hail of grapeshot wearing such wonderful finery.
Again I say: I am an outsider. And nothing is more annoying to a Frenchman than an outsider, especially one presumptuous enough to analyze their tortured psyche. My dear friend Sandy, who was married to a Frenchman, claimed that it was all because of Descartes. The French was caught up in Cartesian theory, in the world of “I think therefore I am” that they were really the first true existentialists. They have reason to cheer for the ascendancy of man and the human brain. They have given us Diderot and Racine, Voltaire and Balzac, Rousseau and Montesquieu. Their artists were supreme. Their theatre sublime. All this perhaps because of their fixation on Descartes.. Perhaps they need no word for hubris. They simply exemplify it. (I know I know, you could say that about the Americans for whom mythology and history seem to be tangled together.
to positions of honour in spite of serious shortcomings.) The aforementione Pius IX deserves sainthood I suppose. Didn’t he formulate the theory of the Virgin Birth and establish Papal infallibility?. (I’ll get letters.)
Mercifully I close, but not without one final note: walking today through the Luxembourg Gardens, looking at all the people snnning, looking at the children playing with sail boats, seeing all the chairs lined u-p for people. Yes – “people” are at the heart of what may not all be a conflicted psyche. Paris is, like no other city I have visited, a city for people. People have a kind of supremacy. Viva la France.
Monday, April 19, 2010
LETTER FROM PARIS #4 tourists
It is a popular vanity to exempt yourself from the world of the “tourist.” As in: “We ate at this wonderful place. Not touristy at all. All the patrons were locals. We were welcomed into another world." Sure Sure.
Because this is about our 12th trip to Paris, I lay claim, legitimately, to having passed from curious tourist to insider, resident, “voisin” to everyone else. It helps that I speak reasonably unaccented French; However, I am always dismayed when a waiter hears my opening “bonjour” and speaks English to me.
I did say that I would be looking at more than “things” because I have seen most of the things. However, with Racherl in tow, with the curiosity and awe of a 13 year old, we look at “things.”
So it was off to the Eiffel Tower and hoping to beat the crowds. This may be possible but probably only between 2 and 3 A.M. It was jammed. They were everywhere. Cameras always pointed snapping every possible view of the famous tower, embellished only with some friend or relative standing in front of it grinning foolishly. Alright. Alright. I’m trashing the tourists. Wait. There’s more.
The mandatory boat trip was next. Here we found the archetypical tourist: the one who is there to see everything and will step on you if you get in the way. They are not people. They are ravening monsters. We rushed to get a seat near the bow of the boat. There was a gang of 20-somethings from Brazil who, in every way possible distracted, obstructed and generally got in the way. The loudspeaker asked that passengers remain seated while the boat is underway. You have to be kidding! These people not only crowded the rail at the bow standing up, blocking the view, so their pictures were good – but two of them indulged in endless PDA. (look it up.) I’m no prude, but do I care about some stranger’s public love life? And they did it standing where they could best block the view. In fact when we neared places like Notre Dame, the rush to photograph overwhelmed any scintilla of politeness. They were like celebrity-mad paparazzi.
It was as if the cruise was just for them and we were non-people. Rachel, a very polite person, was really outraged. I tried to explain that some tourists (notice how careful I am)) will trample everyone to be first in line. They have no shame. They are also the ones who mindlessly toss their ordure where it pleases them. Later that day I was overtaken by reality: a Frenchman in our neighbourhood was standing on the sidewalk peeling an orange and letting the peel fall into the gutter. I stopped. I made an angry noise. As I walked on he called after me: “Something the matter with your head.” In French of course.
The shining bright side of the walk past the guy peeling his orange into the street (we were not ten feet from a garbage receptacle) was that finally, at last, after many times of being discouraged by enormous lineups, we made it to Entrecote de Venise known also as Entrecote de Relais. (With branches in New York, London, and Barcelona.) It is rumoured to be one of the great places to eat and is frequented by Parisians. We arrived at the ungodly hour of 5, but the sign said they open at 7. The dilemma: do we walk back to the apartment and risk not getting a decent place in line? No. We go around the corner and after two beers, a glass of wine, coffee, and two carafes of water for Rachel, return to the restaurant. It is 6:45 and there are already about twenty people in line. But at last we make it inside.
The restaurant is famous for two things: its superb sauce, a greenish concoction tasting faintly of lemon but beyond that totally mysterious and heavenly; and for not having a menu. (except for desserts) That’s because there is no choice. It is “steak-frites.” Your only choice is how well done the steak is to be. First a salad lightly laced with an ethereal dressing and topped with crushed nuts. The “main” arrives. Recognizing that the French stay slim because they do small portions, I am not at all surprised that my small plate has about five thinly sliced medallions and a heap of fries. Exquisite. I am helping Shirley with her fries. Rachel is standing guard over her plate. Then the surprise: from the serving table next to us, our server refills our plates with even more steak and even more fries. So much for the diet-wise small portions. A great experience and a great surprise: the price, including three desserts, two large bottles of mineral water and our mains: just under 100 Euros.
Astonishing.
We trudge painfully back to the apartment which is mercifully about five blocks away.
I flop into bed – aching but replete.
And there did not seem to be a single tourist – the kind who complains and speaks to waiters as if they were a lower form of life.
Because this is about our 12th trip to Paris, I lay claim, legitimately, to having passed from curious tourist to insider, resident, “voisin” to everyone else. It helps that I speak reasonably unaccented French; However, I am always dismayed when a waiter hears my opening “bonjour” and speaks English to me.
I did say that I would be looking at more than “things” because I have seen most of the things. However, with Racherl in tow, with the curiosity and awe of a 13 year old, we look at “things.”
So it was off to the Eiffel Tower and hoping to beat the crowds. This may be possible but probably only between 2 and 3 A.M. It was jammed. They were everywhere. Cameras always pointed snapping every possible view of the famous tower, embellished only with some friend or relative standing in front of it grinning foolishly. Alright. Alright. I’m trashing the tourists. Wait. There’s more.
The mandatory boat trip was next. Here we found the archetypical tourist: the one who is there to see everything and will step on you if you get in the way. They are not people. They are ravening monsters. We rushed to get a seat near the bow of the boat. There was a gang of 20-somethings from Brazil who, in every way possible distracted, obstructed and generally got in the way. The loudspeaker asked that passengers remain seated while the boat is underway. You have to be kidding! These people not only crowded the rail at the bow standing up, blocking the view, so their pictures were good – but two of them indulged in endless PDA. (look it up.) I’m no prude, but do I care about some stranger’s public love life? And they did it standing where they could best block the view. In fact when we neared places like Notre Dame, the rush to photograph overwhelmed any scintilla of politeness. They were like celebrity-mad paparazzi.
It was as if the cruise was just for them and we were non-people. Rachel, a very polite person, was really outraged. I tried to explain that some tourists (notice how careful I am)) will trample everyone to be first in line. They have no shame. They are also the ones who mindlessly toss their ordure where it pleases them. Later that day I was overtaken by reality: a Frenchman in our neighbourhood was standing on the sidewalk peeling an orange and letting the peel fall into the gutter. I stopped. I made an angry noise. As I walked on he called after me: “Something the matter with your head.” In French of course.
The shining bright side of the walk past the guy peeling his orange into the street (we were not ten feet from a garbage receptacle) was that finally, at last, after many times of being discouraged by enormous lineups, we made it to Entrecote de Venise known also as Entrecote de Relais. (With branches in New York, London, and Barcelona.) It is rumoured to be one of the great places to eat and is frequented by Parisians. We arrived at the ungodly hour of 5, but the sign said they open at 7. The dilemma: do we walk back to the apartment and risk not getting a decent place in line? No. We go around the corner and after two beers, a glass of wine, coffee, and two carafes of water for Rachel, return to the restaurant. It is 6:45 and there are already about twenty people in line. But at last we make it inside.
The restaurant is famous for two things: its superb sauce, a greenish concoction tasting faintly of lemon but beyond that totally mysterious and heavenly; and for not having a menu. (except for desserts) That’s because there is no choice. It is “steak-frites.” Your only choice is how well done the steak is to be. First a salad lightly laced with an ethereal dressing and topped with crushed nuts. The “main” arrives. Recognizing that the French stay slim because they do small portions, I am not at all surprised that my small plate has about five thinly sliced medallions and a heap of fries. Exquisite. I am helping Shirley with her fries. Rachel is standing guard over her plate. Then the surprise: from the serving table next to us, our server refills our plates with even more steak and even more fries. So much for the diet-wise small portions. A great experience and a great surprise: the price, including three desserts, two large bottles of mineral water and our mains: just under 100 Euros.
Astonishing.
We trudge painfully back to the apartment which is mercifully about five blocks away.
I flop into bed – aching but replete.
And there did not seem to be a single tourist – the kind who complains and speaks to waiters as if they were a lower form of life.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
LETTER FROM PARIS #5 - odds and ends
I’m used to panhandlers. Downtown Toronto is full of them,. But there are none so creative as in Paris. Exiting the tunnel under the Arc de Triomphe, at the foot of the steps is a hunched over man, his hands together, fingertips touching, in a kind of Eastern obeisance. In front of him is something to drop alms into.
Cut to an hour later. This same man, no longer in the position of a begging supplicant, is having a spirited meeting with three ladies. They appear to be Romany, perhaps the same ones who loiter with intent next to where the sightseeing buses stop. He is smoking a cigarette and seems to be in charge. He has been transformed from prayerful beggar to industrious entrepreneur. Do those three women work for him? Are they colleagues? Is he a kind of pimp for shadowy thieves and consters? It looks pretty organized.
Cut to St. Severin. Horrors you say. St. Severin used to be a self-contained little village just below the south fork of the Seine opposite Notre Dame. There is a sign that proclaims a kind of sovereignty over the neighbourhood reminding visitors that people live here and asking them to respect the surroundings.
It is a mecca for tourists, and for the crowd who “hang" around ‘Boul Mish.” The little side streets throng with tourists and endless restaurants from fast food “gyros” to some kind of elegance. Who would put the French reputation for fine dining at stake in a touristy jungle? All I can tell you is: we had prix fixe 3 course lunches. We started with onion soup, went to the mains, then to dessert. The chicken was good enough, the fries crisp, the beef bourguignon a little tough but tasty, the tarte aux pommes acceptable and the cheeses more than just good. And the bread? No one can beat a French baguette.
Nothing was great. But nothing was bad. The best was that it was 10 Euros! Don’t be a snob. Try St. Severin.
Third bit was a trip to Saint Louis cathedral, Napoleon’s Tomb and the museum of war at Les Invalides and perhaps some musing about Saint (?) Louis.
I will write at some length about the tales French children grow up with and the hubris that accompanies it. Later.
For now we await the arrival of Michele and Henri and perhaps an afternoon at their home in Chantilly. I remind myself that I have to try to rent an electric keyboard so my virtuousity does not get rusty.
Cut to an hour later. This same man, no longer in the position of a begging supplicant, is having a spirited meeting with three ladies. They appear to be Romany, perhaps the same ones who loiter with intent next to where the sightseeing buses stop. He is smoking a cigarette and seems to be in charge. He has been transformed from prayerful beggar to industrious entrepreneur. Do those three women work for him? Are they colleagues? Is he a kind of pimp for shadowy thieves and consters? It looks pretty organized.
Cut to St. Severin. Horrors you say. St. Severin used to be a self-contained little village just below the south fork of the Seine opposite Notre Dame. There is a sign that proclaims a kind of sovereignty over the neighbourhood reminding visitors that people live here and asking them to respect the surroundings.
It is a mecca for tourists, and for the crowd who “hang" around ‘Boul Mish.” The little side streets throng with tourists and endless restaurants from fast food “gyros” to some kind of elegance. Who would put the French reputation for fine dining at stake in a touristy jungle? All I can tell you is: we had prix fixe 3 course lunches. We started with onion soup, went to the mains, then to dessert. The chicken was good enough, the fries crisp, the beef bourguignon a little tough but tasty, the tarte aux pommes acceptable and the cheeses more than just good. And the bread? No one can beat a French baguette.
Nothing was great. But nothing was bad. The best was that it was 10 Euros! Don’t be a snob. Try St. Severin.
Third bit was a trip to Saint Louis cathedral, Napoleon’s Tomb and the museum of war at Les Invalides and perhaps some musing about Saint (?) Louis.
I will write at some length about the tales French children grow up with and the hubris that accompanies it. Later.
For now we await the arrival of Michele and Henri and perhaps an afternoon at their home in Chantilly. I remind myself that I have to try to rent an electric keyboard so my virtuousity does not get rusty.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
letter from Paris #3 (with love)
My friend Helen Emailed me asking about the “spring scents” of Paris. “Is it blooming? Are the flowers sending out their fragrances?” Yes and yes. With Rachel I took a short walk of discovery to find the Marche des Ternes, This is where we found spring and scents and happy children playing. This is where we found the Paris that people write songs about. Boulevard Pereire, which is two minutes from our front door is a wide boulevard that is mostly park. On either side there are single lane roads, but the centre is for people. The flowers are kn bloom. There are tulips and daffodils. There are cherry trees and the ephemeral but oh-so-beautiful magnolias. I inhaled. Helen – the scent is there. Even more, hundreds of children shrieking with delight in the way only children can. Some are with nannies, some with mothers. Everyone is loving where they are.
Still wide-eyed and earlier in the day admitting that being “cool” was just a pose, Rachel declared: “I’ve seen it all.” We were on a tour bus that really did go everywhere, but as I wrote earlier, they are all “places.” But in Paris everyplace is someplace. The tour was one of those hectic things where you spent more time trying to maneuver through gridlocked traffic and the maze of cares jockeying for position on The Etoiles, than you do actual sightseeing. We disposed of all the obvious where the slathering mobs of camera-toting tourists suck up as much as they can before running back to the bus which cossets them and gets them back to the hotel. Yes, we saw it all: the Eiffel Tower, the Trocadero, the Opera, Notre Dame, the Madeleine, the Louvre, the Hotel de Ville, the Seine and the bridges, I reminded her that you could never stop “seeing” Paris. These were a few of the externals,. And because we were on the bus every glimpse was fleeting. We made one stop, at The Madeleine, so we could find the café where last year we had omelettes with a fine crust. I will not spend a lot of time on food and restaurants. It’s too easy.
I told her again that there was always something new to see, and that after more than a dozen trips we were still discovering. After we stopped at what I think is “the local” for a beer and conversation, Shirley and her cane hobbled back to the apartment. Rachel and d I went on a short discovery walk. (Shirley has been told she will need a new hip and she is bravely trudging around with a cane.) The discovery walk was to follow the signs to Marche de Ternes. Turns out it is about three blocks from our front door.
It is a small version of our St. Lawrence Market but it is so French. There are stacks of fruit. The strawberries do not look at all like what Driscoll puts in plastic containers. They even have a different color. There are meats and of course an array of cheeses. In the streets around the market there are more epiceries, boulangeries, patisseries and such, many of them open to the street with displays of fresh produce.
The question: if it so enchanting because it is Paris? If I saw the same thing on the street in say – Hamilton, or Barrie – would I be so enchanted? Probably not. Maybe it’s because of what I want it to be: the people who sell it are passionate and put passion before business; pleasure before profit.
Paris does it to me. I idealize.
Still wide-eyed and earlier in the day admitting that being “cool” was just a pose, Rachel declared: “I’ve seen it all.” We were on a tour bus that really did go everywhere, but as I wrote earlier, they are all “places.” But in Paris everyplace is someplace. The tour was one of those hectic things where you spent more time trying to maneuver through gridlocked traffic and the maze of cares jockeying for position on The Etoiles, than you do actual sightseeing. We disposed of all the obvious where the slathering mobs of camera-toting tourists suck up as much as they can before running back to the bus which cossets them and gets them back to the hotel. Yes, we saw it all: the Eiffel Tower, the Trocadero, the Opera, Notre Dame, the Madeleine, the Louvre, the Hotel de Ville, the Seine and the bridges, I reminded her that you could never stop “seeing” Paris. These were a few of the externals,. And because we were on the bus every glimpse was fleeting. We made one stop, at The Madeleine, so we could find the café where last year we had omelettes with a fine crust. I will not spend a lot of time on food and restaurants. It’s too easy.
I told her again that there was always something new to see, and that after more than a dozen trips we were still discovering. After we stopped at what I think is “the local” for a beer and conversation, Shirley and her cane hobbled back to the apartment. Rachel and d I went on a short discovery walk. (Shirley has been told she will need a new hip and she is bravely trudging around with a cane.) The discovery walk was to follow the signs to Marche de Ternes. Turns out it is about three blocks from our front door.
It is a small version of our St. Lawrence Market but it is so French. There are stacks of fruit. The strawberries do not look at all like what Driscoll puts in plastic containers. They even have a different color. There are meats and of course an array of cheeses. In the streets around the market there are more epiceries, boulangeries, patisseries and such, many of them open to the street with displays of fresh produce.
The question: if it so enchanting because it is Paris? If I saw the same thing on the street in say – Hamilton, or Barrie – would I be so enchanted? Probably not. Maybe it’s because of what I want it to be: the people who sell it are passionate and put passion before business; pleasure before profit.
Paris does it to me. I idealize.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
LETTER FROM PARIS #2
I am not the only one who rushes to newspaper columns about food in faraway places. Sometimes it is simply to confirm that you are really a great “foodie” and consistently make all the right choices. The most boring person is the one at a dinner party who thinks he is the life of that party because he has eaten in all the best places.
Among the common misconceptions about Paris: it is virtually impossible to get a bad meal, and prices are always high.there even though prices are always high. In fact, a recent issue of the Life section in the Globe and Mail had all the Francophiles drooling. There were three columns about how to enjoy Paris, from an apartment so you would be "living" there instead of a mere gaping tourist priced in the 2500 aeuro a week range, and chickens you can buy for something like 25 Euro. This will not appear in my blog. I am enough of an inverted snob to avoid expensive for the sake of being different. The difference really for me is that I am not looking to be chic. I am not trying to “discover” a new celebrity chef for whom two Michelin stars is inevitable just as inevitably his prices will corrode you bank account..
Today is our first day in Paris, Rachel is wide-eye but still too shy to say much in French. Her grandfather is chattering away, especially because about eighty percent of the flight got on in Quebec City and, at least those I met, spoke only French. It was like a feast for me. I trotted it all out and actually understood about half of what was said in response to my deceivingly good, almost accent-free French. (It’s all a case of being good mimic.)
Before I get to the food, I have to salute all home exchangers, at least the ones we know. The three of us tired and hsppy, were at the airport by Henri and Michele. There were too many of us, plus luggage, to fit into Henri’s car. My wife and Michele took a cab with most of the luggage. My granddaughter Rachel and I rode with Henri. I chattered excitedly in French. I sometimes get the feeling that I have so little time left before I become incompetent, that I have to cram it all in,
Rache is blown away by being in Paris; just the thought of it is enough to make her tremble. I ask her if she is feeling cold. “No Papa, I always shiver a little.” She is not very forthcoming but I don’t have to ask. Her wide-eyes tell it all.
Tired as we were, she deserved an introduction to Paris. It is about a 15 minute walk to the Arc de Triomphe. It is a fitting introduction, If you were dropped from Mars to one place in Paris that would all at once define grandeur, pomp, history, and more than a little French hubris – it would be the Arc. Rachel doesn’t tend to be effusive, but she has other ways. Aside from her shivering, which implies either cold or excitement, she shows very little. Maybe she’s 13 and it’s cool to be cool. She took several pictures which her school has asked for. And she was startled to see that it was so big. Seeing it through her eyes I realized for the first time, how grand it really is. There is boarding up in places. They seem to be doing things to the high relief sculpture that embellishes a lot of what is so very French in Paris. At the head of the Champs Elysees there were fewer of the usual midsummer tourists, but there were; plenty of women (forgive the racist tone) - who were tzigane or Romany. A photographer, who had tried to get me to pose for a picture (these guys can spot a tourist a mile away), warned me. But we all know that tourists are vuknerable, whether it is Barcelona, where we have already been robbed, or in Toronto where I hear places like Yorkville are full of pickpockets.
We trudged back for lunch courtesy of Michele and Henri. This is the kind of thing that makes Pasris for me. Not Maxim’s or celebrity chefs like Alain du Casse, or Joel Rubichon to name drop two. You may have found that because Paris also has some very mediocre restaurants, that there are surprises. Just behind the Immeuble in a quiet street is a little brasserie that is only open for lunch. Shirley and Rachel had Capelletti (sorry about the spelling) scrumptious little meaty circles in a tomato herb sauce and a lot of grated cheese. The rest of us had had quiche, which was not outstanding but it was simply damn good – the eggs not rubbery the lardoons teased into the mixture. Their pastries were more than adequate, tarte au pomme, chocolate cake, and an interesting kind of gateau aux pommes.
The place won’t be rated by Michelin and it won’t make it into next week’s food column in the New York Times. It is not especially chic but it is very warm and welcoming. The hostess had only two small bottles of Pelfort left. Alas. I was thirsty and the French brew a very good biere brun.
Just a few minutes ago Rachel and I came back from a visit to the boulangerie that Henri insists is the best in Paris. They have refrigerated showcases with salads and quiches to go. We’ll eat in for 20 Euro.
Finally, I understand that the café at the corner, at the end of the driveway to the apartment, is as close as the area comes to a “local.” I will adventure there and try to impose myself on a few willing Frenchmen.
Tomorrow we do, mostly for Rachel, a two day hop-on-hop-off tour. In my inadequate French I said “monter et demonter.” Henri didn’t laugh. He said it’s “monter et descendre.”
Demonter is what you do to a car engine that makes it end up in pieces.
Among the common misconceptions about Paris: it is virtually impossible to get a bad meal, and prices are always high.there even though prices are always high. In fact, a recent issue of the Life section in the Globe and Mail had all the Francophiles drooling. There were three columns about how to enjoy Paris, from an apartment so you would be "living" there instead of a mere gaping tourist priced in the 2500 aeuro a week range, and chickens you can buy for something like 25 Euro. This will not appear in my blog. I am enough of an inverted snob to avoid expensive for the sake of being different. The difference really for me is that I am not looking to be chic. I am not trying to “discover” a new celebrity chef for whom two Michelin stars is inevitable just as inevitably his prices will corrode you bank account..
Today is our first day in Paris, Rachel is wide-eye but still too shy to say much in French. Her grandfather is chattering away, especially because about eighty percent of the flight got on in Quebec City and, at least those I met, spoke only French. It was like a feast for me. I trotted it all out and actually understood about half of what was said in response to my deceivingly good, almost accent-free French. (It’s all a case of being good mimic.)
Before I get to the food, I have to salute all home exchangers, at least the ones we know. The three of us tired and hsppy, were at the airport by Henri and Michele. There were too many of us, plus luggage, to fit into Henri’s car. My wife and Michele took a cab with most of the luggage. My granddaughter Rachel and I rode with Henri. I chattered excitedly in French. I sometimes get the feeling that I have so little time left before I become incompetent, that I have to cram it all in,
Rache is blown away by being in Paris; just the thought of it is enough to make her tremble. I ask her if she is feeling cold. “No Papa, I always shiver a little.” She is not very forthcoming but I don’t have to ask. Her wide-eyes tell it all.
Tired as we were, she deserved an introduction to Paris. It is about a 15 minute walk to the Arc de Triomphe. It is a fitting introduction, If you were dropped from Mars to one place in Paris that would all at once define grandeur, pomp, history, and more than a little French hubris – it would be the Arc. Rachel doesn’t tend to be effusive, but she has other ways. Aside from her shivering, which implies either cold or excitement, she shows very little. Maybe she’s 13 and it’s cool to be cool. She took several pictures which her school has asked for. And she was startled to see that it was so big. Seeing it through her eyes I realized for the first time, how grand it really is. There is boarding up in places. They seem to be doing things to the high relief sculpture that embellishes a lot of what is so very French in Paris. At the head of the Champs Elysees there were fewer of the usual midsummer tourists, but there were; plenty of women (forgive the racist tone) - who were tzigane or Romany. A photographer, who had tried to get me to pose for a picture (these guys can spot a tourist a mile away), warned me. But we all know that tourists are vuknerable, whether it is Barcelona, where we have already been robbed, or in Toronto where I hear places like Yorkville are full of pickpockets.
We trudged back for lunch courtesy of Michele and Henri. This is the kind of thing that makes Pasris for me. Not Maxim’s or celebrity chefs like Alain du Casse, or Joel Rubichon to name drop two. You may have found that because Paris also has some very mediocre restaurants, that there are surprises. Just behind the Immeuble in a quiet street is a little brasserie that is only open for lunch. Shirley and Rachel had Capelletti (sorry about the spelling) scrumptious little meaty circles in a tomato herb sauce and a lot of grated cheese. The rest of us had had quiche, which was not outstanding but it was simply damn good – the eggs not rubbery the lardoons teased into the mixture. Their pastries were more than adequate, tarte au pomme, chocolate cake, and an interesting kind of gateau aux pommes.
The place won’t be rated by Michelin and it won’t make it into next week’s food column in the New York Times. It is not especially chic but it is very warm and welcoming. The hostess had only two small bottles of Pelfort left. Alas. I was thirsty and the French brew a very good biere brun.
Just a few minutes ago Rachel and I came back from a visit to the boulangerie that Henri insists is the best in Paris. They have refrigerated showcases with salads and quiches to go. We’ll eat in for 20 Euro.
Finally, I understand that the café at the corner, at the end of the driveway to the apartment, is as close as the area comes to a “local.” I will adventure there and try to impose myself on a few willing Frenchmen.
Tomorrow we do, mostly for Rachel, a two day hop-on-hop-off tour. In my inadequate French I said “monter et demonter.” Henri didn’t laugh. He said it’s “monter et descendre.”
Demonter is what you do to a car engine that makes it end up in pieces.
Monday, April 12, 2010
LETTER FROM PARIS #1
Every place tourists visit has "sights" that give the city its reputation as a destination, or at least the people in charge think it makes them a destination. Sometimes it is ill-placed hubris, as in: "Toronto is a world-class city because we have the world’s tallest (used to be) free standing structure."
For the sake of my letters of passion from Paris, why should I spend too much time “seeing the sights?” I leave that to busloads of gawking Americans or hordes of Japanese each frantically taking pictures of each other standing in front of (insert it yourself) the “sight.” I marvel no, make that giggle, at the number of guys I see standing in the Champ de Mars trying to line up their girlfriends in such a way that the Eiffel Tower will appear to be growing out of her head. Or the millions of pictures extant of a squealing (with delight?) spouse as she seems to be enjoying being covered with filthy pigeons in the Piazza San Marco. My favourite experience was meeting the American woman on a 12 day see-everything trip in Europe with her 19 year old son. I met them on the train going from Florence to Rome. They had started in Salzburg three days before and were on a dizzying trip to everywhere. They told me, not without just a little but of pride, that they had disembarked from the train at Pisa, hailed a cab, drove to the Leaning Tower, took picture standing in front of it, then hailed a cab back to the station to get the next train.
I don't mind a bit (how patronizing of me?) that people gather at the Eiffel Tower or Montparnasse. But I've seen them all. More than once. Those sights are the "outer" Paris.(I admit I have not been to Pisa.) But for so much - I’ve “been there – done that.” It’s what you do when you’re a tourist.
I still remember my first trip to Paris more than thirty years ago. I was enchanted. Many people are, enchanted that is, unless they are determined in advance to find the French rude, unfriendly, inhospitable and arrogant. (Strange they never, especially Americans, mind that New York is that way.) After that first trip I came home and started to write what I thought would be an article about how easy it was to “do” Paris on a budget. The “article” blossomed into a ten thousand word essay that rambled in circles but loved Paris.
It is the love that never dies. Never, in spite of the odd episode of the haughty waiter or the arrogant salesperson. But you find those everywhere.
No, what I wrote was a celebration of the “inner” Paris: of the people, of the food, of the way they cross the road dodging traffic, about the French people you can chat with at a cafe as they sip a Pelfort and keep an eye on their dog. (Dogs seem to be better behaved in Paris, except for the natural "urge" made worse by the fact that Parisians do not "stoop and scoop," About how the hookers looked like they were out of Central Casting working on Irma La Douce. They hung out around Rue St. Denis, which has since become "cleaned up" and is now less of what the girls here call “the track.”
In two days we arrive. In two days I will start to see Paris for the first time again because I will see it through the eyes of my 13 year old granddaughter. She is in a French immersion school and this is her first time in a completely uni-lingual place.
I can hardly wait.
For the sake of my letters of passion from Paris, why should I spend too much time “seeing the sights?” I leave that to busloads of gawking Americans or hordes of Japanese each frantically taking pictures of each other standing in front of (insert it yourself) the “sight.” I marvel no, make that giggle, at the number of guys I see standing in the Champ de Mars trying to line up their girlfriends in such a way that the Eiffel Tower will appear to be growing out of her head. Or the millions of pictures extant of a squealing (with delight?) spouse as she seems to be enjoying being covered with filthy pigeons in the Piazza San Marco. My favourite experience was meeting the American woman on a 12 day see-everything trip in Europe with her 19 year old son. I met them on the train going from Florence to Rome. They had started in Salzburg three days before and were on a dizzying trip to everywhere. They told me, not without just a little but of pride, that they had disembarked from the train at Pisa, hailed a cab, drove to the Leaning Tower, took picture standing in front of it, then hailed a cab back to the station to get the next train.
I don't mind a bit (how patronizing of me?) that people gather at the Eiffel Tower or Montparnasse. But I've seen them all. More than once. Those sights are the "outer" Paris.(I admit I have not been to Pisa.) But for so much - I’ve “been there – done that.” It’s what you do when you’re a tourist.
I still remember my first trip to Paris more than thirty years ago. I was enchanted. Many people are, enchanted that is, unless they are determined in advance to find the French rude, unfriendly, inhospitable and arrogant. (Strange they never, especially Americans, mind that New York is that way.) After that first trip I came home and started to write what I thought would be an article about how easy it was to “do” Paris on a budget. The “article” blossomed into a ten thousand word essay that rambled in circles but loved Paris.
It is the love that never dies. Never, in spite of the odd episode of the haughty waiter or the arrogant salesperson. But you find those everywhere.
No, what I wrote was a celebration of the “inner” Paris: of the people, of the food, of the way they cross the road dodging traffic, about the French people you can chat with at a cafe as they sip a Pelfort and keep an eye on their dog. (Dogs seem to be better behaved in Paris, except for the natural "urge" made worse by the fact that Parisians do not "stoop and scoop," About how the hookers looked like they were out of Central Casting working on Irma La Douce. They hung out around Rue St. Denis, which has since become "cleaned up" and is now less of what the girls here call “the track.”
In two days we arrive. In two days I will start to see Paris for the first time again because I will see it through the eyes of my 13 year old granddaughter. She is in a French immersion school and this is her first time in a completely uni-lingual place.
I can hardly wait.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
PRIVACY VS PROPRIETORSHIP
Anyone remember Bucky Fuller’s prediction about the future of urban housing?
I think it was around the time he was spending time in Toronto discussing urban renewal. It was the time of the tiny perfect mayor and of Jane Jacobs battling expressways. I remember him being asked if he was going to go the top of the CN Tower. His response: “Why?”
He did produce a vision of the future urban lifestyle. The father of the geodesic dome foresaw entire cities with huge domes housing tens of thousands of people. The new city, and I’m not promising that my memory is completely accurate, would consist of decent but small, almost dormitory sized accommodation for families. There would be a large, fully integrated community. The amenities one would expect in a private home or large condo would instead be shared. The apartment would be for sleeping and cooking perhaps, but everything else would happen in the larger structure of a city with publicly shared facilities.
It was his idea of utopia. I always hoped that I would live to see at least some of it fulfilled. Instead, as I “Look Ahead” I see less and less concern about public space. No, I don’t mean the politicians and environmentalists going on about public spaces like parkland. I mean what I would call “defensible Space,” borrowing from another forward-thinking architect, Oscar Newman – who wrote “Defensible Space.” His vision was that people would assume more proprietorship of public spaces. They would be communally owned of course, but everyone would share, enjoy, and protect them.
What we have today is a very sharp division between private and public space. People who litter the streets would not think of littering their own front lawns. People who crave “privacy” still have difficulty making eye contact with strangers. Fuller was, I’m afraid, either too far ahead of his time, or too far behind the realities of everyday life.
I’ve written about it before: the overpowering need for privacy evidenced by the people on that “House Hunters” TV show who seem to be obsessed with privacy.
We tried it with communal living, and aside from a few long haired hippies, it simply didn’t catch on. At least it didn’t catch on in Canada or the U.S,
all the way back to Thomas More's Utopia and Robert Owen's New Harmony, people keep trying to make it work. Some do. The Hutterites do. The people who created Amana did. The Shakers did.
One of my most entertaining home exchanges was with a couple who lived in a co-op town house development in The Hague. The town houses were row houses with all the private amenities, bedrooms, Bathrooms, kitchens. But more than that valued “privacy,” what made their community livable was that the “public space” really did belong to them. They all had a proprietary interest in it. It was public but no one would ever litter. It was public, but everyone shared in planting the flowers and watering the lawn. It was public, but it was where everyone and their children would meet. They had a communal dining room where they would gather from time to time simply to enjoy being together. I was lucky enough to be there for one of those parties. Everyone chipped in for Chinese take-out. At least twenty people were at the table jabbering happily in Dutch, or to make us feel at home, with whatever English they had. (The Dutch do speak English in most places.)
I think Buckminster Fuller would be happy to see how people can share a public space and make it their own. We are simply going to have to learn how. Maybe it starts with not littering just because the space (which we all own) appears to be public.
I think it was around the time he was spending time in Toronto discussing urban renewal. It was the time of the tiny perfect mayor and of Jane Jacobs battling expressways. I remember him being asked if he was going to go the top of the CN Tower. His response: “Why?”
He did produce a vision of the future urban lifestyle. The father of the geodesic dome foresaw entire cities with huge domes housing tens of thousands of people. The new city, and I’m not promising that my memory is completely accurate, would consist of decent but small, almost dormitory sized accommodation for families. There would be a large, fully integrated community. The amenities one would expect in a private home or large condo would instead be shared. The apartment would be for sleeping and cooking perhaps, but everything else would happen in the larger structure of a city with publicly shared facilities.
It was his idea of utopia. I always hoped that I would live to see at least some of it fulfilled. Instead, as I “Look Ahead” I see less and less concern about public space. No, I don’t mean the politicians and environmentalists going on about public spaces like parkland. I mean what I would call “defensible Space,” borrowing from another forward-thinking architect, Oscar Newman – who wrote “Defensible Space.” His vision was that people would assume more proprietorship of public spaces. They would be communally owned of course, but everyone would share, enjoy, and protect them.
What we have today is a very sharp division between private and public space. People who litter the streets would not think of littering their own front lawns. People who crave “privacy” still have difficulty making eye contact with strangers. Fuller was, I’m afraid, either too far ahead of his time, or too far behind the realities of everyday life.
I’ve written about it before: the overpowering need for privacy evidenced by the people on that “House Hunters” TV show who seem to be obsessed with privacy.
We tried it with communal living, and aside from a few long haired hippies, it simply didn’t catch on. At least it didn’t catch on in Canada or the U.S,
all the way back to Thomas More's Utopia and Robert Owen's New Harmony, people keep trying to make it work. Some do. The Hutterites do. The people who created Amana did. The Shakers did.
One of my most entertaining home exchanges was with a couple who lived in a co-op town house development in The Hague. The town houses were row houses with all the private amenities, bedrooms, Bathrooms, kitchens. But more than that valued “privacy,” what made their community livable was that the “public space” really did belong to them. They all had a proprietary interest in it. It was public but no one would ever litter. It was public, but everyone shared in planting the flowers and watering the lawn. It was public, but it was where everyone and their children would meet. They had a communal dining room where they would gather from time to time simply to enjoy being together. I was lucky enough to be there for one of those parties. Everyone chipped in for Chinese take-out. At least twenty people were at the table jabbering happily in Dutch, or to make us feel at home, with whatever English they had. (The Dutch do speak English in most places.)
I think Buckminster Fuller would be happy to see how people can share a public space and make it their own. We are simply going to have to learn how. Maybe it starts with not littering just because the space (which we all own) appears to be public.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
THE WALL STREET CONSPIRACY
You’ll read this latest rant about economic orthodoxy and say “Here he goes again!” If you happened to watch ABC’s “This Week,” a regular Sunday morning fixture, you too may be wondering if you, like Alice have fallen down some hole into a world of madness.
First there were interviews with two of the “conspirators,” Larry Summers, Clinton’s economic guru, and Alan Greenspan, former economic icon and chairman of the Federal Reserve Bank. Greenspan seemed totally undaunted by the failure of the market-based system to control the economy, even though he admitted before a Senate (or was it House?) committee that he had been wrong. To me, he still misses the enormous extent to which he was wrong, he and his devotion to the libertarian rubbish of Ayn Rand, the great and misguided exponent of Social Darwinism.
The moderator did in fact, ask him about Ayn Rand. He dodged it and re-affirmed his belief in the marketplace. He said that economic progress and rescue of millions from poverty in the last 200 years, all came as a result of free competition. These guys don’t ever understand that while free competition has its virtues, it also can be predatory and destructive and can thrust millions of people into horrible poverty. Look at the ravages of the Industrial Revolution. People were saved only because legislators, far back in the early part of the 19th century of “progress” legislated against the most egregious forms of exploitation like child labour, and later against the creation of cartels.
The most significant comment made by Greenspan was in response to a question by the moderator about an OpEd piece in the New York Times by the head of an investment company in California. Michael J. Barry says he saw the hand-writing on the wall and covered his potential losses with short selling and credit default swaps. And he warned his clients too. He made a lot of money betting against sub-prime mortgages. It is a little sad that prosperity can grow from misery. But hey, that’s how the Greenspan system works.
The best was Greenspan’s response. I will reproduce it as faithfully as possible. He said "There are three groups of people. The largest group, including most economists, who thought the sub-prime lending was a good idea. The next and much smaller group bet against it and they prospered only by luck. The third, and very small group, got it right. They realized what was wrong and capitalized on it.” Then Greenspan’s coup de grace: “The man in California could only have prospered by selling short as long as the optimists were willing to buy the stock he was shorting. Without that market, he could not have made it (shorting) work.”
I have paraphrased extensively, but I got it right. Greenspan proved finally that he is married to the marketplace, with all its pimples. My point will always be: “short selling” is market manipulation. Does anyone remember that when the crisis erupted in 2008 short selling was banned, at least for a few weeks until the market could “recover?”
The post script to it all came from Robert Reich, Bill Clinton’s Secretary of Labour. He said that the three guys who know it all: Timothy Geithner, Larry Summers, and Alan Greenspan, are all guilty. It was they who promoted the deregulation that led to the crisis. It was they who allowed banks to speculate with other people’s money. It was they who enabled those same banks to exist with shamefully low reserves.
Yes, this is another rant. But until we realize that capitalism has value but not if it is devalued for profit by people for whom greed is the driving force.
We still are waiting for regulation and transparency for hedge funds and derivatives. Don’t hold your breath.
First there were interviews with two of the “conspirators,” Larry Summers, Clinton’s economic guru, and Alan Greenspan, former economic icon and chairman of the Federal Reserve Bank. Greenspan seemed totally undaunted by the failure of the market-based system to control the economy, even though he admitted before a Senate (or was it House?) committee that he had been wrong. To me, he still misses the enormous extent to which he was wrong, he and his devotion to the libertarian rubbish of Ayn Rand, the great and misguided exponent of Social Darwinism.
The moderator did in fact, ask him about Ayn Rand. He dodged it and re-affirmed his belief in the marketplace. He said that economic progress and rescue of millions from poverty in the last 200 years, all came as a result of free competition. These guys don’t ever understand that while free competition has its virtues, it also can be predatory and destructive and can thrust millions of people into horrible poverty. Look at the ravages of the Industrial Revolution. People were saved only because legislators, far back in the early part of the 19th century of “progress” legislated against the most egregious forms of exploitation like child labour, and later against the creation of cartels.
The most significant comment made by Greenspan was in response to a question by the moderator about an OpEd piece in the New York Times by the head of an investment company in California. Michael J. Barry says he saw the hand-writing on the wall and covered his potential losses with short selling and credit default swaps. And he warned his clients too. He made a lot of money betting against sub-prime mortgages. It is a little sad that prosperity can grow from misery. But hey, that’s how the Greenspan system works.
The best was Greenspan’s response. I will reproduce it as faithfully as possible. He said "There are three groups of people. The largest group, including most economists, who thought the sub-prime lending was a good idea. The next and much smaller group bet against it and they prospered only by luck. The third, and very small group, got it right. They realized what was wrong and capitalized on it.” Then Greenspan’s coup de grace: “The man in California could only have prospered by selling short as long as the optimists were willing to buy the stock he was shorting. Without that market, he could not have made it (shorting) work.”
I have paraphrased extensively, but I got it right. Greenspan proved finally that he is married to the marketplace, with all its pimples. My point will always be: “short selling” is market manipulation. Does anyone remember that when the crisis erupted in 2008 short selling was banned, at least for a few weeks until the market could “recover?”
The post script to it all came from Robert Reich, Bill Clinton’s Secretary of Labour. He said that the three guys who know it all: Timothy Geithner, Larry Summers, and Alan Greenspan, are all guilty. It was they who promoted the deregulation that led to the crisis. It was they who allowed banks to speculate with other people’s money. It was they who enabled those same banks to exist with shamefully low reserves.
Yes, this is another rant. But until we realize that capitalism has value but not if it is devalued for profit by people for whom greed is the driving force.
We still are waiting for regulation and transparency for hedge funds and derivatives. Don’t hold your breath.
Friday, April 2, 2010
JUST AN OLD FASHIONED GUY
I don’t pretend to be an economics scholar. But who cares? The practitioners of the “dismal science” may have exemplary credentials, but that doesn’t stop them from disagreeing with each other. From the left-wing comments of Nobel Laureate Paul Krugman to the madness of that Ayn Rand Libertarian Alan Greenspan, there are as many opinions as there are economists. They can argue about how many economists it takes to change a light bulb, but finally they have to offer solutions that work. Instead, many of them run around in convoluted circles trying desperately to find evidence that their theories are right. Which leads me to believe they are more devoted to their mind-set than they are pragmatic i.e. if it works – use it. Or, how can you go on believing in the “silent hand” of the marketplace, when the big players are up to their old tricks. It doesn’t take a Nobel Prize in Economics to see that bankers are now raking in billions once again doing what got us into trouble. The circle is vicious. And like all circles, it is never-ending.
Is anyone else alarmed that banks are repaying their TARP bailout loans by making billions in stuff like hedge funds? The numbers are jaw-dropping. The market is recovering because banks were bailed out. Smart guys are raking it in because they bought sinking bank stock by divining that they would have to make a comeback because the government would intervene.(In fact they probably didn't "nuy" they leveraged the action by buying "calls" or options to buy.We'll never know.
Therein lies the irony, the paradox, the contradiction, the madness. The “investors” (what a laugh!) make money by fiddling around with money. They are “investors” like the guy who “invests” in the outcome of a horse race or the chances of “bringing” your number before you roll a seven (Craps devotees please accept my apologies for lowering your noble sport to the status of a Wall Street investment.)
I am naïve and old-fashioned because I believe that investment means taking a piece of something real; of buying stock so you could share in the fortunes (or misfortunes) of a company they really makes things, or provides tangible services. The messing around with derivatives and hedge funds, where you have no idea what the geniuses behind them are doing with your money, is not investing – it is crap shooting.
I had a conversation a couple of nights ago with a noted historian, writer, and professor emeritus. We agreed about people who make money by shuffling money. There is absolutely nothing productive about being Switzerland. (Figure that one out for yourself.)
If the economy, any economy, is to have a real future, and if we are to get out from under the manipulation of money to make money, we must begin to recognize that the earliest development of the joint stock company was to create an arena to which you could attract people who wanted a piece of the action, people who wanted to own a piece of “real” production.
So America, in its usual way of fiddling with money, is going through more agonies trying to get what should be a simple piece of banking regulations and consumer projection passed into law.
Go head. Tell me I should stick to what I know and keep my nose out of economics. Yeah sure.
Is anyone else alarmed that banks are repaying their TARP bailout loans by making billions in stuff like hedge funds? The numbers are jaw-dropping. The market is recovering because banks were bailed out. Smart guys are raking it in because they bought sinking bank stock by divining that they would have to make a comeback because the government would intervene.(In fact they probably didn't "nuy" they leveraged the action by buying "calls" or options to buy.We'll never know.
Therein lies the irony, the paradox, the contradiction, the madness. The “investors” (what a laugh!) make money by fiddling around with money. They are “investors” like the guy who “invests” in the outcome of a horse race or the chances of “bringing” your number before you roll a seven (Craps devotees please accept my apologies for lowering your noble sport to the status of a Wall Street investment.)
I am naïve and old-fashioned because I believe that investment means taking a piece of something real; of buying stock so you could share in the fortunes (or misfortunes) of a company they really makes things, or provides tangible services. The messing around with derivatives and hedge funds, where you have no idea what the geniuses behind them are doing with your money, is not investing – it is crap shooting.
I had a conversation a couple of nights ago with a noted historian, writer, and professor emeritus. We agreed about people who make money by shuffling money. There is absolutely nothing productive about being Switzerland. (Figure that one out for yourself.)
If the economy, any economy, is to have a real future, and if we are to get out from under the manipulation of money to make money, we must begin to recognize that the earliest development of the joint stock company was to create an arena to which you could attract people who wanted a piece of the action, people who wanted to own a piece of “real” production.
So America, in its usual way of fiddling with money, is going through more agonies trying to get what should be a simple piece of banking regulations and consumer projection passed into law.
Go head. Tell me I should stick to what I know and keep my nose out of economics. Yeah sure.
BAN THE SAG!
I find it remarkable – the latest story about the “prison chic” style of youth and their dropping pants: a politician in Brooklyn has put up billboards deploring the “sag.” Everywhere in the U.S. there are campaigns against this now long-running fashion statement. Bill Cosby, who is known and I presume detested in the black community, for his righteous indignation at what he sees as aberrant black behaviour. He has railed against the drooping pants just as he has against the, to him, ridiculous naming of black kids with made-up names that are supposed to sound African. Cosby seems to squirm whenever he fellow African Americans get out of line. In Yiddish there is an expression: A schande fur die goyim.” It means that if you are Jewish and you misbehave it is a shame paraded before the gentiles. There is more than a little self-disgust, even hatred, in these pronouncement – whether they are from the apparently (at least in his own mind) iconic Bill Cosby or a Jewish grandmother.
The story I read says that while the fad originated in the black community, where apparently it is cool to look like you were a prison inmate, the practice has spread to middle class white boys. My own grandson drove his parents crazy by showing half his underwear at all times. He has since entered the real world and dresses like a gentleman. The question is: is he now more of a gentleman because he dresses more conservatively? It all beats me.
But to give the fad its due: it does attach a kind of swagger to the young man. It exemplifies revolt. It demonstrates a certain teen male solidarity. It is as old as the hills for the rising generation to want to be seen rejecting the morals and dress of their parents’ generation. There will always be rebels. Rebellion will always be good, until it becomes violent. The right, the obligation to question is what we must have. What is increasingly missing in our society is the ability to be critical. I admit, sometimes the “criticism” is mindless and the social equivalent to sticking your tongue out.
Sadly, What always happens is that these “rebels” are seduced by reality and sometimes intimidation. By the time they reach job-holding maturity, they will conform. There will be residue – like the middle aged men who still have the pony tail they grew in their hippie years or today’s generation which will, in years to come, be recognized by their long-out-of-fashion tattoos.
We have been through it all: the social opprobrium attached to long hair when the Beatles made it popular; the schools forbidding girls’ wearing panty-revealing skirts; and even – remember this – the unacceptable wearing of slacks by women, until Yves St. Laurent made the pant suit de rigeur.
So cool it all you social reformers. The urge to punish seems to be more important than the need for change.
I have only one complaint: when will we stop the pervasive “tagging” on public places by gang-struck kids who with their paint spray cans. You see, even I have a generational intolerance.
The story I read says that while the fad originated in the black community, where apparently it is cool to look like you were a prison inmate, the practice has spread to middle class white boys. My own grandson drove his parents crazy by showing half his underwear at all times. He has since entered the real world and dresses like a gentleman. The question is: is he now more of a gentleman because he dresses more conservatively? It all beats me.
But to give the fad its due: it does attach a kind of swagger to the young man. It exemplifies revolt. It demonstrates a certain teen male solidarity. It is as old as the hills for the rising generation to want to be seen rejecting the morals and dress of their parents’ generation. There will always be rebels. Rebellion will always be good, until it becomes violent. The right, the obligation to question is what we must have. What is increasingly missing in our society is the ability to be critical. I admit, sometimes the “criticism” is mindless and the social equivalent to sticking your tongue out.
Sadly, What always happens is that these “rebels” are seduced by reality and sometimes intimidation. By the time they reach job-holding maturity, they will conform. There will be residue – like the middle aged men who still have the pony tail they grew in their hippie years or today’s generation which will, in years to come, be recognized by their long-out-of-fashion tattoos.
We have been through it all: the social opprobrium attached to long hair when the Beatles made it popular; the schools forbidding girls’ wearing panty-revealing skirts; and even – remember this – the unacceptable wearing of slacks by women, until Yves St. Laurent made the pant suit de rigeur.
So cool it all you social reformers. The urge to punish seems to be more important than the need for change.
I have only one complaint: when will we stop the pervasive “tagging” on public places by gang-struck kids who with their paint spray cans. You see, even I have a generational intolerance.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
JUST KEEP HOPING FOR REAL CHANGE
Maybe I have come to the time of my life when I want to re-affirm everything I believe in: social justice, free exchange of ideas, the need to be informed, and government with a conscience. Maybe at the heart of my visit to Paris is to see how the French really feel about living in a country which may be flawed but with the best health care system in the world and where higher education is a right. Maybe I am wanting to repeat the scene from “Sicko” where Michael Moore sat in a bistro in Paris chatting with Americans living there.
Maybe I read too much and like an impressionable kid I am most moved by the last significant thing I read. Maybe I have lost all my critical ability and look only to reinforce my own beliefs (prejudices?.) I want to believe my own axioms like: government is the employer of last resort. Or – a country is judged by how we treat the least of our people. How about the rusty old: “from each according to his ability to each according to his needs.” Is this simply worn-out liberal dogma, or as I believe, truths that ought to be revisited?
I watch, not without sympathy the writhing of the American government trying to bring some kind of justice to a struggling society while at the same time continuing to manifest their absolute belief in “market forces” and in the inevitability of certain truths like continuously preaching about the “engines of progress,” – sometimes the "engine"is big business and industrial production, sometimes it is small business, sometimes it is a revived service industry, sometimes it is consumer spending. No matter how they “writhe” they seem only to want to pursue policies that fit an immutable ideology. Any other choice seems to lead to the birth of stuff like the Tea Party Movement, and a concerted effort to elect political dinosaurs who have some mystic belief in less government.
Maybe in France, if I can make my French language skills equal to the task, I can talk to real Frenchmen about the fulfillments they expect.
I don’t want to visit there as some wild-eyed pinko looking for every reason I can find to discredit capitalism and exalt government. Maybe I have read too much of “When China Rules the World,” the latest book about the decline of American hegemony. That would be far too doctrinaire and wasn't I the one-time political candidate who was tired of the ideological straight-jacket holding many devotees of The Left?
Now as I rant, I wonder. Perhaps what I would really like to see it less devotion to ideology and more downright pragmatism. I am heartened, believe it or not, by the fact that the Bush government was the one which spent hundreds of billions to prop up a collapsing banking system. Even they understood how government must intervene on behalf of its people.
So I am just a little incredulous when I keep hearing about how part of the road out of the unemployment crisis is to encourage companies to start hiring by giving them tax breaks. Or to get things moving by giving tax credits to ordinary people. The fatal flaw in both choices is that industry hires people when the market says it will buy more of the stuff they (the industry) make, and that tax credits to people who need them most are to people who pay so little tax in the first place that a “credit” means nothing.
It is all because the idea of direct intervention is so contrary to the utter belief that free market solves all problems. The paradox is obvious: the marketplace failed – not only in America, but England which is now described as the sick man of Europe and in debt-plagued Greece and in Spain where unemployment is at a raging twenty percent, or in Ireland where the Celtic Tiger has turned into a whining alley cat.
Roosevelt may be the last person who got it right. And that was nearly 80 years ago!
Maybe I’ll find a few other ideas in France. Stay tuned.
(By the way, if this blog reaches you let me know. If you do not want to receive it – let me know and I’ll drop you from the list.)
Maybe I read too much and like an impressionable kid I am most moved by the last significant thing I read. Maybe I have lost all my critical ability and look only to reinforce my own beliefs (prejudices?.) I want to believe my own axioms like: government is the employer of last resort. Or – a country is judged by how we treat the least of our people. How about the rusty old: “from each according to his ability to each according to his needs.” Is this simply worn-out liberal dogma, or as I believe, truths that ought to be revisited?
I watch, not without sympathy the writhing of the American government trying to bring some kind of justice to a struggling society while at the same time continuing to manifest their absolute belief in “market forces” and in the inevitability of certain truths like continuously preaching about the “engines of progress,” – sometimes the "engine"is big business and industrial production, sometimes it is small business, sometimes it is a revived service industry, sometimes it is consumer spending. No matter how they “writhe” they seem only to want to pursue policies that fit an immutable ideology. Any other choice seems to lead to the birth of stuff like the Tea Party Movement, and a concerted effort to elect political dinosaurs who have some mystic belief in less government.
Maybe in France, if I can make my French language skills equal to the task, I can talk to real Frenchmen about the fulfillments they expect.
I don’t want to visit there as some wild-eyed pinko looking for every reason I can find to discredit capitalism and exalt government. Maybe I have read too much of “When China Rules the World,” the latest book about the decline of American hegemony. That would be far too doctrinaire and wasn't I the one-time political candidate who was tired of the ideological straight-jacket holding many devotees of The Left?
Now as I rant, I wonder. Perhaps what I would really like to see it less devotion to ideology and more downright pragmatism. I am heartened, believe it or not, by the fact that the Bush government was the one which spent hundreds of billions to prop up a collapsing banking system. Even they understood how government must intervene on behalf of its people.
So I am just a little incredulous when I keep hearing about how part of the road out of the unemployment crisis is to encourage companies to start hiring by giving them tax breaks. Or to get things moving by giving tax credits to ordinary people. The fatal flaw in both choices is that industry hires people when the market says it will buy more of the stuff they (the industry) make, and that tax credits to people who need them most are to people who pay so little tax in the first place that a “credit” means nothing.
It is all because the idea of direct intervention is so contrary to the utter belief that free market solves all problems. The paradox is obvious: the marketplace failed – not only in America, but England which is now described as the sick man of Europe and in debt-plagued Greece and in Spain where unemployment is at a raging twenty percent, or in Ireland where the Celtic Tiger has turned into a whining alley cat.
Roosevelt may be the last person who got it right. And that was nearly 80 years ago!
Maybe I’ll find a few other ideas in France. Stay tuned.
(By the way, if this blog reaches you let me know. If you do not want to receive it – let me know and I’ll drop you from the list.)
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