Refusal to stop, marks just about any of my incursions into the land of slow lunches, friendly healthcare options and other truffle fed to the lapping-it-all-up traveling public. This time irresponsibly leaving my speedily growing children and visibly overburdened wife behind, I could not escape but quicken my pace of cultural discoveries lest I will be condemned for utterly wasting my time, in the most selfish fashion no less. The task was to stuff my schedule with anything un-habitual so tight, as to make any hormone-grown Christmas turkey cringe in red hot envy.
The pretext, of showing my mother around the dusty Parisian jewels and jumping at the chance to sample best European food traditions at my friend’s expense as he was throwing a party to mark his second and perhaps last marriage, was probably enough. But not for me as too much leisure would inevitably leave a burning sense of not yet seen, touched and prodded the underbelly of the European travel fables. Luckily, having a number of periphery friends around the old continent helps with filling one’s schedule to the brim.
Heathrow Horrors
But before I could put any of that into existence there were few nasty and unavoidable experiences known to any airline traveller. There are, of course, some in our midst who delight in smelling airline exhaust on their clothes and collecting thousands of unnecessary miles for the sake of a check-mark. Some have attempted to circumvent the globe in the shortest time possible by taking commercial airliners all the way – Magellan is salivating in his grave. Others have decided to take on as many dirt-cheap European flights to test their fortitudes, stomachs and tightly compacted asses. I, not possessing such penchant for turbulence and spilled coffee, was less than happy with yet another stop-over in the grimmest of places in the world of happy travels – Heathrow. One would think that increased international travel and competition would actually improve the fate of its ultimate beneficiaries. It seems to work when it comes to car drivers and train riders. Well, in the endless blue skies it is getting worse. So instead of having some options to divert away from the horrors of the 70s windowless concrete and bright linoleum floors, our efficient travel masters keep sending the whole poor world to this meat-grinder of a connection.
If one counts on thirty minute transfer in Frankfurt or five-minute walk-over in Vienna, in London it would always take at least triple that and then some. Midnight exhaustion of North American pilgrims does not improve matters as your reflection in the bright linoleum floors is probably about right after a ten-hour shake-up with salivating Duty Free offerings and yet another viewing of Bridget Jones Diaries. After eventually leaving your plane following a fifteen-minute delay due to some roof leakage in the ramp-way (the maintenance folks must be squeezing every last penny out of their meagre privatized budgets – thanks Mrs. Thatcher!) one has to navigate through a warren of passageways, quick turns and treacherous mechanical works called moving sidewalks. It is easy to get a feeling of being forced in some nightmare concocted in the best traditions of MI6. You are the victim desperately trying to escape and yet to no avail as in the end of your bad escape dream you end up at the doorstep of a bus whose driver takes his time regardless of your connection needs – and you have not left your blasted arrival terminal yet!
Following it up with heavy fumes, sunless skies and strange traffic patterns of a bizarro world, and you are dumped for yet another stint in the MI6 horror flick. Somewhere in the middle of it you stumble in a huge security line-up. It does not matter if you have past security somewhere back in Madras, Dar-Es-Salaam or New York, here they are going to do it to you with pale and expressionless British flavour – just like morning oats. Sure, in the last few decades they have tried to lively up with things with curry flavours of Pakistan and cheerful Caribbean hand waves, but the confusion, smells and strip down to bare essentials hardly makes it all that much better. Now, yours truly, as always, had to buck the trend of hot, sweaty pressing weight of humanity, as after many futile minutes in the suffocating line-up I was informed that my bag generously accorded a “carry-on” status back in the expansive North Strong and Free did not qualify to fit seemingly identical plane compartments on this side of the water. Any allusion to the dubiousness of the clashing airport standards quickly sent me to the passport control with an inevitable trendy bright tie and tedious paperwork. What is that with British civil servants? Can’t they just relax and wear a t-shirt for a change, or don a menacing bullet-proof vest to defend against gun-totting Americans? No it is always that sweaty uncomfortable suit tuned up with the latest in the bright neck-tie creations. Like this is supposed to make me more cheerful.
Suddenly, I was through thanks to my beautiful blue passport. Freedom, how good that sounds even with a prospect of yet another ride through countless moving sidewalk galleries adorned with nothing but mind-numbing bank ads that worked marvels for my barely smouldering senses. Eventually, I schlepped in to my terminal with dingy nine-foot ceilings and overpriced sandwiches. No matter, since I was able to go outside to grab a gulp of fresher air. Who cares if it was filled with second hand smoke worthy of a good football game? At least I saw the sky.
Now, after they put you through the aforementioned rigours, they are usually not done and, unlike many more civilized places, here they do not tell your gate number until right before the boarding, leaving you roaming zombie-like amidst weighty bottles of French cognac, glitzy cans of Russian black caviar and cuddly teddy bears from Harrods at something like 50 pounds a piece. Now I get it, it is just modern commerce trying to get its long tentacles into every nook and cranny of my well-padded middle class pockets. Besides, with possessing accented English I can at least count on understanding when my gate is up, but what about some less linguistically fortunate?
One particular specimen from Czech Republic happened to be really lost without a single word of English. While on the tireless monitor watch I was treated to a true Babylonian spectacle as an airport attendant did his best to reassure our patient that there was no need for panic as his Prague- bound gate was yet to show. In vain, no amount of pocking the monitor could re-stabilize the volatile situation. I just had to step in. Summoning my scattered smithereens of pan-Slavic linguistics I uttered a single word “Chekai” – “Wait”. Suddenly, the seas were calm and I found a new friend who relied on my guiding presence and smiles for the next hour. At least, this night Prague was not going to miss one of its own, strangled by the vagaries of international travel. Do not get lost in Heathrow or you too could join a perpetually wandering army of lost and sleepless who perpetually traverse this beast in search of an elusive solace of ever coming home…
Open Your Wallet – It’s Deutsche Bahn
Upon an eventless arrival in Frankfurt, I hurried to the adjoining railway station, recently reconstructed in the best German architectural traditions of glass and steel. It was already past 5PM and I still had to get to Stuttgart, a sort like getting to Hope from YVR. I felt first pangs of time slipping away too quickly. After all, this was the night to spend with my dear friend David. I ran out of breath trying to catch the first train out. It was as if I was one of those Amazing Race clowns racing to get their million. At first things were not looking that great as I had just missed the first available train. It left the platform in front of my very frustrated eyes. Consulting the schedule beckoned an hour and half wait. Fortunately, my Deutsche Bahn (German Railway) juices re-awakened some old skills. You see, the beauty of European train travel is that you do not have to take a direct train to where you want to go. A connection will do. Yes, I was right there was a train in mere ten minutes with a five-minute connection in Mannheim; it would get me to Stuttgart in 1:10.
Another trip to Hope in a parallel universe was still stuck somewhere in Langley traffic when my train was whizzing me to the encounter with the long-lost friend. The speed and perfectly clean train toilets did not come cheap though, as blasted Deutsche Bahn charged 60 bucks (40E) for the pleasure. Besides calling David on my newly acquired phone card reminded me that phone calls to cell phones in Europe is a much more expensive proposition for the caller than here at home. Oh what the heck, at least it worked like a charm as unlike useless TELUS cell service.
Talented Mr. Whitley
Five minute wait in Mannheim turned out to be exactly five minutes, I was in Germany after all, and I was on my way back to the pretty city of Stuttgart, my final stop of the day. First time when I met David in the NY Church of Christ some fifteen years ago I did not have any inkling of becoming his friend. After all he was a bit too cheerful for the rigid etiquette of my new surroundings. Of course having fun was allowed and encouraged, but David appeared to have too much of it, bounding with his perpetual brown leather bag and an expensive overcoat between finishing his masters degree in Julliard, looking for Broadway gigs and enjoying his new and gorgeous wife – Zenobia (or something like that). I was just too timid and shushed by my bible talk leader to partake in those jolly and yet irreproachable circles.
Lo and behold, one year later I found rooming with David while his wife decided to pursue a momentary military career to pay for college – only in America taking up guns is so tightly wrapped with all things peaceful and educational. Suddenly, I was acquainted with much different David who had his own insecurities, job failures and even church problems. We could share in that. We started to unite, but what really cemented our relationship was his absolutely comic personality that could easily rival anything smelling Chris Rock or Eddy Murphy. David just had it in his blood to entertain and that he did, experimenting with my abilities to stay alive while ripping my lungs out with laughter. It must have been David’s make up of southern roots of deep Alabama mixed with more polished angles of Washington DC, where abrupt jazzy undertones aptly converged with poetic and rueful South. David’s voice followed the blueprint to a “T” with him ending up a prodigy from an early age. Sometime in his teens he found himself even touring with the famed Harlem Boys Choir. Later he landed in Manhattan School of Music and then at the nascent age of twenty five he was touting a degree from none other than Julliard.
All seemed just perfect but. The Broadway scene did not really care for degrees and valued particular talents regardless of letters after one’s name, whereby even David had to vie with ferocity for the slightest of bits. I became his convert and waited any day for a grand announcement that kept refusing to materialize. After some months and years, our paths have parted as I moved to the West Coast and then to Canada and David stayed back plugging away at the elusive fame. I left the church and he was still in, so the contact with years became thinner and thinner, and yet it failed to break, David just was kind of guy.
Few years later I found myself “toiling” away as an intern in the socialist paradise of Vienna. Strangely, David was just nearby, living in the industrious city of Stuttgart that sprawled over the picturesque Schwebian countryside. This was definitely years later – David was single again (at least on paper), both of us were out of the church for good and he was living out his dream on this side of the ocean - at first singing in the local instalment of Miss Saigon and later doing fearless solo of a recording artist with gigs and more. Tracy and I could not stand the temptation of not visiting. She and David went back a ways too as he seemed to be the only one in the church who was cheerful about her unchristian appearance in NY some five years before. They clicked, musically and humorously. It could have hardly been otherwise. This time it was summer of 1997 and we were rolling into the Stuttgart Bahnhof.
“You think it is OK if we impose”, she asked prudentially, almost with a sigh.
“Yeah, it might be a bit tight. Singing after all can’t be that fruitful. We at least should be buying food or something. But it is just a couple of days”, I reasoned.
Train breaks hissed their last and we jumped on and scanned the horizon. The search was brief and illuminating with our colourful friend occupying an unmistakable centre stage right in the middle of the platform. Light, chic suit and a dainty cup of coffee between his long pianist fingers – all exuded sheer delight and no sign of humble poverty. All hugs, smiles and jest we piled out on the parking lot. An old rusty Honda took the prime frontage on the parking lot.
“Yours?” I congratulated myself on an educated guess.
“This? No. Mine is over there”, my friend pointed to a glistening row of very reputable beasts arranged as if for an auto show. The hushed nightly tones of soft street lightening could hardly hide my surprise and a little bit of envy.
David, dancing his fingers against a sleek set of keys, pressed on a key-less entry button and the most gorgeous specimen in the stable lit up. It was a top of the line BMW Cabriolet with everything else and more. Tracy and I pressed closer together as if readying for an orbital spin with Space Shuttle Columbia. The ride was sheer exhilaration.
The rest of our visit was spent in the whirlwind of an unknown world stuffed with trendy dance floors, well-patronized restaurants and David’s friends. It felt as if the whole city of Stuttgart was copying with the latest bout of David fever. All cosmopolitan, English and hardly Schwebian save for some savoury dishes of knödle, unbelievable breakfast pastries and a meeting with a classy guy with a gorgeous femme on hand. His name was Benz and this town produced cars, the rest was just a blur of a surreal. Even a Sunday morning visit to a local English church was hardly there to wake us up from this respite in the wonderland.
“How is surviving on the German music scene. Do you have to sing in German?” I started with the bleeding obvious while stuffing my face with an absolutely incredible baked creature from a local establishment.
“Not really. English goes just as well… Oh, by the way I just remembered, I have an interview tonight at a local radio station! Thank a lot, otherwise I would have forgotten!”
“Radio station eh?” not very often I sat next to somebody who gave interviews. I felt some goose bumps.
“We love Broadway. In fact one of our first dates in New York was going to Miss Saigon” Tracy was delighted to speak to a professional.
“…and then we went to Phantom in San Fran. That was a blast”
“Oh yea, I sang in it a couple of times in London, to fill in”
“Who were you in Phantom?” Tracy was getting visibly tickled.
“The Phantom” trailed a nonchalant response
“Get out of town!” we shot back as struck by the lightening.
Few years later we visited David once more. Ready for surprises this time we enjoyed his maturing company and a bigger apartment occupying the better part of one Tudor home with a personal full-blown sauna in the attic. David had certainly changed, got a nice-sized dog and took numerous daily walks in the Wiese (meadows). Food was simpler, homier and we burst with laughter enjoying the latest Katastrophenfilm needing a translation for a white person – “Der Klumps” with Eddie Murphy.
Two years ago our paths almost crossed once again as my participation in the Jews for Jesus campaign in Berlin led me straight to a friendly American type named Jack who went to the same English speaking church in Stuttgart as David. In the end, although David’s appearance in Berlin failed to materialize, I was duly forewarned by Jack that David’s passion for light hearted flair and BMW products had hardly been extinguished.
Harry Connick Junior
This time I was well-prepared for just about any surprise... And sure enough just like ten years ago minus coffee and the light suit, David was waiting at the end of the platform, standing out above the crowd with colour in a sweat suit of latest designer fashions.
The first minutes of the reunion passed in mutual admiration with the inevitable BMW by the curb, X3 this time.
“Alex I missed you so much and I have so much to tell you” David was always sweet in his friendly comfort making.
“I would love to hear it” I have always been genuinely interested in David’s affairs. “Tracy would have loved to hear it first hand besides she always has the music edge to keep you quizzed”
“That’s true, so what is the latest on the Vancouver scene? You know I would love to come, I have heard so much about how beautiful it is…” David’s non-driving hand went in a wishful semi-circle.
“Anytime buddy, anytime. Compared to Europe and New York it is kind of boring but we have our own share of celebrities with film productions and concerts. Police has been rehearsing for months for their re-union tour and Harry Connick Jr. is coming to town. Tracy is dragging me to that.”
“Harry, hah. I was his roommate for a short while back in the days, in the Manhattan School of Music” David stated as-a matter-of-factly. .
“Get out of here! Tracy would burn with envy. She loves Harry and would not even be stopped by hundred bucks per ticket!”
“Yah, he is a big star. We have been out of touch for years, although I did give a call few weeks back. He did not call back he must be awfully busy…” He sounded as if something was not quite clicking even in the environs of his first rate BMW specimen.
Unpleasant Life Surprises
I was burning to find out more. After a nice although simple dinner of Italian origin that was served in a very tasteful dining room of a two-story three bedroom apartment, David caught me up on his latest. Well, his life had not been as simple as one would have suspected at the first glance. A couple of years ago it turned out, David nearly died in a house fire. That happened in the last place I had visited some year prior.
One afternoon, exhausted by the daily travails, David crashed for midday nap on his comfortable deep couch. With his mind in a dream world, his senses took their rest just as well. The next conscious moment David remembers was being waken up by a friend.
“David! The house is full of smoke! You need to get out!” it was still as if in a dream as God was not yet done with David on this Earth by stretching a saving hand, literally. A minute later, David stood outside and watched. With nothing but a pair of sweats and a jacket in the midst of a frigid January evening, he and his friend shuddered as the fire consumed the entire house in a matter of minutes. The prompt arrival of Feuerwehr (fire fighters) did not help much as the street hydrants were nearly frozen in the recent cold snap.
All was gone. Electronics, clothing and, most importantly, timeless family photographs and other irreplaceable things, even all his IDs went up in smoke. The only thing surviving was his cabriolet that happened to have been parked on the street. I was a true personal disaster. Fortunately, many of David’s friends came to help, finding him a place to stay, cloth to wear and support to count on. With such support and God’s help David felt calm and collected, he knew that God was reminding of who he was. David was so composed that even the psychologist doing a post-trauma assessment was highly surprised, confessing that most of folks in similar situations would just collapse if not outright go insane.
Now, year and a half later, he viewed the experience as a Godly lesson with a front page newspaper article that featured his burning house surrounded by helpless firefighters and his profile in a white suit on the forefront. Light-heartedly so, David seemed to be still duly incensed by the article that pegged him at forty, full three years ahead of his real age. Outrage!
Ralph Lauren Charity
The next morning schedule was a bit of a juggling act since I had to find few more moments to hang out with David, connect with my Jews for Jesus friend from Ulm (one hour away), Jack and find my way to Muldorf (three hours away) by around six. Luckily, the events of the day took an unexpected and rather pleasant turn to string up my logistics just perfectly. This morning David was expecting visitors from Munich, Asia and Michael. This imposed some much needed discipline as I rushed, nearly killing myself, down the slippery wooden steps to the bathroom below. The specially carved Germanic steps accommodated anybody right-handed (footed) did not forgive anybody favouring an opposite cadence. Germans are bears for precision and detail where there is only one way to fit in as my sliding ass found out pretty quickly.
“Asia!” David hopped up and down as if emerging from a solitary monastic cave after years of silence.
“David!” the door flung open and Asia burst into the scene like a hurricane. She was tall, youthfully thin and very American, gurgling with something of a Southern rendition of the world’s tongue. She was irresistible and unique – African American living in Germany and schlepping along an authentic German husband. He, lanky and shy, brimmed with friendliness and joy as if reunited with long-lost friends. My other profession of a Schiedsrichter (soccer ref) only improved my chances with the soccer player of a seriously committed, albeit amateur, level.
The goal of their trip up was of surprisingly familiar to the over-consumed West – shopping. Asia, being one of the whirlwinds behind Ralph Lauren Empire in southern Germany was in a possession of something extremely useful – access to a 50% discount card. Alas, Munich offered only full-blown services that did not come cheap even at a deep discount. Stuttgart on the other hand boasted an outlet store, in throes of a latest sale campaign no less. The magnet, too big to pass up even for the regulars, was soon attracting us at something like 80KMH in the comfortable leathery environs of the David’s X3. Unfortunately for the jolly company, many, on this statutory holiday, were imbued with similar notions as getting to and parking anywhere was an unmitigated nightmare. It looked like the whole nation turned out to shop at outlet shops this morning.
Jack, the Chauffer
The things threatened to get hairy and it was a perfect moment to change horses. Jack just parked across the street and I happily flung my fortunes into his path, leaving my shopping friends in the frantic beehive of commercial pleasures. No sooner David receded into the vicious milieu of trendy budget shoppers, Jack quickly plunged into some juicy details of his latest activities with Jews for Jesus. These have primarily consisted of arranging and putting to life complex logistics of taking around an American version of the “Liberating Wailing Wall” – a singing group.
The travelling group consisting of few colourful and committed characters was certainly impacting in many right places while challenging in others. Many churchgoers blessed by the group’s visits were encouraged and cheered up, many hosting families were challenged. Jack, being in the hosting line of fire, was now just starting his recovery from a two-week jaunt with the folks. He was threshed – physically and emotionally. The musicians, while giving their best on the stage, were frequently ruthless in their level of consideration for each other and host families who did their best to cope with cultural and linguistic barriers. Hosts wailed and Jack had to buffer for it all – unlimited and un-requested long-distance phone calls, bickering and frequent disinterest in the hosting families despite boundless offerings of food and hospitality. Jack’s wife was a little batty after a three day stay with the crew. Going there for a short visit presented a bit of a challenge as it was incumbent upon me to restore the international image of the people across the stormy Atlantic.
The task was fulfilled with flying colours since I all had to do was to smile far and wide during my momentary visit. Showing up with a box of Canadian chocolates did not spoil the matters and the international peace was restored. Jack’s house in the midst of idyllic and very aromatic farmland could not have been a better spot for ceasing of hostilities. In the end, snapping a couple of pictures of his copious family, Jack zapped me up through the singing hills of his adoptive home land. Few days of respite ahead were all he needed, not so for me as I had to hurry up to catch a train so much so that the only way to procure the necessary piece of paper was through a conductor on board, just like in the old days. Luckily in Europe those caught without a ticket are given a chance to save face as long as you pay a three Euro Zuschlag (additional payment) to the already unforgiving-ly high prices. My less than a one-hour ride to Munich was something like fifty bucks – welcome to Deutschland!
Smiley Sausages
A quick one-hour sojourn in Munich in wait for my next train to a little dot on the map called Mulhdorf (translated “garbage town” – sort of a Cache Creek really). The railway station visit did not produce much in a way of discovery not counting at least two Starbucks within a hundred yard track. The outfits appeared well attended, counting many a local in the midst of those sold out to bitter beans and large cups. Give it twenty years and one would not even know what it means to consume java in petit cups on dainty saucers.
Once in Mulhdorf, which turned out to be very non-smelly and clean, I delighted to seeing my old Soviet classmate Kolya. Tall and nearly perfectly trim he reminded me of the “good” old days when he outscored, out-shot and out-dribbled anyone in his way– he was just a naturally born athlete. Sure his features got a little pointier and his waist was no longer boyish 30, he still exuded much vigour and energy, and no wonder. After moving to Germany some eight years ago on the strength of his wife’s sketchy Germanic roots, Kolya had to struggle a bit to get used to the foreign environment. In possession of a right sounding name and nearly perfect Teutonic appearance his chances beat anybody from Istanbul or Karachi, and yet the difficult language and somewhat clannish Bavarian culture did not make his life overflow with milk and honey easily.
And since he prefers his wife, Julya, to stay home instead of toiling at some menial jobs, he carries the weight of the family on his shoulders. He usually gets up around 5AM, has a full-blown breakfast replete with thick Bavarian sausages and other locally endowed meat products and leaves for work where he reports at about 6AM. He works as an equipment operator at a large furniture factory. The work is not particularly gruelling but demanding enough, ending at about 3PM – to accommodate local partying habits, I guess. This routine clears somewhere around 2,000E ($3K) per month, which is doable when in possession of cheap rent, fresh air and relatively harmless commute. But this is not enough to exhaust Kolya’s daily energies. So as soon his shift is over, Kolya is all about tending to his small used car lot. Having bought this location from a previous owner, Kolya manages to coax enough business out of the place to get 1,500E per month extra. This of course makes his life rather uncomfortable since his only day off is Sunday with the rest of the week packed between two jobs, sausages and necessary sleep.
“Gruss Gott!” – A perfectly normal greeting in this neck of the woods was nevertheless puzzling as it was Zhenya, Kolya’s daughter who greeted me rather cheerfully in the local vernacular. She, having lived most of her life here, has become firmly German in her preferences, just as a bunch of her next door Turkish friends who rode circles around Kolya’s nicely polished BMW Wagon.
Burghausen – Sleeping Beauty
I would have loved to join in to practise my skills, not bicycling of course, but the friendly hosts were waiting with an extraordinary spread of anything travelling Russian soul could ever desire. Add a dreamy Bavarian sunset in the garden setting and you get the picture. This was just a beginning of our festivities, as shortly afterwards we piled up back into the car and drove to Burghausen, a friendly little town on the Austrian border. The town was in the midst of some spring fair with all sorts of rides, attractions and beer. Luckily, the trip into the shrill-filled paradise was postponed till later as our path took us through a magnificent, although mostly deserted, old town. Here the medieval squares scintillated in the dying sunrays of today, glistening with many a bright colour, ornate gable and steep slate roof.
A quick turn from the main square and we were crossing into Austria over the famed river Salz. Here, in the land of funny people (Germans accord much of their anecdotal verve to their South-eastern neighbours) and cheap gas we zigzagged up the hill to discover a magnificent view of a thousand-year old castle snaking along the hill, just above the low-sitting Burghausen. Although just miles from its famous cousin, Salzburg, the place was serene and completely devoid of any foreign interest; it floated lightly as if sitting on the lush clouds of divine, undisturbed and enticing, majestic and yet near. We couldn’t stay away, of course, and after taking few pictures our cavalcade crossed back into Germany. Here we climbed up the precipitous road to the front gate. Inside, the place looked as if just abandoned by its erstwhile defenders save for some unnecessary modern art. It is understandable that modern artists need to eke out a living too, but why desecrate the perfectly fine piece of medieval architecture? Unlike many of its cousins who exhibit a tremendous dearth of space, this was just huge with fortifications stretching for almost a kilometre. Towers, embrasures and sentry boxes were everywhere. But there were not alone as one of the castle centre pieces is a perfectly well preserved torture chamber with all requisite tools of trade, anything to keep faithful in line. Alas, the place was already closed.
PNE – Bavarian Style
After breathing in enough history to inspire deep and worthy reflections, we plunged back into the crowded, half-drunk and jolly atmosphere around the fair. Apart from numerous rides the places paddled thousands of stuffed toys that seemed to be the easiest method to extract money from unsuspecting citizens. It works like this: your child drags you in with incessant requests to play the ball game “Papa, darf ich Ballspiel spielen?” For a donation of few Euros the child is given a small amount of soft play balls. The child attempts to throw those as to knock down as many empty cans or any other useless target as possible. Cans arranged in a pyramidal shape are a pesky target at the unsteady hands of our ten year old. Eventually, few tumble down and the child is rewarded with a cheap stuffed animal. Although a little laborious, ToysrUs stand no chance of competing.
Having played a few rounds of Ballspiel that produced hands full of unnecessary velvety objects we looked into what adults were up to. Right next to the rides and with no transitional warning as to the essence of their activities, the grown up Bavarians were indulging in a gargantuan exercise of excess that left in its wake thousands of empty beer mugs and sausage wrappers. All was taking place in a humongous beer hall that served a couple of thousand patrons at a time. The long rough-hewn tables left no allusion to any privacy inspirations as elbow-tight room presented quite a challenge for overworked waitresses and their patrons in lederhosen. The very act of serving beer was worthy of Circe de Soleil, since even the tiniest servers lugged along with up to twelve one-litre steins at a time plus sausages; and all this under a thick cloud of smoke and through carousing crowds of revellers. At one end of the spectacle, they had a stage with a jolly band thrashing about their favourite Bavarian tunes. Some of the band members appeared just as inebriated as the crowd with few rhythmically shaking their heads like drunken satires. Quite a few folks had enough and jumped on their tables to step-dance along their version of country music. The NSDAP (Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartai) was born on one such noisy beer halls back in 1920s. Small moustaches were all the rage then.
Pigs – the last Hurrah!
I was most entertained while Kolya and Julia remained cautious about the beer excesses. Kolya was especially leery about the bigger brother of the event – Oktoberfest. The bacchanalian World Cup, as it turns out, usually attracts not only the biggest of partiers but also the craftiest of thieves. Besides in the later years it has become a heavy tourist trap stripping away some pure authenticity. In other words Oktoberfest is a waste of time other than for “done that” check-mark. I did not dispute as we drove back to rest our wheels and leave the car in its deserving double-decker garage that housed twice as many cars for its size when compared with our Canadian building codes. Boy, those Germans really know how to save what is not supposed to be wasted.
My jet lag and excitement of the reunion did not let me sleep for hardly more than an hour before Kolya’s 5AM wake-up jolted me into the reality of cheap airline travel. I was ready in minutes, but “hold your horses”. Kolya was about to serve a full-blown sausage breakfast with a verve and pride of a doting mother. The breakfast specimens specifically procured the night before for the occasion did not look all that appetizing in their oily brown skin in the best of times. At 5AM they looked positively vial. And yet Kolya would not give in, he hovered and served, shoving all possible and mostly nocturnal condiments up to my nose. Horse radish, mustard and some other aromatic crap nearly made me gag if not for the obligation to acknowledge his great hospitality. Finally stuffed, we departed, navigating along the serene hills of Upper Bavaria. What a wonderful country, but what to do with the blasted sausages?!
Latin Transition
Saying good-bye I felt a tinge of sadness. After all it is not all that often that I get a chance to reunite with my old friends. Oh well “c’est la vie”, through the pristinely clean halls of the Munich airport and into the gloomy Parisian morning replete with foreboding skies. I had to quickly re-tune from German to French. Leaving German newspapers behind on my seat, I was already clutching a fresh version of glistening and utterly shallow Paris Match- anything to spice up my bland arrival in Orly, dingy and old airport. I wanted an immediate escape. The place offered a bus and a train. Saving something like five bucks I inevitably fell for the bus without forgetting to procure a ten-ticket carnet for the Metro, the most efficient mode of paying for your rides here. By the way, the ticket office ticket here also offered a myriad of Paris cards that included museum entries and more. A great deal for some these might be a complete waste for others – research well before buying.
The suburbs, while inspiring the best in Bourgeois living of North America with its gaping craters of civilization in the inner cities, serve a completely different clientele here. Sure there are some tranquil spots away from the city-centre just as well, but for the most part the folk that cannot afford elsewhere lives here. Occasional riots, much graffiti, plethora of rusting cars amidst massive housing projects with windows covered in laundry lines are common. Green spaces and gentility reserved for elsewhere as amply seen on my bus ride along the city perimeter. Prepared, I did not despair and was soon rewarded by more than amiable surroundings of Montparnasse.
Diving into the crowded and dingy Paris Metro I was nearing my target. Surely, the invention of the underground transit has proven to be phenomenally useful in increasing liveability of great cities. Paris Metro in no exception. However, do not be misled by the intricate entrance Art Nuveau lattice work. Inside, it is just an unattractive warren of stuffy tiled hallways that barely keep above the daily grime of the commuter multitudes. It is just that the Metro and not a place to linger in admiration save for a couple of newer lines that employed driver-less and air conditioned cars – just like Skytrain. The midsummer heat waves are the deadliest, as at one point last July they registered plus forty five Celsius on the platform, and that is without a single whiff of a breeze.
The Boulevard des Barbes, at the bottom of Sacre Couer, plunged me right into the midst if a Saturday morning market squished under the elevated Metro tracks and spilling over into the street, much to the chagrin of petulant and visibly irritated drivers. It was a crowd of truly Babylonian proportions with sellers and buyers mingling in the whizzing beehive of activity. Fake designer watches, fake designed bags and authentic Arab Kebabs filled my senses to the brim. The most popular item – untaxed and thus illegal Marlborough cigarettes looked particularly familiar, reminding of my grim Soviet past. I just wanted to escape into my cubby hall of an apartment. This simple wish appeared harder to reach than previously thought. When told that my apartment was on the forth floor “Quantrieme Etage”, I was lulled into dreams of a quick ascent. No so fast, as the Parisian reality revealed it as a sixth floor pad hiding on a top of a twisty hardwood staircase. Entirely out of breath and vigour, I barely gained altitude past peeling walls and rickety doors that have not seen a renovation since the last Great War.
The place itself was a fitting match for the neighbourhood – two small rooms plus suspect plumbing revealed the best Paris had to offer about eighty years ago. Fortunately, the bedroom overlooked a tiny courtyard and not the street as I was assured some relative peace. My host in her mid-thirties showed me around the dusty details of the patch that came at a very affordable 60E per night plus your very own Internet with a French keyboard (pain in the ass for uninitiated). Every piece of furniture looked rickety and stuffed to the brim with hand bags and hats, hats (!) – after all I was in Paris. The TV came with six or seven channels flanked by a fake fireplace and a funky bathtub that needed to be half-filled to drain properly. Shortly my host left and I was about to take much needed soak, oh horror – where is the toilet!? Frantic sweep of the place revealed a toilet hiding in a nook between the kitchen and the front door. Surely, Europeans have much better ideas of separation between tub and dump, but taking it that far might give one a heart attack! Had I been Borat…
My Little Ghetto
After a short rest I re-emerged into my new neighbourhood sporting my running gear. I wanted to explore, and fitting in as a health conscious local seemed like a good idea. I was a little too hasty perhaps. From one block to another there was hardly anyone with the same salubrious intentions. Instead, the neighbourhood was much preoccupied with daily life on the fringe of the white society. Instead of endorphins the place was hopping on African braids saloons, Halal meat shops and cell phone outlets paddling any imaginable mobile service under the sky. The streets were just swimming in folks brandishing a plethora of African and Arabic dialects, pungent fruit stalls and cheap shoal stands with ripped awnings and cracked windows. I have seen a place like that before but where? Oh yah, the Upper Manhattan in mid 90s looked just like it except it served mostly Puerto Rican and not Tunisian. Here, where a call from public phone booth required shouting regardless of connection, I felt uncomfortably at home.
Styling in spandex up the steps leading to Sacre Couer felt liberating and almost rarefied, as with every new step away from the my “favourite” Boulevard des Barbes the make up of the inhabitants and their apparent economic conditions changed faster than I could take another breath until the back approaches to the hollowed spot revealed upscale apartments, out of this world cottages and even a vineyard tended by the cherishing hands of tradition keepers. It could have been miles away from the cell phone shops and yet it was no more than a five minute run up the hill. My new neighbours must have been very bad climbers.
Around the church, erected for the atonement of anything sinful of the French past, milled thousands of unburdened tourists gawking at the unprecedented beauty of sweeping Parisian views and magnificent white (or nearly white thanks to pollution) stones of the Basilica itself. These are amazing and foreign, they breeze exotica and no wonder since, unlike the multitude of Gothic, Classical and Romanesque creations below, this one was built in a style entirely eastern at the time when enlightenment and brotherly love were all the rage. Exhausted by nearly hundred years of political unrest, regicide and international wars with pitiful results that were viewed as Godly curses on the nation, the citizens decided to show their repentance with panache worthy of memory. Today, I do not know about memory by panache remains, no doubt.
On the descend I checked a couple of typical restaurants with much wine and slow table turnover. My inspection was worth a shot since I found a few “only French” types that just make your day – large foreheads, crooked noses and long sunburns – pure and conquering features worthy of the famous Corsican himself. In general, I have to say that people watching in Paris is just priceless so grab your seat and feast your eyes. I, to the contrary, was all anticipation with food was on my mind. Watch out!
Checking out the local supermarket revealed little of notice except to say that French cannot compete with Germans on milk products and the reverse happens as soon as one wants to partake in anything liver – “yam” or with wings like cans containing half well-pressed goose. These containers were emphatically large and popular. Stuffing on some super tender cod liver, overpriced apples and Dutch! cheese my head was back in order. What a sacrilege and so contrary to Rick! But truthfully, why chomp on some pungent mouldy crap when Dutch make it so soft, idyllic and even herbal. Upon leaving the place I encountered my super Left friends with their leaflets announcing their determination to fight to the bitter end in the upcoming Parliamentary elections. Having lost the presidency to Mr. Sarkozy of “Extreme Droit”, the “Extreme Gauche” were looking for their revenge. Many around, studying the leaflets, seemed to agree – Mr. Sarkozy deserved a spanking! Who cares if he had been in power for just mere two weeks? In fact, judging by the number of competing election posters, not many Parisians were in the pocket of the Right save for the poshest areas that included Rue Cler and environs. Rick, what’s up with promoting right wing enclaves? Your Seattle friends might not appreciate.
Elusive Jews
For now I had other fish to fry as according to Jack, I had a chance to catch up with the Avi Snyder, my old Jews for Jesus friend. Leading the work of the organization in Europe, he closely overseas Germany and also keeps fingers on the pulse of other locales including Paris. This weekend Avi was travelling to Paris for a short executive meeting. I thought what’s the heck and call. No luck this time. For all I knew he could have already left Paris. A truly Pauline missionary, Avi does not care for sightseeing or lingering of any kind. After a couple of answering machine hang-ups, I decided to find the Jews for Jesus location just for orientation if not for nothing else. Finding the place was not difficult since its location invariably pointed to Marais, a very Jewish neighbourhood. Jews for Jesus do not usually shy from controversy and it showed.
Now, apart from few very touristy streets, the rest of the district did not elicit much in a way of any particular ethnicity other than French. The Jews for Jesus was just a front among many. A local real estate office displays beamed sky-high prices, open seafood extravaganza did not spare on their contra-Torah shrimp opulence and ubiquitous posters competed to show every possible face angle of the defeated presidential candidate – Segolene Royal, the female. Pretty and smart, she lost much due to those astute female voters who all too often tend to mistrust their own, especially when it comes to presidency – a strictly male post so far in the French history.
Suddenly, amidst my Segolene photographing revelries I came upon the famed Promenade Vert – a two mile stretch of green space on old elevated train tracks – ingenious. Once on top you are all of a sudden detached from much of the street noise, cars and shopping distractions. Now you can almost relax and contemplate – an old, rarely used concept.
The Promenade Vert ends nearly at Bastille with its Opera House that extirpates any last memories of the infamous prison whose siege in July 1789 laid down a red carpet for advances of the French revolution. Now, with advances complete, the square is a busy epicentre of anything that sings and dances. This gives much fertile ground to food establishments catering to pre, during and after crowd, just like the various teachings of the tribulation eschatology. Predictably it is all very busy so be careful not to be overrun by pesky Parisian traffic consisting of undersized cars, diminutive chainsaws and super-sized egos. Through a cafe crowd of leisurely lounging pensioners I rushed into presumably quieter reaches of Marais.
Not so fast, finding tranquil Paris might still be possible but not in Marais. Antlike activities are rife with two-legged creatures covering any inch of the ground. Even the exclusive Bourbon feel of the Place des Vosges had dust on its ermine. Here, the prideful and sufficiently stupid Luis XIII (his statue really) did not flinch as if in the complete oblivion of being surrounded by peaceful picnickers rather than by brave and half-inebriated Les Mousquetaires.
My quest to find a Jew among the jubilant crowds was still pending. I was not the only one in the company of many clutching Rick’s material for life guidance. Somewhere between Rue Payene (heathen) and Rue Rosier I spotted a wide black hat and whiskers. “Few” I was relieved, there were Jews in Paris after all. A little further down the street more signs bespoke of their existence – Yiddish cafes with spreads to remind one of his childhood, dusty book stores, a crowded Jerusalem falafel shop and a synagogue. This kaleidoscope of sights and super-thin Parisians were making me decidedly dizzy. I flopped down, squished between-spindly legged locals, to suck on a bottle of Heineken and a cigarillo. Besides needing rest before my next adventure, I eavesdropped on my tight neighbours’ French and delighted in some second hand smoke – cozy!
Paris Saint Germaine – Lesson on Undying Love
Getting to Parc des Princes to catch the season finale of the woeful Paris St. Germain (PSG) was long but simple - just follow anyone with red and blue scarf around their neck. A walk from the Metro station beckoned with much history along the street named after the venerable Jules Rimer. This dude was the president of FIFA in the swinging 20s. Imbued by general enthusiasm of rising stock markets and a chance to snub the game inventors, the English, he and his cohorts organized the very first World Cup of 1930 in Uruguay of all places. Predictably English alongside few others refused to participate and the triumphant Uruguayans lifted the trophy named after the scheming president. Quickly Jules Rimes trophy became the most coveted of them all - please do not listen to those Stanley Cup tales. People outside of Canada do not even suspect that it exists while the “Nike” (another name of the trophy) has claimed the passions of billions for generations. Made out of pure gold, the molten statuette represented the ancient Greek goddess of victory and was up for grabs only nine times as the third world title claimed by Brazil in 1970 took it away forever as bequeathed by the crafty Jules. Hoisted by tearful Pele the “Nike” disappeared into history only to be stolen from the headquarters of the Brazilian FA in the 80s. It was never found…
“Cherche le place! Cherche le place” screams greeted anyone approaching the stadium. “Oh, good – scalping season is in a full swing”, I was not going to have any problems finding tickets. My competitive juices wanted to flow but my splitting headache did not agree. As such I quickly settled for a 5E discount from the total of 55E in the centre stand. I could have bought some cheaper issues at 36E but their location was not as promising. Seat hopping did not look all that inviting either, as surprisingly many came to see the game. The team sat pretty close to the bottom in the standings and yet these guys refused to give up – an admirable lesson on undying love!
After a jaunt to the cash machine with an Angels’ looking scalper I climbed the revered steps that saw the French triumph at the Euro 1984 with Michel Platini scoring the decisive free kick against the Portuguese. I still remember that moment as vividly as it happened yesterday – Portuguese goalie diving for a sure save only to see the ball slowly seep through his hands and over the line! Triumph and heartbreak – all in one…
The stadium was nearly full despite the meaninglessness of the encounter. The stands were swinging in unison of colours, scarves and fireworks that exploded into a huge firewall right after the start of the game. An awesome sight for the fearless visiting fans fenced off in a huge cage to stay alive and for a good reason since this stadium knows many a tragedy one taking place just earlier this season when a cop was killed in a mini-riot.
All was peaceful and yet ardent with emotion in my sector. A couple of two nice Asian boys next to me were just as Parisian and any of them, jumping up and down in their passionate outbursts of happiness, anger and anything in between. Earlier in the going, the locals failed to capitalize on their chances time after time. Their leading striker, Portuguese Pauleta, was one of the culprits trying to be too cute with the ball more than once.
“C’est Portugais avec son technique!!!” my Asian neighbours were white with outrage, fingers flailing, Italian-like.
Suddenly, Les Troyes, the visitors, scored with an audacious shot from some twenty five yards crowning a brilliant play in the best Latin traditions. The entire stadium went as quiet as cemetery brunch toast. “Hopefully the second half would bring better results” I wished earnestly. The rows after rows of fans turned their backs to the pitch and started a unique, snake looking, wave, making the surrounding concrete appear totally alive, simmering in passion of the last sunrays of the day.
The wave must have helped and the second half finally brought the results everybody was looking for. First Pauleta converted an undisputed penalty and shortly thereafter he doubled with a strike that looked suspiciously like an offside from my angle. The opposition defenders rushed the assistant with tempers flaring. The cool ref would have none of it. And yet no yellow cards emerged as he exclusively relied on his mouth. Few minutes later, a couple of rivals did their version of a hockey jersey dance and yet not even a single yellow. The ref was cooler than snow and his firm talk-down sufficed once again. I thought he was the true star, but that’s ref talk as the stands sang “Pauleta! Pauleta!”
At the final whistle, happy crowds filed down Jules Rimes to the upbeat tunes of past glories and future rivalries. Roma friends can’t stand Lazio, Manchester United supporters despise the City and what do you think they hate in Paris – Marseille (!), just about the furthest geographic point on the map. No matter how far, Marseille is never far away for PSG fans. On the ride back, I learned that a good whack of all chants that dealt exclusively with Marseille – “Marseille! Marseille! Attends Nous! Marseille! Marseille! Attends Nous!” – was my momentary lullaby.
Chasing D’Artagnan
The next sunrise announced a switch from momentary burdens of modern sports to burdens eternal, the ones that come with Sunday mass. My track was towards the much vaunted organ of St. Sulpice. Extolled by Rick and hiding in upper crust quarters near Luxemburg Gardens, the visit was unavoidable. Emerging from the Metro, I was immediately awash in history – a block away from the presumed location of the De Treville Hotel. Messieur De Treville, a fearless leader of his drunken Les Mousquetaires was as much a doting patron and as a skilful courtier who participated in many an intrigue, emerging a victor on quite a few occasions. These days court has moved from the Louvre to the Champs Elysees Palace and Rue Vieux-Colombier bears no mention of the Hotel, so volatile and forgetful our history tends be, a pity.
Oh, the Mass, I was late of course with Danny, the organ player, long gone from his perches leaving the place in the near lifeless darkness. I lingered a bit, pondering a stained-glass window or two, sort of in a Code De Vinci mode. There, on the bulletin board my eyes darted from a large apologetic piece vis-à-vis the most fashionable novel to an innocent looking announcement – there was to be a concert with a choir and an organist in two hours – brilliant! The treat was partaken with stultified determination of a part-time connoisseur. The singers strained and ringed their best in a pure amateur delirium, I skipped on suggested donations box and the organ player, not Danny but a visitor from Stuttgart, took a bow from his nook but his stairs remained closed for foreign intruders. Rick would have been dismayed so do not sleep in on Sundays. I was nearly complete, nearly.
A mere fifty yards from St. Sulpice I located Rue Cervandoni. Much like Rue Vieux-Colombier, the history has forgotten it’s most famous even if fictional occupant – D’Artagnan, the precocious forth of the Three Les Mousquetaires. Now, even the street name Cervandoni is a new one. I guess the Parisians are not too keen on fictional characters and after all who could blame them since the city has witnessed a really nutty parade of true life personages throughout its existence. To my relief I did locate an old building corner that was scraped off to reveal the previous and very dear name to me – Rue Fossoyers (Gravedigger Street). Yes, they used to have cemeteries all around here but then the real estate got kind of pricey and so the skulls were removed into numerous catacombs, leaving some freshly dug holes for many a developing pleasure – our Vancouver construction lights must be cringing in envy about all that unused cemetery space.
Enlighted Splendours
One of the earlier improvements that took place on this end of Seine was the Luxemburg Gardens developed for their royal highnesses. Later, with sovereigns melting into history now only the public remains and these Parisian goers adore their green space, so refreshing and cozy in the midst of anything above twenty Celsius. Apart form the main palace turned museum, the rest is just a well-maintained public green space with a nook for everybody, common or knighted. The western end is in the firm possession of devout and ferocious chess players – just try to observe a game of speed chess, much fun even for the uninformed. Closer to the central fountain high-tension chess yields to tranquility. Here one finds modern public art, curious and very funky, tennis courts with occasional displays of high mastery and crowds of Sorbonne students leisurely enjoying their off class time - stomping, laying and cavorting on the publicly maintained grass with their super-sized mid-day baguettes and undersized pants, t-shirts and bras – have I mentioned that Parisians are about half our size?
Sure, a good diet, much walking and the prolific public transit must be some of the reasons. The others who knows? Culture definitely plays a role. In my particular view it is the real estate and the general cost of living. When a landlord can rent you, with an innocent straight face of an innocuous child, a maisonette apartment at 350E per month for less than 90 (ninety) square feet of total space, and when a trendy tiny cup of cappuccino can fetch 6E for a middle of the road (literally) establishment and when an average Parisian take home pay is hardly much above 2,000E – one starts wondering how this people remain alive at all!
Past the thinning into nothingness and exclusively white Sorbonne students, I re-entered the world on the other end of the Gardens, facing the pompously classic outlines of Pantheon. No, not that one in Rome, just a modern copy as Gauls were a tad too late to claim their supremacy over precocious Romans. Modern French, as “rightful” inheritors of the mighty Latins, finished their work with contemporary flair and purpose. While the religiously minded conquerors of the ancient world erected their marvel to house the gods, the enlightened and godless nineteen century French other gods in mind – human ones – Voltaire, Hugo and Zola, a very literally company – care to read my blog? It does not end there since Romans charge you nothing to see timeless art and even the tomb of Rafael himself, Parisians charge you hefty 7.50E and do not blink. Oh yea, I think their throw in an audio guide and all for the price that could nearly fetch you whole day at the timeless Louvre - voila.
If you are in the area and feel particularly cheap, try calling on the St. Etienne Sur Mont – a timeless jewel immediately behind and to the right when facing the Pantheon. Here they not do not charge admission and even throw a few daily Masses into the already unique architectural mosaic topping at a mind-boggling criss-crossing staircase straight in the middle of the cosy and well-lit nave. Just imagine contemplating an eternal sounds of organ wafting through the most intricate and yet well-preserved stone carvings dating back centuries. What a tedious piece of work it must have been. Just imagine all that incessant whittling. It was painful just to think of it, I felt as if standing in front the most sizable and gaudy golden altar of all – Seville Cathedral. But it is another story and so if you are feeling overfed with delights and in need of some fresh air, just poke outside to see a wedding procession (on Saturdays) or an occasional soccer game with some participants paying more attention to their cell phones than to the ball. The most typical sights though are those ubiquitous Sorbonne students milling about in their simple but latest fashions, exhibiting all possible signs of advanced anorexia and deep-seeded racism. I would dare anyone to find some representation of minorities here – mere drips. And this is not for the lack of trying but rather a tribute to numerous integration issues that give rise to much bad rap and few suburban riots. Governmental policies are not the only culprits here as there is much innate outsider distrust still lingers behind the admission standards and other things we take for granted in the Canadian nirvana.
Enthused by fresh observations and general fatigue I couldn’t help but swipe out a cigarillo with a diminutive cup of cappuccino at nine dollars zero zero cents Canadian. Setting a record for a cup of java I felt a need to linger under the characteristic Parisian awnings for an extra half an hour, just to get my money’s worth if anything else. A good dose of Les Trois Mousquetaires and many attractive pedestrians made it for an easy time kill. “There are billions of people living on less than few bucks a day” amply manifested an outdoor photograph exhibition just across the street. My coffee solace felt guilty and slightly sick. A walk down to the Latin Quarter would do…
Pious Sunday
Past the famed and original Odeon theatre now offering life theatre productions I arrived right at the famed corner where Boulevard St. Germain pauses to acknowledge an ancient church of St. Germain des Pres. This welcoming beacon of faith called to help my trouble soul, in Spanish this time. The service (catholic) at first went along its usual route with petals and wine. Later, it got a little livelier with well pronounced Latino beats, amateurish but enthusiastic choir and friendly old ladies on the welcome duty. Cognisant of the need to improve my French rather than Spanish I refrained from waiting for the conclusion of the proceedings, filing back into the rain slashing across heaps of cheap touristy merchandise and many a restaurant chair in want of customers. Minus the rain, the Latin Quarter was as unbeatable as ever for its cheap, market like, offerings of trinkets and food. Any kind and at prices that beat out the competition hands down, even in the poorer areas let alone the posh nooks around Champs Elysees and Boulevard des Capucines. Besides food, I came upon a whole row of used book stores that peddled anything under the sun. Mostly French editions were simply irresistible and certainly dirt cheap. One could really enjoy the customers who stomp around with fever of a shark feeding frenzy. I nearly got eaten.
Escaping past the famed fountain of St. Michel that reminds many as a gathering point of local malcontents astride centuries, I skated out right out to the middle of no less noticeable Pont Neuf. Conceived under the magnanimous reign of Henry IV and finished by the dutiful efforts of his son, Luis XIII, the bridge carries a very special distinction of witnessing the fateful encounter between our brash D’Artagnan and hardly any more level-headed Count Buckingham, the First Minister of the Crown under the Bible thumbing King James. Unlike his sovereign, Count Buckingham did not follow the key eternal precepts and instead followed his carnal instincts of seducing other men’s wives – Anne of Austria in this case. Had she been anything less than a king’s consort and had our mousquetaire succeeded in challenging the First Minister to a duel, the whole course of history could have turned out differently, I suppose. But it did not. Count Buckingham remained alive for a bit longer and a whole bunch of Huguenots in La Rochelle paid for it dearly – all thanks to Buckingham’s fierce rivalry with His Great Eminence, Cardinal Richelieu.
Imbued with heavy thoughts I decided to answer the pleading Sunday peals of Notre Dame. On the way, taking a sharp right turn at Pont Neuf, I came upon the true gem of class and sudden tranquility - the Place de Dauphine. It exuded such a surreal feeling of calm amidst the Parisian cacophonous traffic and set a true tone of tasteful exclusivity that I had to pose despite the annoying drizzle that drove most of the surrounding humanity indoors. Here, a triangle of buildings housing cute restaurants, chic galleries and undoubtedly pricey apartments faced each other through some unexpected greenery of a little park with serene benches and a chance to relax – highly recommended, weather permitting.
The Mass at Notre Dame was well-attended and televised in the latest technological fashions. Flat screens mounted all over the ancient walls beamed out the services conducted in the best of old traditions. I moved in closer not trusting the Japanese technology as much as my own eyes. The reward was tangibly entertaining as from a close side-view the priest appeared levitating behind his pulpit. The mesmerising effect was made possible on the account of a nearly invisible vignette of a staircase, creating a truly miraculous illusion. Maybe we should try something like this in our church? Attendance might just increase.
La Mere
The next morning I was on my way to welcome the Mother on the French soil. Refreshed by a morning jog that revealed no akin sporting souls among thousands of frazzled commuters, I was enthusiastic about an airport train ride through the suburbs. My bus ride from Orly was educational; I hoped that the view from the rails on the way to CDG (Charles de Gaulle) was going to be equally informing. Unpleasantly surprised by a high one-way fare of 8E I was on my way in a jiff as Gare du Nord sends trains out to CDG with remarkably high frequency; just do not count on using your North American credit cards in the vending machines - line-up or bring cash.
The Parisian suburbs from the tracks did not reveal many pleasantries. Predictably, the further from Paris we got the drearier the sights became with many a caved-in wall or a created roof. Here France did not look one bit appealing – what would the hordes of foreign visitors think? Could our own Lotus Land be a beneficiary (?) – I somehow doubt it, as hordes still streaming unabated to the marvel on Seine from every possible angle and in every possible way.
Once disgorged in the vast airport my travails were not done since Terminals 2A or 2B or 2C seemed miles apart in a regular walking world. Hastened up by emotions of a remorseful son, I nearly ran to compensate for my usual tardiness. Luckily, the Mother was completely at peace with transatlantic travel behind her. She was just there, waiting behind her piled up cart completely unperturbed.
Tireless and sprightly despite the age and the lack of sleep, the Mother was utterly excited to start her Parisians explorations at a neck-breaking pace as her mouth threatened to break any and all possible records.
“C’est ne pas tranquil la-bas”, a soldier brandishing some very automatic weaponry barred the access to the railway station escalator. Crowds were growing by the second. “What could it possibly be?” I mused silently.
“Bang! Bang!” two consecutive deafening shots rang out from the platform below.
“Sounds like AK-47!” somebody exclaimed in utter exhilaration.
“Better find a bus or something” I quickly retreated to the rear in the best Red Army traditions. Finding a quick escape out of the welcoming clutches of French reality seemed like a solid pretext. Packing my own AK-47 was quickly becoming very advisable and yet elusive. I did not have one and messing with folks who had looked a little chancy – “Welcome to Paris” in other words.
Amazingly, the station re-opened within half an hour. Crowds rushed in to elbow each other as if on the way to Paradise. Yellow tape barely managed to preserve the scene of disorder with strewn-about luggage and an apparent lack of blood – shucks! Whoever it was in the cross hairs, the one behind the trigger was not a particularly good shot. The victimless scene quickly merged with the quickly departing past and getting to town was becoming a priority. So much was the need to askew any form of contemplation or patience that even as a new platoon of armed to their teeth soldiers did not make as much as a squeak. The folk could not care less and the ticket machines became instant beneficiaries of universal attention. Lacking cash and not willing to line-up for a live clerk performance, we skimped on the expensive fare to Paris and boarded the train at half price - a welcome if not a risky turn of circumstances. With vengeful conductors failing to appear we were back in the crazy swirl of Montmartre in no time.
No Time to Lose
Upon arrival and with hardly any rest Mother decided to soldier on despite the heat – after all it was Paris. The first stop of the day was of course Eiffel Tower, one of the best and certainly the most famous observation site. We were not the only ones of that opinion and unwelcoming crowds awaited our appearance. Reluctantly establishing our place in the local pecking order I strayed to research other, possibly faster, ascension options. Sure, right at the next entrance there was no line-up and prices were half ours. I rubbed my unbelieving eyes for a better view - it did not come with an elevator.
Despite the overall heroics, Mother was not in the mood for more walking and opted for stay. Now, driven by escalating prices and Rick’s advice we decided to pick the second of the three levels. After thirty minutes or so we were herded into a sweaty elevator that barely stopped at the first level as everyone else wanted to go higher, to the second level at least. There most adventurous and wealthy clients were to take a separate elevator all the way to the windy top. Given the nonchalance of the ticket clerks at the first level I regretted not beating the system (buy first level tickets to go higher) – feel free to use the advice. By the way on the way down nobody checked the tickets, period, so any walkers could easily cool their heels at not charge – very tempting…
As far as the views, second level is plenty as its height lets one to see just about everything in good perspective and sufficient detail. Mother was enchanted by the simplicity of Paris sightseeing – all relatively compact and well-marked, with only few gems finding enough refuge as to evade binoculars of the curious. Among the usual suspects here was the golden basilica dome where tired and hardly successful bones of Napoleon found their resting place. France is one of the few non-dictatorial jurisdictions that value so highly the price of useless vanity and outright failure. Sure Napoleon was not of the faint heart or of small ideas, but the dismaying fruits of his labours could have deserved a different memory. As such, the Fifth Republic adores its hero, the dictator. George Bush should take heart and wait for his own historical verdict. Maybe they will give him his own basilica one day.
Mother was enchanted. Now, an hour before meeting her old Ukrainian friend and her daughter with a boyfriend by another tower, the tower of Montparnasse, we had a bit of time to enjoy one of the more secluded and enjoyable neighbourhoods around the vaunted and less than typical Rue Cler. Nestled right in between Les Invalides and Tour d’Eiffel, the posh neighbourhood retains an unprecedented-ly calm face despite daily thousands roaming about in search of sights and entertainment. So undisturbed the ambiance that one can easily observe many a local by plentiful sandy park patches at their favourite pastime - Petanque, a South French variety of bacchii. Here unlike in other spheres of life, French exhibit a knack for character playing with heavy metal balls (uncovered) and much gusto. The players tend to be older with comfortable socialist pensions, well-worn pants and all too warm berets. The pensioners are not alone as 10% unemployment also produces a side benefit of young blood willing to enter the fray. Enjoy, linger, observe, snap some pictures and exhale amidst midday tourist exhaustion – just great!
Friendly Geniuses
ses After an impromptu confusion caused by zealous Metro map makers, we finally arrived at the Tower of Montparnasse to meet our friends. They were in full force – a unilingual Ukrainian Vita, her multilingual daughter Viola and her very Quebecois boyfriend Nicholas. Finally, I got to meet the locals, or the closest thing to it. The introduction quickly split the group into two generations. English mixed with some French was the language of one while Russian prevailed in another – splendid.
After a brief orientation we brusquely moved in the direction of St. Germaine as Montparnasse was a little less palatable with its mountain of concrete, steel and glass called the Montparnasse Tower. You just cannot miss the place, that’s how obnoxious it looks. And yet it has benefits as it delivers some superb views rivalling those of Tour d’Eiffel from its top observation deck at a lower price - might be worth a visit. Besides it is a prime suicide jump-off. Some still occur despite tight security. The last victim flew right by Viola’s window since she works in the tower. Luckily, she did not notice and was spared some of the ensuing gore.
On the walk to St. Germaine we made some inroads into personal stories.
“I was born and raised in Quebec, not far from Quebec City. Have you been?” said Nicholas (pronounced Nicholya). He appeared to be a very mild and pleasant sort of chap. “Very thoughtful” some would say.
“Yea, beautiful place” I reciprocated. “And then what”
“Then I went to Chicago (University of Chicago) to get a doctorate” Nicholas reported meekly.
“Doctorate in what?”
“Math” replied he ever evenly.
“Math!” I was getting that small feeling. When people get their doctorates in a subject I can remotely understand it is OK. But math (!) here ninety-nine point nine percent of folks do not even understand what the problem is, let along trying to offer a solution. Amazing! I was awestruck and had to proceed slowly as not to stumble into some basic intellectual pitfalls.
Nicholas was the accommodation itself, explaining that despite his much enlarged cranium life was not that simple after all. Contrary to the famous Lesser-Fair pronouncements of Milton Friedman who chaired the economics department of Nicholas’ Alma Mater, my new friend’s super competitive credentials did not seem to deliver much in a way of tangible monetary results. It turns out that the world these days is very keen not only on Wolf-Eat-Wolf just in time Chinese manufacturing (some lead anyone?) but also on Fish-Munches-Fish academic employment. Here, unlike during its glorious past, it takes years and years of search for a permanent spot. Temp work is not a problem. You research, mark and teach but getting tenure, not so fast... At least you are called an “adjunct professor” as opposed to just “temp”.
After six years in Chicago, Nicholas moved on to some university in Amsterdam, where while attending one of the conferences, he met Viola – the soon-to-be doctor herself. The romance sparked and some time thereafter Nicholas arrived in Paris to work in the University of Versailles. Temporary of course, the posting provided much needed proximity to his gifted girlfriend and rather rhythmic work schedule that does not seem to send him on long train rides to the Luis XIV neighbourhood all that often – very convenient.
After prodding his economic inclinations, which (oh, horror!) somewhat deviated from the placid postulates of Mr. Friedman, I felt comfortable enough to prod further into the world of current politics in general and right wing Mr. Sarkozy in particular. Here my expectations of a deep-seeded socialist spirit were defeated on the account of Nicholas’ fairly stringent views on French immigration problems.
“Lack of desire to assimilate is the crux of the issue” he volunteered humbly
“But what about the innate French racism?” I persisted
“A much smaller problem” he concluded calmly. I knew I was defeated, for now at least. The arrival at the sunlit Notre Dame provided a good break. Magically scintillating in the pink evening skies, the ancient edifice called for a few posing moments including the ones behind the edifice, in the park amidst fresh spring roses – a very soulful sort of locale.
Being with the regulars definitely had its benefits as one was forced to pay attention to some perhaps more obscure and yet hardly any less worthy sights. The Paris Mairie is one of them. Plunked near the majestic Louvre, hemmed in by busy Seine and wrestled by the brat of an upstart, George Pompidou, the majestic edifice tends to be easily missed despite its soaring architecture, opulent front square and striking red flower arrangement gracing just about any window. Built in the best traditions of French Renaissance, the building is worthy for a snap if not a whole moment of contemplation since a number of French revolutionaries including those of the 1871 Commune found their first and last refuge within its walls.
At this point everyone seemed to be getting hungry to the point of faintness. Alas, the Mairie did not attract much in a way of affordable food and our feet inevitably led us to the spacey ugliness of the Pompidou Centre. Erected in the worst traditions of the 80s avant-garde, it reminds of a cheap plastic play cube dropped, forgotten and buried in the flawless English garden by an ungrateful toddler. More than many, imbued with preferences for perfection, share my sentiments and yet this alien object thrives, attracts and even creates. Aficionados of modern art, skateboard revellers and regular folks in search of food, beer and good time teem here like bees on honeycomb.
We promptly found a modern looking place right on its steps. Cold, cuby and pricey, it fit the bill just so. But who cares, all had a good time recounting stories of life and circumstances. Besides, I ate leftovers and even learned how to order water from tap, an indispensable tool for cheap North American travellers. It is especially useful in places like Latin Quarter where a glass of coke or a bottle of carbonated spring water could easily eat up half of your dinner tab. Well, just remember “l’eau du carafe”.
Retreating with Luis XIV
The next day was our long-awaited trip to Versailles. Armed with Nicholas’ advice to take a train from any station on Rive Gauche such as Musee d’Orsey, we did not have any troubles finding the place. With Rick Steves under my arm, I duly procured Forfait Versailles at 21.5E each. This provided for a round trip ride, access to royal apartments and a couple of other extras. Since the train ticket runs at 6E, the 20E Forfait Versailles without train was a complete rip – avoid at all costs!
And voila, thirty minutes later we were flowing with the rest of humanity right to the doorsteps of the famed residence. The first appearance was not the one I was used to on pictures. That one was on the reversed side, which the ever-suspicious Luis XIV preferred to hide from its subjects, especially the common folk of dusty Paris that he so abhorred. Quickly passing by the myriads of African-born trinket sellers we passed the huge crowds milling by one of the side entrances. The prospects of museum entry did not look entirely pleasing and the lush parks below beckoned with freshness unparalleled. The choice was simple and in few minutes Mother and I were descending down the crunchy gravel paths, along the main garden drag towards the canals. The crowds receded and relaxation set in, luring with ample benches, Greek statutes and non-functioning weekday fountains. Succumbing to jetlag, Mother could not resist pausing for a lunch break near the main lake – a very pleasant idea. The views from the bottom were just as spectacular as the reverse and there was much to contemplate among the ancient alleys approved and ordered by the Man himself. One lucky soul, the caretaker, appeared fortunate enough as to have his humble abode hide right in the middle of this earthly paradise. I wonder what it would be like to catch the very sunrise and walk the dewy paths in complete solitary peace. Hmm, romantic and safe, as no bears have been recently sighted.
On the way back Mother instigated a venture into some side gardens that revealed not only horticultural-ly pleasing and careful landscaping but also many an architectural gem disguised as laconic Grecian temples, sudden bacchanalia of golden baroque and other outdoor phantasmagoria. One of such displays was an outdoor ballroom. This creation so ably melded the golden baroque fountain cascades that descended into a shell-ly pool surrounded by sublime landscaping. The resulting effects were just spellbound-ing. Mother particularly had hard time leaving.
But leave we did, as the Luis XIV apartments were calling. Luckily, the longest line-up turned out to be none other than a bathroom queue. On the check-in through the right door, we received not only a proper x-ray screening but also very helpful sets of multilingual headphones that dispensed useful and plentiful information about the place – just press the right button. I inevitably settled for French while Mother was delighted to discover Russian on the dial. The rest was an exercise in crowd control as we streamed with thousands of other gawking eyes.
The apartments belied their humble name right from the start. Some palace bits were much more than that with the Royal Chapel and Opera crowning the list of everything unexpected and grandiose. When it actually came to the living quarters, multitudes of curious seemed to congregate especially tightly around the bedrooms. Who really cared to scrutinise yet another of the umpteen portraits, chairs or cabinets when chancing to sneak a peak into the private dealings of the great womanizer himself? And yet the man, whose libido could rival that of King Solomon, frequently managed to leave more palatable impressions on his contemporaries and posterity alike. Some even marvelled at his faithful and regular weekly appearances in the chambers of the Queen. Following each such visit the Queen was to be found in the best of moods even as the king still tended to wake up in his own bed – Sun King was a vigorous sort of chap.
Through the Queen Bedroom and newly restored Mirror Hall, we finally arrived at the King Chambers. The crowds pressed, the air hang still with intrigue and the highest volume setting on my headphones struggled to overcome verbally combative Chinese tour guides. Things were getting decidedly hairy. That was what everyone came to see – just like a famous battlefield except this one came with soft furniture.
The fateful bedroom required a wait worthy of Mona Lisa. Finally, faced with unexpectedly smallish reality of a simple double under a protective lush baldachin and smothered in blankets with complicated golden patterns, the life of the great man suddenly looked tiresome and mundane. Sure the door attributing to his many conquests was still there and the décor was as opulent as ever, but these numerous chairs lined up against the wall – surely he did not need that many to carelessly strew his hastily undone outfits. Well, these were not for deposits of worn stockings, they were for his ministers and adjuncts to await his daily risings complete with morning breath, “siege perce” and other very personal and decidedly non-regal details. It was really pitiful that after all these years of running away from Parisian crowds, our dear Luis had to succumb to full-on public exhibitions and a complete lack of private moments. On summation, the affairs of this megalomaniac intertwined so deeply with the matters of the state that the famous “L’etat est moi” does not sound all that presumptuous after all.
Other Malfunctions
Another bedroom that inspired more of colic-y reflections was the one formerly occupied by Maria Antoinette. The clueless German queen was so decidedly out of touch with reality and so engrossed in her architectural fancies at the far end of the lake (Palace of Marie Antoinette - Forfait Versailles works here) that her becoming a helpless fodder for revolutionary malcontents was only natural. They, enraged by common deprivations, had enough and swept the absolutism down the chimney of history, dragging the unfortunate queen away from her Versailles fortress. Her actual capture took place right here in the bedroom, as her highness attempted to run in the last act of utter desperation. The secret passage out of the bedroom was no ruse enough for her hunters. Caught and humiliated, she was paraded to slovenly Paris where she was to spend her remaining days in the anguishing confines of Les Tuleries, her last abode before being dragged to Guillotine.
Spat out back into the sunlight, we were not about to give up. The 21.5E included a 6E ride, 13E visit to the Luis’ apartments leaving an unaccounted quantity of 2.5E. This called for more action. After a couple of erroneous twists about the central courtyard, we located the Dauphine Apartment, with all latest efforts spent nearly exclusively in spite and hardly out of curiosity for all those Forfait Versailles tricks.
The Dauphine much like his apartments was just a painfully shadow of the Son King, his father. Waiting for succession all his life, he died never to taste the sweet wine of absolute power. All was in vain and his much plainer and almost neglected apartments relayed the mood. Surely there was still much ado about the portraits, chandeliers and vases. Hardly anybody came then and not many are coming now. Dreary and cold, you can sit here all day contemplating his bedroom all day undisturbed. Here even the occasional sunrays feel small and uninviting. A floor below his father’s, the Dauphine seemed to have been smothered by an impossible wait. Pity…
Refreshments were needed and promptly found near, in the opposite corner to the overcrowded toilets. Here one can chase a cup of overpriced hot chocolate with much more accessible bathroom visit – a priceless tip. Aside, do not forget to take a look at the ornate Orangerie, buy a trinket from a Zambian man who is about to be chased by local police and get the heck out.
Visiting with Locals, Almost
We certainly had to, as our visit to Viola’s apartment was looming near. Their place was close enough to the centre to qualify as a part of an arrondissement. Whenever booking anything in Paris, if it says “arrondissement number such and such” than it is probably closer than something called “Bois de Bologne”, Drancy or something else without a number. Before partying, a small gift was a good idea. Luckily, a bakery was just around the corner dispensing all sorts of goodies ranging from deliciously individual cheese dogs and simple baguettes to extremely wrought-over cakes and pastries. The place was hopping since the whole neighbourhood turned out for a piece of something soft and loaded with carbs. Nobody was on Atkins and the lack of bulge was quite apparent – what a conundrum...
The apartment housing Viola, Nicholas and her mother visiting from Germany for the week hardly measured 400 square feet and managed to squeeze out a bedroom between a tiny kitchen and diminutive living room that could hardly contain a small futon, TV and a bookshelf. The toilet though was very much separate from the shower in the best of European traditions. The rent went north of 700E. This was not for long as my friends were just about to leave the numbers of arrondissement for an extra 100 square feet and a room for a dinner table serving four. Voila, this is Paris! While rents here could appear half affordable given an average salary of something like 2,000E to 2,500E per month after taxes, the prices of outright ownership are just simply stratospheric. This place, coming apart at the seams due to a simple five-person dinner, could easily fetch 200,000E without blinking at all. And all this for plumbing that would not pass any inspection at home and spots of mould covering the walls. The source of penicillin was so bad here that Viola had to recently dispose of a whole bag of clothing inadvertently stored under her bed for more than average marinating time.
The tasteful dinner in the best traditions of French cooking at the Russian hands that featured crab stuffed avocado and Quebecois chicken delivered more interesting topics. Real estate was on the agenda and Viola was happy to report that this apartment was quite an ample footage offering, since Paris retains a distinction as one of the scarcest landlords in the industrialized world. One local solution here is called a maisonette apartment that typically measures less than 100 square feet, have a bunk bed with the rest fitting somewhere underneath. As far as the rent goes, one would be hard pressed to locate anything like that for less than 300E per month. I have seen some of these places advertised on Internet under the rubric of vacation properties – brrr.
Fed with enough chicken and apartment tales to last for a while we were topped off with a viewing of an apartment door that was neatly tucked in a garbage collector room on the bottom floor. Anything to find a place to live I guess. Viola assured that despite less than glorious entrance the place would go for no less than 150,000E – phenomenal! By the way moving is quite the business here as no one has the skills, wherewithal or trucks to navigate tiny stairways and narrow streets – interested? Hiring the help, Viola was not.
Profitable Thoughts
Meeting a friend far from home is always special. Meeting a fellow hydrite by the steps of Notre Dame is just as exhilarating. Brian, having just quit BCH in exchange for a good island (Vancouver Island) living was on a happy France roundabout when I caught up with him and his wife. Fresh with transatlantic flight exhaustion he was shining with delight that only people of peculiar accents can do. Being an inveterate New Zealander with a very cute sense of humour and a beer belly invariably struck me as irresistible. After a few warm hugs, shakes and chuckles at the local construction guys lugging some pipes with no protective gear or shirts whatsoever (I guess they do not have a Chief Safety Officer) we made some evening plans to catch up with the Champions League final. Breathing with perennial passion for rugby, the brutal sport for gentlemen, Brian had already managed to locate a rugby bar with few TVs, decent beer and Belgium fries high on cholesterol - and this after a mere twelve hours in the place. Sure, soccer, the gentlemen’s sport for the brutes, is nothing to rugby but the given the prominence of the upcoming clash between Liverpool and AC Milan, Brian was only happy to partake.
The Louvre, being one of the largest and most impressive art collections known to history is extremely badly mismanaged. Instead of numerous paintings, statutes and furniture pieces they should exhibit Mona Lisa, a couple of Michelangelo’s marble globs and few other Italians sprinkled with a handful of Flemish, Dutch and Spaniards. I guarantee you that if preserve this line up they could still charge the very reasonable 8.50E per and get at least 90% of the traffic. The rest of the stuff should be packed in creates and shipped all over the world to astonish folks like those in Vancouver where you could charge $20 just for a few Picassos with some Dali on the fringes. This venture could generate gobs of money and yet French persist in their old unyielding and hardly profitable traditions.
To be even more blunt had it not been for poignant and mysterious Giaconda, the must check-mark for any self-respecting tourist, the Louvre would never be what it is. You would need an army to do any harm to the precious Leonardo, the rest you slash, poke and burn almost at will. I am surprised it does not happen more often as there are parts of the exposition where some lunatic could hide for days on cafeteria food and crackers.
Not surprisingly, right from the entrance Mother and I were bombarded with pointy signs leading to the super-super-star exhibit. Trying to be collected and cool in the best intelligentsia traditions, we duly swirled by the Michelangelo(s), by the bust of His Grey Eminence himself – Cardinal Richelieu and few other stony creations. Brushing by ancient Romans and some Greeks, we plunged right into the Italian extravagance of Renaissance. This beautiful art rivals only baroque in the predictability of schemes, amazing technical quality and quick saturation that only rival that of a personal triumph over a two-pound lobster in the middle of an already sumptuous meal. Few Rafael(s) and Botticelli(s) later, we finally turned the corner ending right in the middle of the mob scene in front of the Numero Uno. Things have changed since my last visit some ten years ago. Now the painting occupied its own wall in addition to a new bullet-proof jacket, stern curator babushkas and tight crowd control ropes. The line-up to the front was as disorderly as those of the best sausage and cheese battles in the heady days of the USSR. Mother entered the human waves with expertly dexterity, I admired from the side, casting surreptitious glances at the coquettish Giaconda. Glances turned into an eye-duel and seconds turned into minutes as I had hard time escaping the captivating stare. Our eyes met from the distance at first, she refused to blink I could think of nothing but the eternal love. She was my momentary soul-mate until I remembered those insouciant tales of her presumed manhood. After all this was more than I could bear and my wife must have been washing soiled juvenile garments at this very moment. I could have stood there for hours had it been not for my sudden shame and dutiful inclinations to study the rest of the place.
I escaped, but many did not, as they were spent and undone, evidenced by the nearly empty halls housing the best Spanish traditions of Goya and Velasquez. These were getting more deserted by the meter. Finally, tucked away in an intricate maze of its own we entered completely hollow halls vainly parading masterpieces of ancient Assyrian fame. The precious mosaics did not have to be unearthed in the first place judging by the attendance. With some energy left we desired to return to the world of the living. The Richelieu wing was just an answer, stuffed with history laden Dutch, this corner of the museum also beckoned with lush apartments of Napoleon III. The Dutch were just as fantastic as ever in their quest for vivid life scenes, occasional debauchery and pragmatic portraits. Going through the Dutch exhibition is like watching a television of the 16th century – just mesmerizing. Napoleon III and a couple of Russians did not spoil the scene, as Russians reminded me of home and Napoleon III of Luis XIV whom he handsomely beat in the bedroom size. The only caveat of this museum wing is to be careful to remember how you got here. If not, be prepared to wonder in fruitless pursuit of “sortie” signs.
On the outside taking a stroll along the golden streets of consumer happiness headlined by the Consumer Mecca of Saint Honore proved to be a good idea to re-clear one’s cluttered mind. If not in the mood for 1,000E bags, stray into the Les Halles, where one can generally find a place to rest, watch pensioners play their beloved Petanque and gaze at the superb and nearly endless gothic of the unsung champion called St. Eustache. The cathedral is extremely impressive and its massive stony outlines would have tasted much fame had it been not for its world renowned cousin just blocks down the river – pity…
Back to Reality
Before heading off to the Champions League rendezvous, Mother and I checked out the immediate surroundings. Well accustomed to the hopping a-la-Africa rap we turned a corner to climb the steps toward venerable Sacre Couer. Here everything looked much softer in the pastel evening sky. No sharp smells or deafening sounds. Mother felt particularly at ease perusing many a kitsch art piece, some with a definitive claim to talent and charm. Walking a couple of circles around the live art exhibits tired me quickly. For Pete’s sake, I have just seen Mona Lisa, spare me! Luckily the place offered other attractions. The famed local vineyard on the back slope was an especially warm spot for her soul. Hemmed by urban live and merciless concrete, this green oasis is capable of refreshing and blessing many. Locals actually collect an annual harvest and bottle it with stubborn tradition, one truly worthy of the Old World. I would not mind trying a swig and Mother finally settled for picture.
After tasting enough views, affordable art and cold freshness of the Basilica we moved on down to the trinket shops. The departure was looming large and the need to stock up was becoming ever more acute. Besides, there was hardly anything else to do on the lower levels of the mountain. Going to Moulin Rouge was out of the question – I have already done some reconnaissance and the place hardly merited a checkmark. Worn-out and seedy, the whole Pigalle district appeared dreary and unkempt. Even the famed mill wheel looked small and hokey, just like one of those “the biggest in the world” creations that pop out around every corner in the hapless New World – biggest onion rings anyone?
On my way to the Brian’s rugby restaurant I stopped by the “venerable” Rue Cler. Popularized by the likes of Rick Steves, the notion was irresistible enough and I needed to cast a glance. The street is certainly delightful; it is alight with its markets, shops and pervasive wafts of cheese mould. However, it is hardly a norm as there are not that many “pedestrian only” places in Paris when compared with other locales such as Heidelberg, Vienna or even Lisbon. And people who live in the neighbourhood, where a tiny walk-up studio could fetch 300,000E, are hardly regular either since expensive meats and aromatic cheeses could hardly fit into the already overburdened wallet. So enjoy this small sliver of the silver spoon world before re-entering chaotic traffic, incessant noises and piles of dog pooh, much more typical Paris in other words.
The Game
By the beginning of the game, the rugby place was packed to the brim as well as any other nook with a TV, including the neighbouring Irish pub. The biggest club game of the year was on and the promised rivalry temptation was unparalleled. AC Milan, humiliated two years ago after letting a 3:0 lead evaporate like morning dew, was looking square in the face of their archrivals – Liverpool. Intrigue was great and tension palpable. On my arrival, Brian was already cosily installed between a post, two Belgium(s) in well-tailored suites and a plate of French fries. I closed in on his last escape by pooling a chair. Complete with a full beer glass I was set.
From here on the wine flowed, AC Milan scored and I learned that French have lost their long-term memory. Jean d’Arc was lurching in her grave as her compatriots seemed to have vast preference for the descendents of Henry VI, much to the eternal shame of Papacy and common sense. Lucky for me, AC Milan was not going to let the lead slip away this time. However, given the common attitude I preferred chatting up les Hommes Belgiques. Brian, not an avid fan, was only happy to join in. The chatter hid my Italian tendencies amidst the crowd inclined otherwise – a wise mood.
One guy was in some sort of crystal business, working out of his house in hardly a French fashion. He was actually still planning to do some work following the end of the soccer game, way past ten at night - admirable. His friend, sporting a striking girlfriend with high cheeks and very thin Parisian outlines, seemed to have other post-match ideas. In the meanwhile we found out that thirty five hour work week in Paris offices meant something different from 4PM daily departures. Instead office workers typically linger past 7PM. I guess one could feel a little guilt after a 9:30AM arrival and a nice lunch to boot. But not all in vain as for every hour over 35 for any given week one gets time in lieu. We mostly like overtime for money, they like it for time. Many among us do not know how to apply ourselves in unburdened moments; French not always know how to pay for them.
Brian’s wine kept flowing, our waiter kept running, AC Milan claimed the victory and I said good-bye after just two beers for the whole night. The beauty of French leisure lets you sip two measly glasses in the prime seats without being chased away with an expensive menu. No hard feelings, just do not forget to leave a tip. This is of course not mandatory but desirable given the frantic pace of one and only waiter. “l’Addition” and not “Le Compte” is the magic word.
Rounding the Check List
Before leaving Paris there are few things one should plan on covering. All of course depends on individual tastes, preferences and wallet size. But there are some that anyone without murderous obsessions could enjoy. One of such is the famous Parisian hot dog. Wrapped in actual pastry, twice the regular length and smothered in delicious cheese, this less than 3E creation lurks everywhere and begs for a try. Please do not run away.
After one of these I felt reinforced enough to take a long walk despite the sudden May heat, all the way from the Luxemburg Gardens to the Musee D’armee and Napoleon’s tomb. A worthy combination – one with a lesson for all not to repeat, the other with the lesson entirely missed. A strange pair of bedfellows covered with a combine ticket no less. Take it in stride, we still have time not to repeat the painful history, just make sure not to step on any Russian feet. These are numerous and unforgiving. I had a misfortune to squish a couple of Muscovite toes. The outrage was limitless despite many an attempt to smooth the brewing international scandal. I think that my Faux Pas mostly consisted of recognizing the looks and jumping in feet first with my “izvinite”. Nothing irks the New Russians more than being swiftly recognized amidst their Gucci’s and Cartier’s. I barely got out alive.
Our last excursion around the great city started on the steps of the magnificent Opera Garnier, the Old Opera as some prefer. Located right in the heart of chic Paris, the edifice of high art fits right in with the most opulent of shops, hotels and night clubs. The nearby Place de Vendome was just about an apogee of luxury, in the most sophisticated sense. As if rotating around the “a la Trajan” column of great Napoleonic conquests, the square spun all shades of gold. These were common and at risk to appear nearly as cheap as dirt. Here was the “Ritz” hotel, an inconspicuous and exclusive lair for people with jets to fly, yachts to cavort in and Haut Couture to cover the skin with. Incidentally this was the last abode that saw Diana, Princes of Wales, alive, sneaking out for a fateful paparazzi limo chase with her equally less than fortunate companion Doddi Al Faed.
As if to mock everything momentary even if royal and supreme, the eternal presence of time laughed inexorably right across the square with the likes of Phillip Patek and Breguet. These peddled their overpriced wares from under less than screaming awnings. “Money alone does not count” they chimed in competitive unisons. Yeah, right – that’s why half of Moscow wears them.
Down the Cappuccinos, the scenes got livelier and more affordable as we passed substantial crowds looking to get into a series of very appealing night clubs. The prospective clientele, all decked out in suits and size zero, looked a bit too daunting and certainly not frugal. At the end of the Cappuccinos, Viola and her mother took us to partake in the dusty and yet very elevating and definitively classical airs of the church of Madeleine. The Mother was utterly enchanted with the understated altar and its inspiring statute, that moving any further along our pre-planned route presented a problem. She just did not want to leave. Alas, we were soon expelled from the saving grace of A/C cold air into the sticky heat of a hot Parisian night. Once in a while priests have to go home too.
The Thin and Thinner
Within minutes we reached the centre of the Universe itself – Place de Concord. Thin, foreign and well-aged Egyptian obelisk marked the precise spot. I guess no matter what the progress, rockets in space or computers in the pocket, the old hawkers of the Imperial death cult triumphed over the common sense and reason after all, and it showed. The parking spots were filled with all sorts of exotics, the curb valets were spic and span, and the crowds were getting thinner by the minute. It was actually very strange that among all its culinary abundance of cheeses, baguettes and fois gras this town produced the thinnest people I had ever seen. Some blown along by the slightest whims of prevailing winds trudged about in complete defiance to the laws of physics. Completely devoid of anything but bones and make-up, some still managed to add few pieces of prohibitively weighty jewellery and yet I did not observe any immediate victims. Amazing!
Viola explained that she found it extremely difficult to find anything fitting in the French stores to wear, and this is despite her rather average size on my Canadian scales. In fact, she typically bought nearly all her clothing while visiting her mother in Germany. At least there wider “sausage and beer” hips gave her a chance to fit in.
“They start with breakfast at about nine” Viola volunteered to share local anorexic secrets.
“And then?”
“Lunch, usually a salad or something similar. After that, no food at all until dinner at eight or nine. Snacking is a complete Faux Pas and dinner is frequently lighter than lunch.”
“How do they not starve?” I could hardly keep my amazement down.
“I think they do. Starving is sort of a badge of honour. And if ever in doubt, the trick is not to show it”
“How so?”
“Make sure that there is always some food is left on your plate when done with dinner – otherwise you are a pig. Here food is a tool of social discourse. This is not an end in itself. If they could do without out it, they would”
“A-ha” I honestly do not know where Rick finds all those French willing to take on full course dinners and wipe the plates clean. According to Viola, only some uncouth provincials could have been co-opted.
Champs Elysees was the epitome of everything skeletal and, consequently, was able to accommodate incredible crowds on per square inch basis. Exotics were everywhere with coffee and beer going for King’s ransom sidewalk cafes were filled to the brim and posh perfume stores came in numbers. I loved these since one could perfume oneself to death without paying a dime. Just imagine smelling like English garden in spring, equatorial jungle and seashore sand all at the same time. I loved the samples and went a little crazy on the fumes. So blissful and calm was I in my impenetrable fragrance shield that jumping on some plate of exquisite desserts and champagne posed no problem at all. Some brightly urban clerk rushed in to defend… tool late, as I was happily stuffing my face with delicious dainties reserved for some private party. Do not put them out right next to the samples!
After few short blocks of this madness I was nearing sensual exhaustion. It was not Champs Elysees it was Champs Foule (mobbed). It was nothing Champ (field) about the place at all. Pressed by human carcasses, high heels, thin rimmed glasses and unending plethora of fragrances it felt like a good old line-up in Moscow’s GUM (department store). Arc de Triumph beckoning on the horizon announced a soon end to the overload. Taking a few pictures in the road medium (the best spot, just wait for the lights to change) we said good-bye to our Paris support crew.
Cruelties of Cheap Euro Travel
The next morning, brightened by the rising sun and a prospect of leaving this beautiful and yet very tiring metropolis, Mother and I calmly took the train to CDG (Charles de Gaulle). Not expecting yet another fusillade and parting from seemingly neighbouring terminals II and III, worry was not on a horizon.
With fifty minutes before my flight and one hour twenty before Mother’s I smugly rolled in with filled-in cart to Air Berlin counter.
“Ferme!” said she with hands wide and lips narrow
“Quoi!” one had never got totally pissed off that fast
“Completement Ferme” never such a simple word sounded as ominous. Right away I knew that insisting on French was going to be a bit of an issue as Teutonic-ally trained local personal was not going to give in easy.
“How can it be? There are still forty five minutes!” my indignant English was starting making some inroads judging by some grimaced fidgeting of my vis-à-vis.
“You can re-book” was their last defence
“What do you mean re-book” waiting for twelve hours with cheapest and thinly flying Air Berlin did not look good. Besides, what would Lufthansa bound Mother do without me in Vienna. Such prospects were simply unsupportable and my face got even redder.
“OK, we will put you in but without check-in luggage” my indignant visage must have done the trick and I was about to carry on my bag, deemed hand-luggage back in Canada.
“Not that one” this was final. As I left the already bursting bag on the Mother’s pile, she was getting hopelessly nervous. I was no less frazzled.
I swiped out the only cash of 80E between the two us and stuffed into Mother’s hand.
“Run to Terminal I. Run!” running was a fine option but with bags and sinking heart Mother was hardly a contender. She still had over an hour to get to Terminal II to catch her flight, maybe.
“Terminal II!” right before going through the X-ray machine, I realized in complete terror that I had sent Mother in the wrong direction. I snatched by backpack out of the scanner jaws and sprinted to the train station. Relief, Mother was still there, lost and utterly disoriented. Put back on the right track, she hardly stood a chance of catching her flight. “At least she would not be lost for hours in the vast airport” I thought with heavy heart. Few minutes later after the take off, I was able to see the real spread of the bleeding CDG, including Terminal II - Mother was in the able hands of God…
Vienna – Coming Home
Arriving in Vienna, still sweaty from my Parisian airport exercises, I dashed right to Lufthansa counter to find Mother’s fate. Using straight English for insurance, a friendly person in blue winked “yes” in subordination to international security. Eh, there is still something human left in the shiny sky and Mother was scheduled to arrive only four hours later than originally booked.
Now it was the time to unwind in the beautiful Vienna. The train ride was a measly 3E, the people looked normally fed and the air-conditioned train rushed by immaculate gardens, suddenly pleasant oil refinery and even almost joyful central cemetery – not a hint of dust and crumble of Parisian suburbia. Normalcy was returning with softly gurgling Wiener accent.
On the way to the pension, located within incredible five minute walk off the Hoffburg Palace, I crossed the entire first district. Sheer delight was softly filling my heart. Sure there were some hordes around always busy St. Stephens, and Opera still had to deal with swarms of music lovers but everything else was so peaceful and relaxed after the cacophony and madness behind that even horse manure smelt like freshly blooming roses after summer rain. I was not even distressed by my missing Mr. Clinton himself who had just left after some AIDS related function. Mr. Putin left two days ago after laying a wreath, where else, Soviet War Memorial. I seem to be destined to closely miss greatness on my innocuous outings. Only Queen showed up for the hockey game some five years ago - I was present.
Oh well, maybe I will meet Sharon Stone who had just reportedly arrived to participate in a huge AIDS Benefit concert to be held right in front of the gothic-ly inspiring City Hall. The concert was to be held at the same time as Klaus’s wedding, making it nearly impossible for my meeting with Ms. Stone to materialize. And yet I still harboured weak hopes. Besides, this international function attracted a very colourful crowd of counter-cultural folks. My pension, only steps from the venue, looked to be their headquarters with flags, chains and all. How did I end up there? It is a story of its own since I nearly felt victim, for a second time, to a Teutonic landlord.
After being struck from Herr Büge’s list in 2005 (Berlin) I should have been more careful. After all, it has always worked out with people in Spain, Portugal and France, why would it not work out with more serious folk? Well, it nearly did not as my perspective landlord Christian of ostensibly very urban hence variable tastes was in the descending line that went all the way back to His Grey Eminence (cardinal Richelieu). I actually suspect His Grey Eminence did not die at all and deceived everybody by simply moving East. I am positively sure about it after my encounters with Christian and Herr Büge.
So in line with all predictable habits, Christian called me just few days before my trip, telling me that his apartment suddenly became unavailable (AIDS Benefit, maybe) and my affairs would whence be conducted in the pension aptly named “Wilde”, yes it is the same as the English term. Upon checking the nightly rate was 80E instead of the expected 60E – I needed to place a call, urgently. Besides, my apartment consisted of only one sleeping room, very distressing since Mother was still coming to spend one night here before her eventual hop to Ukraine.
Luckily, my apartment was a truly spacious offering in the best of Viennese traditions, no more of that Paris crap, fit for really thin people. Did I say that? Oh yah, the streets of Vienna looked much more normal and even overweight in parts – what a relief! In addition to a huge room with three beds, the apartment had a large foyer and a nice kitchen worthy of at least two Parisian maisonettes. Quickly eyeing the surrounding, I dragged one of the mattresses into the foyer; surely Mother would not mind…
On my way back to the airport I could not resist a cigarillo trip to one of the truest Viennese coffee houses – Grien Steidl. Under the golden shades of Hoffburg and Spanish Riding School it beat anything Parisian hands down, price included – 3.20E. Who even cares that the direct sight of the Roman ruins is spoilt by the bleeding Starbucks, it could be worse, I knew.
Back in the airport to pick Mother up. The place presented a usual swarm around the arrival exit. I couldn’t even stand, nervously pacing and checking the awfully slow arrival board. A pleasant diversion came in a sudden appearance of my long-term acquaintance Mr. Granat. I was already supposed to meet him two days whence and yet fate presented another stab at serendipity – pleasant. In fact, I have quite an arsenal of such meetings that come just as often as missed dates with presidents, current and retired alike.
Finally, with Frankfurt flight arriving I could not wait any longer and simply walked across the imaginary security line to wait for Mother at luggage pick-up. In much more security minded places it would have been impossible if not outright deadly, but in beautiful Vienna nobody could care less. Eventually, scrunched by stressful flying arrangements, Mother showed up in her glory. Piled high with merchandise she was calm and collected, much to my excited shame.
Her travails in the hell of CDG ended with Air Canada charging her extra 40E for ticket change. Lucky for them she had that – bastards. Then Lufthansa wanted to charge her extra 100E for my bag. She did not have that, so the deviants settled for a 40E charge leaving Mother in possession of 2E for the rest of the day. At least she had a Canadian passport and still fearlessly brandished her passable English.
From that point on everything, including pleasant surroundings of the smallish airport, pleased her beyond expectations. Even a botched subway ride that resulted in three kilometre walk with bags and curses did not drain last ounces of her energy. It was past 9PM and yet Mother refused to give up on the Austrian charms. A late promenade delivered in spades. Small and cosy by comparison, Vienna shines by night like no other. Hugged by honey soft blanket of a summer night, we explored all the best on offer. The Parliament restored in the best Roman glories of marble and light was a true successor to Roman Forum. Austria might be just a bit of once mighty empire but its prideful traditions persist unabated.
The gothic City Hall was its soaring self with lights shooting into the skies with abandon. Spoiled and unapproachable by the foreign intrusions of an AIDS Benefit, it still maintained its stature. The Hoffburg, a little dim as to give imperial ghosts some nightly rest, shared a phenomenal nightly outlines of the New Rome that surrounded it. I had almost forgotten how charming Vienna could be, Mother was simply spellbound. Following a top rated pick-me-up Italian ice cream she could not think of anything but of returning to imbue the air of Mozart and Strauss once more. I just chewed on a street falafel in near complete ecstasy.
One Market and the Wedding
After Mother’s parting the next morning I just could not stay away from the very traditional and chaotic Saturday flee market. Like Rastro in Madrid, this one is a colourful treat filled with anything ranging from peppery donairs and succulent sour kraut to dainty antics, used books and scarves, of course. It was a brilliant and clear day that brought thousands to this boiling cauldron of folksy commerce. Squeezing between an overloaded cheese stand and barrels of pickles my patience was rewarded with a colourful yodeling dress for Sophie at 18E from suddenly very East Indian man and a pair of shoals from a very warm and friendly Pentecostal Romanian lady. I was nearly ready to go home had it not been for the main feature of the trip – Klaus’s wedding.
Klaus being a man of class and respectability did not want to let anything to chance and booked his wedding ceremony on Kahlenberg, a picturesque green Wiener Wald mountaintop overlooking the beautiful Danube. The waters might not as blue as previously famed but the location was unbeatable in keeping any unwanted riff-raff away from the proceedings. Unlucky for me, it was at the very end of a public transit line. Throw in a couple of transfers, and it spelt at least an hour fifteen beating my estimates of forty five minutes by a mile. I prayed for some inevitable delay, a picture hiccup of some sort or just sheer clerical laziness. In the end, all was in vain, as I passed a man in black on my way to the church. Austrians turned out to be an efficient lot and now they were crowding out into the sun for some group pictures. I travelled all this way to miss the golden moment – brilliant, and …yet predictable.
“Alex, great to see you, we did not see you in the crowd” Klaus was beaming exhibiting his longest travelling guest. “Were you late?”
“Just a little” I fibbed ever so slightly
“Do you have a ride down (to the reception on the neighbouring mountain top)?”
“Not yet”
“Stephan, here is Alex, could you give him a ride?” Klaus was very present despite the occasion.
“Jawohl!” retorted a young cheerful character.
Stephan was a twenty something year old Viennese fire-fighter with a-la-punk Mohawk and very friendly disposition that let my German loose on wide endless pastures with hardly any repercussions and much fodder. Being a boyfriend of the bride’s sister he had prime dibs and much company at the partying extravaganza to follow. He was my key man.
We piled on with another sister; there were four sisters and no brothers in the bride’s family; and her boyfriend Gerhardt for a short ride. From there one the fun began as my new friends had nothing else but partying until 4AM in mind. Since it was just about 4PM I was trapped for a long ride as buses probably did not run past midnight.
The reception was held in a view-venue that revealed a panorama of the whole imperial city. A little hazy through pollution and humidity, the city looked forward to the coming night lights to reveal its true magnificent self. For now I was in the reception line-up, mingling with my new and old acquaintances including Herr Meyer and Gerhardt (another one) from OMV. It was nice to see them hardly changed in the last ten years, they must have pickled or something, on all that beer and sour kraut, I guess. I had no other explanation for their relatively youthful looks.
I was dying to clarify the gift situation since the invitation asked for no gifts and outside of money I had no idea of what to bring. I might have been lost in translation but Peter (Herr Meyer) dutifully explained that it was true, no gifts outside of the immediate family were expected and any cash donation were to go to a children’s hospital. For this a plastic donation bowl was set next to a small mound of presents. I was only happy to slip a few euros and did not even ask for a receipt – imagine that.
Martina and Klaus, both a well-to-do financial professionals, did not need much in a way of financial help for their lavish wedding. Right from the start beer, wine and chunks of nice salmon hors d’oeuvres flew just swimmingly. Loading on few too many smoked delicacies I spent most of my time with Martina’s family consisting of her three sisters and their halves that included Stephan, Gerhardt and new arrival, Peter, who came from the Sound of Music land – Salzburg. Sound of Music was left to all those Americans of course, as none of my charges cared to ever watch this piece of the beautiful propaganda.
Gong (!) finally the dinner with some opening toasts and salads started. Klaus, not entirely sure that my reading of “Der Standard” ten years ago during may practicum at OMV produced much in a way of linguistical leftovers, arranged for yours truly to be surrounded by English speaking folk. Luckily, just about all of my companions preferred German so my torturous grammatical exercises could continue unabated. The only other non-German guests were a London banking couple with her hailing from “beautiful Sweeden”. I did not have to interact with them much as they had their own English huddle. At first though I was perplexed as I could not understand for the life of me why a person with German accent would prefer English instead. That was before I realized she was Swedish.
One of my table companions was Klaus’s old banking buddy John. He, originally from London, had spent the last twenty five years in Vienna. At first, I almost mistook him for a Viennese, so soft and gurgling his English had become. Now in his early fifties, he was firmly set east of Alps, surrounded by two teenage sons and a beautiful wife of all these years. He had definitely become soft on socialism and harsh on bloody free-trading capitalist bastards. Quiet ironic for someone who spent all his career working in a money trade, one would think. On the other hand, relaxed local air, perfect cold beer and enormous fried chunks of delicious swine by Blue Danube in the cooling shades of Prater (central park), and one would just find the only answer. John, a rational and successful man by all accounts, could not understand how western companies can continue to downsize and lay-off staff while riding on record profits. I found a brotherly soul.
In addition, John let me on the latest local financial scandals that included a major 3 billion dollar loss by one of the largest Austrian banks (BAWAG). The outfit nearly went bankrupt and was saved through a buy-out. All these misfortunes came at the hands of an arrogant CEO and his American-based deal maker. In addition, the imbroglio also implicated the former Austrian Chancellor Herr Wranitski. The latter seemed to have taken a bribe for covering some BAWAG dealings. He later claimed the “fee” to be a part of an expertly advise before the arrival of Euro in the 1990s.
“Can you imagine a politician advising bankers on Euro, what a bunch of bollix!” John was loved his sordid tales.
“And they come so cheap. You know, they paid Wranitski less than 100K. Hardly a great deal compared with 3B in losses, there must something wrong with the system…”
I figured there was no perfect place on Earth after all and Canada with its idiotically small sponsorship scandal beckoned no less appealing, it must have been all that wine I just chased with a shot of schnapps to clear my digestive passages – Stephan’s advice. Schnapps with the city dimming on the background – life was just too perfect.
Folksy Roots
Somewhere between the main course and the dessert, the bride was stolen. Well, in the regular country traditions she would have been taken to some watering hole in next town to await arrival of the bridegroom who had to find the location of his elusive prize and also perform a few creatively signing numbers to win her back. The countryside would have accepted nothing less.
Here, lamely, the folk just walked to the upper floor of the facility and opened few bottles of wine and sang (well I mostly listened). My half-drunken cohorts did just about every number from the Austrian folk list. This was a truly amazing cultural treat as so many seemingly young and hip managed to remember much of century old traditions. Performed in the heaviest of dialectic fashions even some regulars, like John, confessed to complete ignorance. No matter, fun was had by all with the best coming at the hands of the bride herself who delivered a superb yodeling feat with one of her aunts.
I could not believe the complexity of yodeling, I thought their throats would burst. And if that was not enough, a whole bunch of older guests, member of the same country choir, did their best to bail out Klaus who got his prize back mercifully, without having to expose his deficiently urban roots.
Musically intoned many felt right to jump on the dance floor hyped by a superb modern band that produced just about any crowd pleaser including “Neunundneuzig Luftballoons”. One of the most welcome choices were the upbeat dramatics of “Perfekte Welle” – “Perfect Wave”, a German hit of 2004. Following the Asian tsunami later that year the song was pulled from the airwaves in solidarity with the victims – amazing, considering that the song was just a sheer coincidence and had nothing to do with cataclysmic events. Yes, it is played again but sensitivity displayed by German DJs is certainly commendable, first amendment notwithstanding. Some (Ezra Levant of Western Standard, Harper’s buddy) on this side of the water do not seem to have a modicum of similar common sense to understand when publishing certain anti-Mohamed cartoons. Sure the original Danish publishers could have predicted riots and victims. But once the Muslim reaction across the world was an established fact, subsequent publishing them in Canada was clearly done in poor taste and a complete lack of accountability.
To cap off the feast, somewhere between the wedding cake and freshly cooked sausages with sharp mustard at somewhere around 2AM, one of table-mates Isabel, a very dignified and articulate matron of the local society somewhere in her sixties announced as a part of her farewell:
“Alex, I think you are wasting your time in Canada. With your international experience, you could do more here where it happens”
“Interesting thought, I will ponder about it” baffled, I am still thinking.
Alex the Conqueror
With the wedding complete, my travel friend duties were nearly complete with the exception of Herr Granat into whom I bumped two days earlier while on the look-out for my hard travelling Mother. At first I met Alexander some fourteen years ago when working for a Russian owned computer export outfit named Krystaltech. That job was my first chance to actually wear white shirts and ties to work as opposed to only register such dignified attire when filling out MacDonald’s’ job applications. The place did not play terribly well but I got a chance to meet some real international go-getters, my first New Russians and true Jewish geniuses. One of the owners, Mark, was a Russian-born Israeli immigrant who had as much penchant for commerce as for anything cultural or linguistic. He easily operated in at least four languages, made tonne of money and yet remained approachable and understanding on many an occasion. He actually hired me himself after I narrowly missed an interview with my eventual boss, Igor. The applicants were many but my credentials, blue old suit and “tutor”, as one of the occupations to hide anything relating to food service, made enough of an impression or caused enough pity. Whatever it was I came back.
The place was super interesting – it dealt in high technology, operated in few countries and gave me a chance to sharpen my talents behind the computer screen. Nothing prodigious ever came of it but I came across some interesting personal stories. Alex Granat’s was one of the most intriguing. He was a company rep in Vienna of all places. Why Vienna, that’s because it could have been Timbuktu for all that mattered. Alex was a born salesman of anything and everything. Borders and cultures did not matter. Vienna was just a domicile of his. There he settled after immigrating from St. Petersburg in the ripe age of twenty three. Having just finished St. Petersburg Conservatory with an obscure speciality of a bassoon player, he romantically entertained thoughts of becoming a star on the local scene. The scene was tempting, glorious and yet competitive with not much money thrown even at the better crop. Still much an outsider, Alex weighed his chances, left his bassoon in the closet and found his true passion in selling – computers, networks and executives – it did not really matter.
On this trip I caught up with Alex doing his shtick for an international head-hunter. Times were good, personally and professionally. Having spent a good part of life without an obvious mate, the last four had known romance with a very pleasant German woman – Anna. Besides some obvious charms, she also spoke some decent Russian. In fact that is how they met in the first place. She thought her luck moving from Stuttgart to Vienna and Alex decided to take his mom to the movies one evening. She was selling tickets in the place and Alex’s mother liked her from the first sight. The rest is history with the couple tying a know one year ago.
Besides linguistics, both of them share a passion for long-distance travel. Going for a weekend in Venice or hopping on a plane for a jaunt through Prado is just somewhat blaze being all that close. How about some sake in Tokyo or a huge steak in Buenos Aires instead? The destination for was Western Canada and my phone call was just Godsend. Alex, a huge Grizzly bear for detail, was happy to receive any help he could get his hands on. Armed with thousand and one brochures, maps and travel books, he picked me up for a get together. It took place in one of the best and classiest cafes of central Vienna – Continental. Right next door to the ornate Volks Theatre it dished out not only tasty coffee, ice cream and cakes; it also produced very tasty schnitzels. Huge, crisp and smothered in some lemon sauce, these were just to die for. But, my idyllic gourmand thoughts were not to be left along that easily. Alex spread his wares across the table and proceeded to clarify each and every detail, bump and turn between Vancouver and Banff. It took an easy hour before I could relax.
Squeezing Last Drops
After my latest reunion I wanted to test whether getting into the Vienna Opera at the last minute was a possible call. It was! The buzzing pre-performance foyer was palpitating with excitement and few people were hawking their extras at their face value of about 50E – a little too steep for me. I checked the box office but it was sold-out save for some prime seats topping 200E – no chance. They did not seem have anything resembling 7E no-view affairs of Barcelona, let’s say. But it should not hurt to ask and I did. Eureka! They had another altogether separate box office for undesirables where the lowly could pay mere 2E to get their standing spots. I guess the management did not want to hurt the sensibilities of the reputable public by mixing them with the riff-raff like me. I could not care less and why should I as I was holding a 2E wonder in my hands!
The standing seats in Vienna are available on at least three levels (balconies), some offer great views while others hide at least half of the stage. I was in there for a fight. Rushing up the stairs without anyone asking to show them my ticket – another possible frugality – I quickly discovered that I was not alone. Many had similar inclinations and had already reserved their better spots. Handkerchiefs, shoals and anything in between was the surest way to secure your spot without having to stay in the stuffy hot galleries before the show. Shucks! I was a little late, having to take on the obstructed views this time. Tired just thinking of standing for the next three hours, I hung on to the separation rail to see as much as I could of the world below. The first act of the “Ariadna Auf Nexus” by Strauss was starting momentarily.
The lights went our and magic made her entrance. Everybody seemed of the same opinion as even though this opera was not a perennial firecracker as it did not have much initial success when released some hundred twenty years ago. Only its re-mastered version did better. I sympathized since the complicated plot was certainly puzzling even as I followed the personalized monitor in German. Switching it to English did not improve the matters much, if at all. Back to German I wondered how people below, the ones in the expensive seats, fared. Not much better judging by the absence of personalized monitor devices. Figure this, I paid 2E to have one and they get screwed – there is justice after all. Just imagine sitting decked-out in diamonds, firs and silks after spending some 500E per pair. Seats are great and views are impeccable and yet you are completely lost in Strauss-ian abracadabra.
After the intermission, having mingled with the smoking public on the top view terrace I inhaled, emboldened and occupied a nice empty seat on the third level. The view was full, the opera got even twistier and yet I survived thanks to the monitor. Beautiful serenading voices just poured into my ears – a sheer delight. The diamond studded crowd below still strained in their technology-free world – even more delightful.
Just like two years ago I decided to spend my remaining euros in the airport Billa. It is a great locale being just a regular supermarket as opposed to overpriced concourse offering. Loaded with chocolates, 35 cent half-litre beers and a huge 3E bottle of local Austrian wine my trip was nearly complete. The celebrations lasted only few moments though as I was encountered by numerous and stern-faced checkers. “Shucks!” – I completely forgot about the liquids ban. One of course can avoid it by buying the stuff duty free, but I had to be a little more imaginative and it did me in. Only chocolates survived the grubby clutches.
Upon timely arrival in Frankfurt, I had nearly five hours to kill before my next flight to London. Not to be idle I planned some chores of course. The most urgent one was to mail a bilingual bible to my friend Kolya’s daughter in Munich. Kolya, a good product of Soviet atheism, seemed impervious. His daughter might do better. But not without some barriers as my remaining pocket change amounted to no more than 2.5E. Hoping it to be enough (they did not take credit) I gingerly approached the clerk at the Deutsche Post counter.
“It will be 1.5E” reported she rather cheerfully.
“Great” I started pouring my change on the counter.
“Do you have an envelope?”
“No, how much is one” I did not suspect any problems
“We ran out of single ones” problems came anyway.
“What are my options?” I really did not want to pay another $5 withdrawal fee.
“Buy a pack over there”
“But it is another 4E, sounds a little steep for a 1.5E package”
“Try an airport priest” inserted cheerfully another clerk. “After all you are sending a bible”
“Thanks” I wanted to try my luck in Frankfurt since I was going to visit the place anyway.
Half an hour later, I was on the platform amidst Frankfurt central railway station. Rushing to find another post office, I kissed the closed doors. It was Pfingst (Pentecost), you idiot and just about anything governmental was closed save for that lucky break at the airport. OK, finding an envelope here did not prove to be much of a problem. The local bookstore clerk was all help and a fresh new envelope was in my hand. With 1.8E jingling in my pocket I needed a cup of coffee. Alas, no outfits but Starbucks liked plastic. I had to sell out, on my last day of all things.
An hour long escapade into the city did not reveal many surprises as the WWII bombings left not much of the old stuff in the city where skyscrapers rule. And yet, with all that modernity it was still welcoming and familiar with Starbucks popping up everywhere like mushrooms after rain. It started to drizzle. The first refreshing drops were welcomed with open arms after the Viennese heat wave. I pushed past, closer to where the people were. My instinct did not disappoint and after a good sprightly walk I came upon of whatever was left of the old city. Charming and colourful it attracted crowds despite the weather. A large stage, erected in the middle of an old square. The speakers announced the good news on this rainy Pentecost, in un-translated American English of course. What, after Martin Luther and Zwilinge, German speaking people have run out of preachers? Anyway, the rain started beating really hard. Enough hopping, it was time to go home.
The pretext, of showing my mother around the dusty Parisian jewels and jumping at the chance to sample best European food traditions at my friend’s expense as he was throwing a party to mark his second and perhaps last marriage, was probably enough. But not for me as too much leisure would inevitably leave a burning sense of not yet seen, touched and prodded the underbelly of the European travel fables. Luckily, having a number of periphery friends around the old continent helps with filling one’s schedule to the brim.
Heathrow Horrors
But before I could put any of that into existence there were few nasty and unavoidable experiences known to any airline traveller. There are, of course, some in our midst who delight in smelling airline exhaust on their clothes and collecting thousands of unnecessary miles for the sake of a check-mark. Some have attempted to circumvent the globe in the shortest time possible by taking commercial airliners all the way – Magellan is salivating in his grave. Others have decided to take on as many dirt-cheap European flights to test their fortitudes, stomachs and tightly compacted asses. I, not possessing such penchant for turbulence and spilled coffee, was less than happy with yet another stop-over in the grimmest of places in the world of happy travels – Heathrow. One would think that increased international travel and competition would actually improve the fate of its ultimate beneficiaries. It seems to work when it comes to car drivers and train riders. Well, in the endless blue skies it is getting worse. So instead of having some options to divert away from the horrors of the 70s windowless concrete and bright linoleum floors, our efficient travel masters keep sending the whole poor world to this meat-grinder of a connection.
If one counts on thirty minute transfer in Frankfurt or five-minute walk-over in Vienna, in London it would always take at least triple that and then some. Midnight exhaustion of North American pilgrims does not improve matters as your reflection in the bright linoleum floors is probably about right after a ten-hour shake-up with salivating Duty Free offerings and yet another viewing of Bridget Jones Diaries. After eventually leaving your plane following a fifteen-minute delay due to some roof leakage in the ramp-way (the maintenance folks must be squeezing every last penny out of their meagre privatized budgets – thanks Mrs. Thatcher!) one has to navigate through a warren of passageways, quick turns and treacherous mechanical works called moving sidewalks. It is easy to get a feeling of being forced in some nightmare concocted in the best traditions of MI6. You are the victim desperately trying to escape and yet to no avail as in the end of your bad escape dream you end up at the doorstep of a bus whose driver takes his time regardless of your connection needs – and you have not left your blasted arrival terminal yet!
Following it up with heavy fumes, sunless skies and strange traffic patterns of a bizarro world, and you are dumped for yet another stint in the MI6 horror flick. Somewhere in the middle of it you stumble in a huge security line-up. It does not matter if you have past security somewhere back in Madras, Dar-Es-Salaam or New York, here they are going to do it to you with pale and expressionless British flavour – just like morning oats. Sure, in the last few decades they have tried to lively up with things with curry flavours of Pakistan and cheerful Caribbean hand waves, but the confusion, smells and strip down to bare essentials hardly makes it all that much better. Now, yours truly, as always, had to buck the trend of hot, sweaty pressing weight of humanity, as after many futile minutes in the suffocating line-up I was informed that my bag generously accorded a “carry-on” status back in the expansive North Strong and Free did not qualify to fit seemingly identical plane compartments on this side of the water. Any allusion to the dubiousness of the clashing airport standards quickly sent me to the passport control with an inevitable trendy bright tie and tedious paperwork. What is that with British civil servants? Can’t they just relax and wear a t-shirt for a change, or don a menacing bullet-proof vest to defend against gun-totting Americans? No it is always that sweaty uncomfortable suit tuned up with the latest in the bright neck-tie creations. Like this is supposed to make me more cheerful.
Suddenly, I was through thanks to my beautiful blue passport. Freedom, how good that sounds even with a prospect of yet another ride through countless moving sidewalk galleries adorned with nothing but mind-numbing bank ads that worked marvels for my barely smouldering senses. Eventually, I schlepped in to my terminal with dingy nine-foot ceilings and overpriced sandwiches. No matter, since I was able to go outside to grab a gulp of fresher air. Who cares if it was filled with second hand smoke worthy of a good football game? At least I saw the sky.
Now, after they put you through the aforementioned rigours, they are usually not done and, unlike many more civilized places, here they do not tell your gate number until right before the boarding, leaving you roaming zombie-like amidst weighty bottles of French cognac, glitzy cans of Russian black caviar and cuddly teddy bears from Harrods at something like 50 pounds a piece. Now I get it, it is just modern commerce trying to get its long tentacles into every nook and cranny of my well-padded middle class pockets. Besides, with possessing accented English I can at least count on understanding when my gate is up, but what about some less linguistically fortunate?
One particular specimen from Czech Republic happened to be really lost without a single word of English. While on the tireless monitor watch I was treated to a true Babylonian spectacle as an airport attendant did his best to reassure our patient that there was no need for panic as his Prague- bound gate was yet to show. In vain, no amount of pocking the monitor could re-stabilize the volatile situation. I just had to step in. Summoning my scattered smithereens of pan-Slavic linguistics I uttered a single word “Chekai” – “Wait”. Suddenly, the seas were calm and I found a new friend who relied on my guiding presence and smiles for the next hour. At least, this night Prague was not going to miss one of its own, strangled by the vagaries of international travel. Do not get lost in Heathrow or you too could join a perpetually wandering army of lost and sleepless who perpetually traverse this beast in search of an elusive solace of ever coming home…
Open Your Wallet – It’s Deutsche Bahn
Upon an eventless arrival in Frankfurt, I hurried to the adjoining railway station, recently reconstructed in the best German architectural traditions of glass and steel. It was already past 5PM and I still had to get to Stuttgart, a sort like getting to Hope from YVR. I felt first pangs of time slipping away too quickly. After all, this was the night to spend with my dear friend David. I ran out of breath trying to catch the first train out. It was as if I was one of those Amazing Race clowns racing to get their million. At first things were not looking that great as I had just missed the first available train. It left the platform in front of my very frustrated eyes. Consulting the schedule beckoned an hour and half wait. Fortunately, my Deutsche Bahn (German Railway) juices re-awakened some old skills. You see, the beauty of European train travel is that you do not have to take a direct train to where you want to go. A connection will do. Yes, I was right there was a train in mere ten minutes with a five-minute connection in Mannheim; it would get me to Stuttgart in 1:10.
Another trip to Hope in a parallel universe was still stuck somewhere in Langley traffic when my train was whizzing me to the encounter with the long-lost friend. The speed and perfectly clean train toilets did not come cheap though, as blasted Deutsche Bahn charged 60 bucks (40E) for the pleasure. Besides calling David on my newly acquired phone card reminded me that phone calls to cell phones in Europe is a much more expensive proposition for the caller than here at home. Oh what the heck, at least it worked like a charm as unlike useless TELUS cell service.
Talented Mr. Whitley
Five minute wait in Mannheim turned out to be exactly five minutes, I was in Germany after all, and I was on my way back to the pretty city of Stuttgart, my final stop of the day. First time when I met David in the NY Church of Christ some fifteen years ago I did not have any inkling of becoming his friend. After all he was a bit too cheerful for the rigid etiquette of my new surroundings. Of course having fun was allowed and encouraged, but David appeared to have too much of it, bounding with his perpetual brown leather bag and an expensive overcoat between finishing his masters degree in Julliard, looking for Broadway gigs and enjoying his new and gorgeous wife – Zenobia (or something like that). I was just too timid and shushed by my bible talk leader to partake in those jolly and yet irreproachable circles.
Lo and behold, one year later I found rooming with David while his wife decided to pursue a momentary military career to pay for college – only in America taking up guns is so tightly wrapped with all things peaceful and educational. Suddenly, I was acquainted with much different David who had his own insecurities, job failures and even church problems. We could share in that. We started to unite, but what really cemented our relationship was his absolutely comic personality that could easily rival anything smelling Chris Rock or Eddy Murphy. David just had it in his blood to entertain and that he did, experimenting with my abilities to stay alive while ripping my lungs out with laughter. It must have been David’s make up of southern roots of deep Alabama mixed with more polished angles of Washington DC, where abrupt jazzy undertones aptly converged with poetic and rueful South. David’s voice followed the blueprint to a “T” with him ending up a prodigy from an early age. Sometime in his teens he found himself even touring with the famed Harlem Boys Choir. Later he landed in Manhattan School of Music and then at the nascent age of twenty five he was touting a degree from none other than Julliard.
All seemed just perfect but. The Broadway scene did not really care for degrees and valued particular talents regardless of letters after one’s name, whereby even David had to vie with ferocity for the slightest of bits. I became his convert and waited any day for a grand announcement that kept refusing to materialize. After some months and years, our paths have parted as I moved to the West Coast and then to Canada and David stayed back plugging away at the elusive fame. I left the church and he was still in, so the contact with years became thinner and thinner, and yet it failed to break, David just was kind of guy.
Few years later I found myself “toiling” away as an intern in the socialist paradise of Vienna. Strangely, David was just nearby, living in the industrious city of Stuttgart that sprawled over the picturesque Schwebian countryside. This was definitely years later – David was single again (at least on paper), both of us were out of the church for good and he was living out his dream on this side of the ocean - at first singing in the local instalment of Miss Saigon and later doing fearless solo of a recording artist with gigs and more. Tracy and I could not stand the temptation of not visiting. She and David went back a ways too as he seemed to be the only one in the church who was cheerful about her unchristian appearance in NY some five years before. They clicked, musically and humorously. It could have hardly been otherwise. This time it was summer of 1997 and we were rolling into the Stuttgart Bahnhof.
“You think it is OK if we impose”, she asked prudentially, almost with a sigh.
“Yeah, it might be a bit tight. Singing after all can’t be that fruitful. We at least should be buying food or something. But it is just a couple of days”, I reasoned.
Train breaks hissed their last and we jumped on and scanned the horizon. The search was brief and illuminating with our colourful friend occupying an unmistakable centre stage right in the middle of the platform. Light, chic suit and a dainty cup of coffee between his long pianist fingers – all exuded sheer delight and no sign of humble poverty. All hugs, smiles and jest we piled out on the parking lot. An old rusty Honda took the prime frontage on the parking lot.
“Yours?” I congratulated myself on an educated guess.
“This? No. Mine is over there”, my friend pointed to a glistening row of very reputable beasts arranged as if for an auto show. The hushed nightly tones of soft street lightening could hardly hide my surprise and a little bit of envy.
David, dancing his fingers against a sleek set of keys, pressed on a key-less entry button and the most gorgeous specimen in the stable lit up. It was a top of the line BMW Cabriolet with everything else and more. Tracy and I pressed closer together as if readying for an orbital spin with Space Shuttle Columbia. The ride was sheer exhilaration.
The rest of our visit was spent in the whirlwind of an unknown world stuffed with trendy dance floors, well-patronized restaurants and David’s friends. It felt as if the whole city of Stuttgart was copying with the latest bout of David fever. All cosmopolitan, English and hardly Schwebian save for some savoury dishes of knödle, unbelievable breakfast pastries and a meeting with a classy guy with a gorgeous femme on hand. His name was Benz and this town produced cars, the rest was just a blur of a surreal. Even a Sunday morning visit to a local English church was hardly there to wake us up from this respite in the wonderland.
“How is surviving on the German music scene. Do you have to sing in German?” I started with the bleeding obvious while stuffing my face with an absolutely incredible baked creature from a local establishment.
“Not really. English goes just as well… Oh, by the way I just remembered, I have an interview tonight at a local radio station! Thank a lot, otherwise I would have forgotten!”
“Radio station eh?” not very often I sat next to somebody who gave interviews. I felt some goose bumps.
“We love Broadway. In fact one of our first dates in New York was going to Miss Saigon” Tracy was delighted to speak to a professional.
“…and then we went to Phantom in San Fran. That was a blast”
“Oh yea, I sang in it a couple of times in London, to fill in”
“Who were you in Phantom?” Tracy was getting visibly tickled.
“The Phantom” trailed a nonchalant response
“Get out of town!” we shot back as struck by the lightening.
Few years later we visited David once more. Ready for surprises this time we enjoyed his maturing company and a bigger apartment occupying the better part of one Tudor home with a personal full-blown sauna in the attic. David had certainly changed, got a nice-sized dog and took numerous daily walks in the Wiese (meadows). Food was simpler, homier and we burst with laughter enjoying the latest Katastrophenfilm needing a translation for a white person – “Der Klumps” with Eddie Murphy.
Two years ago our paths almost crossed once again as my participation in the Jews for Jesus campaign in Berlin led me straight to a friendly American type named Jack who went to the same English speaking church in Stuttgart as David. In the end, although David’s appearance in Berlin failed to materialize, I was duly forewarned by Jack that David’s passion for light hearted flair and BMW products had hardly been extinguished.
Harry Connick Junior
This time I was well-prepared for just about any surprise... And sure enough just like ten years ago minus coffee and the light suit, David was waiting at the end of the platform, standing out above the crowd with colour in a sweat suit of latest designer fashions.
The first minutes of the reunion passed in mutual admiration with the inevitable BMW by the curb, X3 this time.
“Alex I missed you so much and I have so much to tell you” David was always sweet in his friendly comfort making.
“I would love to hear it” I have always been genuinely interested in David’s affairs. “Tracy would have loved to hear it first hand besides she always has the music edge to keep you quizzed”
“That’s true, so what is the latest on the Vancouver scene? You know I would love to come, I have heard so much about how beautiful it is…” David’s non-driving hand went in a wishful semi-circle.
“Anytime buddy, anytime. Compared to Europe and New York it is kind of boring but we have our own share of celebrities with film productions and concerts. Police has been rehearsing for months for their re-union tour and Harry Connick Jr. is coming to town. Tracy is dragging me to that.”
“Harry, hah. I was his roommate for a short while back in the days, in the Manhattan School of Music” David stated as-a matter-of-factly. .
“Get out of here! Tracy would burn with envy. She loves Harry and would not even be stopped by hundred bucks per ticket!”
“Yah, he is a big star. We have been out of touch for years, although I did give a call few weeks back. He did not call back he must be awfully busy…” He sounded as if something was not quite clicking even in the environs of his first rate BMW specimen.
Unpleasant Life Surprises
I was burning to find out more. After a nice although simple dinner of Italian origin that was served in a very tasteful dining room of a two-story three bedroom apartment, David caught me up on his latest. Well, his life had not been as simple as one would have suspected at the first glance. A couple of years ago it turned out, David nearly died in a house fire. That happened in the last place I had visited some year prior.
One afternoon, exhausted by the daily travails, David crashed for midday nap on his comfortable deep couch. With his mind in a dream world, his senses took their rest just as well. The next conscious moment David remembers was being waken up by a friend.
“David! The house is full of smoke! You need to get out!” it was still as if in a dream as God was not yet done with David on this Earth by stretching a saving hand, literally. A minute later, David stood outside and watched. With nothing but a pair of sweats and a jacket in the midst of a frigid January evening, he and his friend shuddered as the fire consumed the entire house in a matter of minutes. The prompt arrival of Feuerwehr (fire fighters) did not help much as the street hydrants were nearly frozen in the recent cold snap.
All was gone. Electronics, clothing and, most importantly, timeless family photographs and other irreplaceable things, even all his IDs went up in smoke. The only thing surviving was his cabriolet that happened to have been parked on the street. I was a true personal disaster. Fortunately, many of David’s friends came to help, finding him a place to stay, cloth to wear and support to count on. With such support and God’s help David felt calm and collected, he knew that God was reminding of who he was. David was so composed that even the psychologist doing a post-trauma assessment was highly surprised, confessing that most of folks in similar situations would just collapse if not outright go insane.
Now, year and a half later, he viewed the experience as a Godly lesson with a front page newspaper article that featured his burning house surrounded by helpless firefighters and his profile in a white suit on the forefront. Light-heartedly so, David seemed to be still duly incensed by the article that pegged him at forty, full three years ahead of his real age. Outrage!
Ralph Lauren Charity
The next morning schedule was a bit of a juggling act since I had to find few more moments to hang out with David, connect with my Jews for Jesus friend from Ulm (one hour away), Jack and find my way to Muldorf (three hours away) by around six. Luckily, the events of the day took an unexpected and rather pleasant turn to string up my logistics just perfectly. This morning David was expecting visitors from Munich, Asia and Michael. This imposed some much needed discipline as I rushed, nearly killing myself, down the slippery wooden steps to the bathroom below. The specially carved Germanic steps accommodated anybody right-handed (footed) did not forgive anybody favouring an opposite cadence. Germans are bears for precision and detail where there is only one way to fit in as my sliding ass found out pretty quickly.
“Asia!” David hopped up and down as if emerging from a solitary monastic cave after years of silence.
“David!” the door flung open and Asia burst into the scene like a hurricane. She was tall, youthfully thin and very American, gurgling with something of a Southern rendition of the world’s tongue. She was irresistible and unique – African American living in Germany and schlepping along an authentic German husband. He, lanky and shy, brimmed with friendliness and joy as if reunited with long-lost friends. My other profession of a Schiedsrichter (soccer ref) only improved my chances with the soccer player of a seriously committed, albeit amateur, level.
The goal of their trip up was of surprisingly familiar to the over-consumed West – shopping. Asia, being one of the whirlwinds behind Ralph Lauren Empire in southern Germany was in a possession of something extremely useful – access to a 50% discount card. Alas, Munich offered only full-blown services that did not come cheap even at a deep discount. Stuttgart on the other hand boasted an outlet store, in throes of a latest sale campaign no less. The magnet, too big to pass up even for the regulars, was soon attracting us at something like 80KMH in the comfortable leathery environs of the David’s X3. Unfortunately for the jolly company, many, on this statutory holiday, were imbued with similar notions as getting to and parking anywhere was an unmitigated nightmare. It looked like the whole nation turned out to shop at outlet shops this morning.
Jack, the Chauffer
The things threatened to get hairy and it was a perfect moment to change horses. Jack just parked across the street and I happily flung my fortunes into his path, leaving my shopping friends in the frantic beehive of commercial pleasures. No sooner David receded into the vicious milieu of trendy budget shoppers, Jack quickly plunged into some juicy details of his latest activities with Jews for Jesus. These have primarily consisted of arranging and putting to life complex logistics of taking around an American version of the “Liberating Wailing Wall” – a singing group.
The travelling group consisting of few colourful and committed characters was certainly impacting in many right places while challenging in others. Many churchgoers blessed by the group’s visits were encouraged and cheered up, many hosting families were challenged. Jack, being in the hosting line of fire, was now just starting his recovery from a two-week jaunt with the folks. He was threshed – physically and emotionally. The musicians, while giving their best on the stage, were frequently ruthless in their level of consideration for each other and host families who did their best to cope with cultural and linguistic barriers. Hosts wailed and Jack had to buffer for it all – unlimited and un-requested long-distance phone calls, bickering and frequent disinterest in the hosting families despite boundless offerings of food and hospitality. Jack’s wife was a little batty after a three day stay with the crew. Going there for a short visit presented a bit of a challenge as it was incumbent upon me to restore the international image of the people across the stormy Atlantic.
The task was fulfilled with flying colours since I all had to do was to smile far and wide during my momentary visit. Showing up with a box of Canadian chocolates did not spoil the matters and the international peace was restored. Jack’s house in the midst of idyllic and very aromatic farmland could not have been a better spot for ceasing of hostilities. In the end, snapping a couple of pictures of his copious family, Jack zapped me up through the singing hills of his adoptive home land. Few days of respite ahead were all he needed, not so for me as I had to hurry up to catch a train so much so that the only way to procure the necessary piece of paper was through a conductor on board, just like in the old days. Luckily in Europe those caught without a ticket are given a chance to save face as long as you pay a three Euro Zuschlag (additional payment) to the already unforgiving-ly high prices. My less than a one-hour ride to Munich was something like fifty bucks – welcome to Deutschland!
Smiley Sausages
A quick one-hour sojourn in Munich in wait for my next train to a little dot on the map called Mulhdorf (translated “garbage town” – sort of a Cache Creek really). The railway station visit did not produce much in a way of discovery not counting at least two Starbucks within a hundred yard track. The outfits appeared well attended, counting many a local in the midst of those sold out to bitter beans and large cups. Give it twenty years and one would not even know what it means to consume java in petit cups on dainty saucers.
Once in Mulhdorf, which turned out to be very non-smelly and clean, I delighted to seeing my old Soviet classmate Kolya. Tall and nearly perfectly trim he reminded me of the “good” old days when he outscored, out-shot and out-dribbled anyone in his way– he was just a naturally born athlete. Sure his features got a little pointier and his waist was no longer boyish 30, he still exuded much vigour and energy, and no wonder. After moving to Germany some eight years ago on the strength of his wife’s sketchy Germanic roots, Kolya had to struggle a bit to get used to the foreign environment. In possession of a right sounding name and nearly perfect Teutonic appearance his chances beat anybody from Istanbul or Karachi, and yet the difficult language and somewhat clannish Bavarian culture did not make his life overflow with milk and honey easily.
And since he prefers his wife, Julya, to stay home instead of toiling at some menial jobs, he carries the weight of the family on his shoulders. He usually gets up around 5AM, has a full-blown breakfast replete with thick Bavarian sausages and other locally endowed meat products and leaves for work where he reports at about 6AM. He works as an equipment operator at a large furniture factory. The work is not particularly gruelling but demanding enough, ending at about 3PM – to accommodate local partying habits, I guess. This routine clears somewhere around 2,000E ($3K) per month, which is doable when in possession of cheap rent, fresh air and relatively harmless commute. But this is not enough to exhaust Kolya’s daily energies. So as soon his shift is over, Kolya is all about tending to his small used car lot. Having bought this location from a previous owner, Kolya manages to coax enough business out of the place to get 1,500E per month extra. This of course makes his life rather uncomfortable since his only day off is Sunday with the rest of the week packed between two jobs, sausages and necessary sleep.
“Gruss Gott!” – A perfectly normal greeting in this neck of the woods was nevertheless puzzling as it was Zhenya, Kolya’s daughter who greeted me rather cheerfully in the local vernacular. She, having lived most of her life here, has become firmly German in her preferences, just as a bunch of her next door Turkish friends who rode circles around Kolya’s nicely polished BMW Wagon.
Burghausen – Sleeping Beauty
I would have loved to join in to practise my skills, not bicycling of course, but the friendly hosts were waiting with an extraordinary spread of anything travelling Russian soul could ever desire. Add a dreamy Bavarian sunset in the garden setting and you get the picture. This was just a beginning of our festivities, as shortly afterwards we piled up back into the car and drove to Burghausen, a friendly little town on the Austrian border. The town was in the midst of some spring fair with all sorts of rides, attractions and beer. Luckily, the trip into the shrill-filled paradise was postponed till later as our path took us through a magnificent, although mostly deserted, old town. Here the medieval squares scintillated in the dying sunrays of today, glistening with many a bright colour, ornate gable and steep slate roof.
A quick turn from the main square and we were crossing into Austria over the famed river Salz. Here, in the land of funny people (Germans accord much of their anecdotal verve to their South-eastern neighbours) and cheap gas we zigzagged up the hill to discover a magnificent view of a thousand-year old castle snaking along the hill, just above the low-sitting Burghausen. Although just miles from its famous cousin, Salzburg, the place was serene and completely devoid of any foreign interest; it floated lightly as if sitting on the lush clouds of divine, undisturbed and enticing, majestic and yet near. We couldn’t stay away, of course, and after taking few pictures our cavalcade crossed back into Germany. Here we climbed up the precipitous road to the front gate. Inside, the place looked as if just abandoned by its erstwhile defenders save for some unnecessary modern art. It is understandable that modern artists need to eke out a living too, but why desecrate the perfectly fine piece of medieval architecture? Unlike many of its cousins who exhibit a tremendous dearth of space, this was just huge with fortifications stretching for almost a kilometre. Towers, embrasures and sentry boxes were everywhere. But there were not alone as one of the castle centre pieces is a perfectly well preserved torture chamber with all requisite tools of trade, anything to keep faithful in line. Alas, the place was already closed.
PNE – Bavarian Style
After breathing in enough history to inspire deep and worthy reflections, we plunged back into the crowded, half-drunk and jolly atmosphere around the fair. Apart from numerous rides the places paddled thousands of stuffed toys that seemed to be the easiest method to extract money from unsuspecting citizens. It works like this: your child drags you in with incessant requests to play the ball game “Papa, darf ich Ballspiel spielen?” For a donation of few Euros the child is given a small amount of soft play balls. The child attempts to throw those as to knock down as many empty cans or any other useless target as possible. Cans arranged in a pyramidal shape are a pesky target at the unsteady hands of our ten year old. Eventually, few tumble down and the child is rewarded with a cheap stuffed animal. Although a little laborious, ToysrUs stand no chance of competing.
Having played a few rounds of Ballspiel that produced hands full of unnecessary velvety objects we looked into what adults were up to. Right next to the rides and with no transitional warning as to the essence of their activities, the grown up Bavarians were indulging in a gargantuan exercise of excess that left in its wake thousands of empty beer mugs and sausage wrappers. All was taking place in a humongous beer hall that served a couple of thousand patrons at a time. The long rough-hewn tables left no allusion to any privacy inspirations as elbow-tight room presented quite a challenge for overworked waitresses and their patrons in lederhosen. The very act of serving beer was worthy of Circe de Soleil, since even the tiniest servers lugged along with up to twelve one-litre steins at a time plus sausages; and all this under a thick cloud of smoke and through carousing crowds of revellers. At one end of the spectacle, they had a stage with a jolly band thrashing about their favourite Bavarian tunes. Some of the band members appeared just as inebriated as the crowd with few rhythmically shaking their heads like drunken satires. Quite a few folks had enough and jumped on their tables to step-dance along their version of country music. The NSDAP (Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartai) was born on one such noisy beer halls back in 1920s. Small moustaches were all the rage then.
Pigs – the last Hurrah!
I was most entertained while Kolya and Julia remained cautious about the beer excesses. Kolya was especially leery about the bigger brother of the event – Oktoberfest. The bacchanalian World Cup, as it turns out, usually attracts not only the biggest of partiers but also the craftiest of thieves. Besides in the later years it has become a heavy tourist trap stripping away some pure authenticity. In other words Oktoberfest is a waste of time other than for “done that” check-mark. I did not dispute as we drove back to rest our wheels and leave the car in its deserving double-decker garage that housed twice as many cars for its size when compared with our Canadian building codes. Boy, those Germans really know how to save what is not supposed to be wasted.
My jet lag and excitement of the reunion did not let me sleep for hardly more than an hour before Kolya’s 5AM wake-up jolted me into the reality of cheap airline travel. I was ready in minutes, but “hold your horses”. Kolya was about to serve a full-blown sausage breakfast with a verve and pride of a doting mother. The breakfast specimens specifically procured the night before for the occasion did not look all that appetizing in their oily brown skin in the best of times. At 5AM they looked positively vial. And yet Kolya would not give in, he hovered and served, shoving all possible and mostly nocturnal condiments up to my nose. Horse radish, mustard and some other aromatic crap nearly made me gag if not for the obligation to acknowledge his great hospitality. Finally stuffed, we departed, navigating along the serene hills of Upper Bavaria. What a wonderful country, but what to do with the blasted sausages?!
Latin Transition
Saying good-bye I felt a tinge of sadness. After all it is not all that often that I get a chance to reunite with my old friends. Oh well “c’est la vie”, through the pristinely clean halls of the Munich airport and into the gloomy Parisian morning replete with foreboding skies. I had to quickly re-tune from German to French. Leaving German newspapers behind on my seat, I was already clutching a fresh version of glistening and utterly shallow Paris Match- anything to spice up my bland arrival in Orly, dingy and old airport. I wanted an immediate escape. The place offered a bus and a train. Saving something like five bucks I inevitably fell for the bus without forgetting to procure a ten-ticket carnet for the Metro, the most efficient mode of paying for your rides here. By the way, the ticket office ticket here also offered a myriad of Paris cards that included museum entries and more. A great deal for some these might be a complete waste for others – research well before buying.
The suburbs, while inspiring the best in Bourgeois living of North America with its gaping craters of civilization in the inner cities, serve a completely different clientele here. Sure there are some tranquil spots away from the city-centre just as well, but for the most part the folk that cannot afford elsewhere lives here. Occasional riots, much graffiti, plethora of rusting cars amidst massive housing projects with windows covered in laundry lines are common. Green spaces and gentility reserved for elsewhere as amply seen on my bus ride along the city perimeter. Prepared, I did not despair and was soon rewarded by more than amiable surroundings of Montparnasse.
Diving into the crowded and dingy Paris Metro I was nearing my target. Surely, the invention of the underground transit has proven to be phenomenally useful in increasing liveability of great cities. Paris Metro in no exception. However, do not be misled by the intricate entrance Art Nuveau lattice work. Inside, it is just an unattractive warren of stuffy tiled hallways that barely keep above the daily grime of the commuter multitudes. It is just that the Metro and not a place to linger in admiration save for a couple of newer lines that employed driver-less and air conditioned cars – just like Skytrain. The midsummer heat waves are the deadliest, as at one point last July they registered plus forty five Celsius on the platform, and that is without a single whiff of a breeze.
The Boulevard des Barbes, at the bottom of Sacre Couer, plunged me right into the midst if a Saturday morning market squished under the elevated Metro tracks and spilling over into the street, much to the chagrin of petulant and visibly irritated drivers. It was a crowd of truly Babylonian proportions with sellers and buyers mingling in the whizzing beehive of activity. Fake designer watches, fake designed bags and authentic Arab Kebabs filled my senses to the brim. The most popular item – untaxed and thus illegal Marlborough cigarettes looked particularly familiar, reminding of my grim Soviet past. I just wanted to escape into my cubby hall of an apartment. This simple wish appeared harder to reach than previously thought. When told that my apartment was on the forth floor “Quantrieme Etage”, I was lulled into dreams of a quick ascent. No so fast, as the Parisian reality revealed it as a sixth floor pad hiding on a top of a twisty hardwood staircase. Entirely out of breath and vigour, I barely gained altitude past peeling walls and rickety doors that have not seen a renovation since the last Great War.
The place itself was a fitting match for the neighbourhood – two small rooms plus suspect plumbing revealed the best Paris had to offer about eighty years ago. Fortunately, the bedroom overlooked a tiny courtyard and not the street as I was assured some relative peace. My host in her mid-thirties showed me around the dusty details of the patch that came at a very affordable 60E per night plus your very own Internet with a French keyboard (pain in the ass for uninitiated). Every piece of furniture looked rickety and stuffed to the brim with hand bags and hats, hats (!) – after all I was in Paris. The TV came with six or seven channels flanked by a fake fireplace and a funky bathtub that needed to be half-filled to drain properly. Shortly my host left and I was about to take much needed soak, oh horror – where is the toilet!? Frantic sweep of the place revealed a toilet hiding in a nook between the kitchen and the front door. Surely, Europeans have much better ideas of separation between tub and dump, but taking it that far might give one a heart attack! Had I been Borat…
My Little Ghetto
After a short rest I re-emerged into my new neighbourhood sporting my running gear. I wanted to explore, and fitting in as a health conscious local seemed like a good idea. I was a little too hasty perhaps. From one block to another there was hardly anyone with the same salubrious intentions. Instead, the neighbourhood was much preoccupied with daily life on the fringe of the white society. Instead of endorphins the place was hopping on African braids saloons, Halal meat shops and cell phone outlets paddling any imaginable mobile service under the sky. The streets were just swimming in folks brandishing a plethora of African and Arabic dialects, pungent fruit stalls and cheap shoal stands with ripped awnings and cracked windows. I have seen a place like that before but where? Oh yah, the Upper Manhattan in mid 90s looked just like it except it served mostly Puerto Rican and not Tunisian. Here, where a call from public phone booth required shouting regardless of connection, I felt uncomfortably at home.
Styling in spandex up the steps leading to Sacre Couer felt liberating and almost rarefied, as with every new step away from the my “favourite” Boulevard des Barbes the make up of the inhabitants and their apparent economic conditions changed faster than I could take another breath until the back approaches to the hollowed spot revealed upscale apartments, out of this world cottages and even a vineyard tended by the cherishing hands of tradition keepers. It could have been miles away from the cell phone shops and yet it was no more than a five minute run up the hill. My new neighbours must have been very bad climbers.
Around the church, erected for the atonement of anything sinful of the French past, milled thousands of unburdened tourists gawking at the unprecedented beauty of sweeping Parisian views and magnificent white (or nearly white thanks to pollution) stones of the Basilica itself. These are amazing and foreign, they breeze exotica and no wonder since, unlike the multitude of Gothic, Classical and Romanesque creations below, this one was built in a style entirely eastern at the time when enlightenment and brotherly love were all the rage. Exhausted by nearly hundred years of political unrest, regicide and international wars with pitiful results that were viewed as Godly curses on the nation, the citizens decided to show their repentance with panache worthy of memory. Today, I do not know about memory by panache remains, no doubt.
On the descend I checked a couple of typical restaurants with much wine and slow table turnover. My inspection was worth a shot since I found a few “only French” types that just make your day – large foreheads, crooked noses and long sunburns – pure and conquering features worthy of the famous Corsican himself. In general, I have to say that people watching in Paris is just priceless so grab your seat and feast your eyes. I, to the contrary, was all anticipation with food was on my mind. Watch out!
Checking out the local supermarket revealed little of notice except to say that French cannot compete with Germans on milk products and the reverse happens as soon as one wants to partake in anything liver – “yam” or with wings like cans containing half well-pressed goose. These containers were emphatically large and popular. Stuffing on some super tender cod liver, overpriced apples and Dutch! cheese my head was back in order. What a sacrilege and so contrary to Rick! But truthfully, why chomp on some pungent mouldy crap when Dutch make it so soft, idyllic and even herbal. Upon leaving the place I encountered my super Left friends with their leaflets announcing their determination to fight to the bitter end in the upcoming Parliamentary elections. Having lost the presidency to Mr. Sarkozy of “Extreme Droit”, the “Extreme Gauche” were looking for their revenge. Many around, studying the leaflets, seemed to agree – Mr. Sarkozy deserved a spanking! Who cares if he had been in power for just mere two weeks? In fact, judging by the number of competing election posters, not many Parisians were in the pocket of the Right save for the poshest areas that included Rue Cler and environs. Rick, what’s up with promoting right wing enclaves? Your Seattle friends might not appreciate.
Elusive Jews
For now I had other fish to fry as according to Jack, I had a chance to catch up with the Avi Snyder, my old Jews for Jesus friend. Leading the work of the organization in Europe, he closely overseas Germany and also keeps fingers on the pulse of other locales including Paris. This weekend Avi was travelling to Paris for a short executive meeting. I thought what’s the heck and call. No luck this time. For all I knew he could have already left Paris. A truly Pauline missionary, Avi does not care for sightseeing or lingering of any kind. After a couple of answering machine hang-ups, I decided to find the Jews for Jesus location just for orientation if not for nothing else. Finding the place was not difficult since its location invariably pointed to Marais, a very Jewish neighbourhood. Jews for Jesus do not usually shy from controversy and it showed.
Now, apart from few very touristy streets, the rest of the district did not elicit much in a way of any particular ethnicity other than French. The Jews for Jesus was just a front among many. A local real estate office displays beamed sky-high prices, open seafood extravaganza did not spare on their contra-Torah shrimp opulence and ubiquitous posters competed to show every possible face angle of the defeated presidential candidate – Segolene Royal, the female. Pretty and smart, she lost much due to those astute female voters who all too often tend to mistrust their own, especially when it comes to presidency – a strictly male post so far in the French history.
Suddenly, amidst my Segolene photographing revelries I came upon the famed Promenade Vert – a two mile stretch of green space on old elevated train tracks – ingenious. Once on top you are all of a sudden detached from much of the street noise, cars and shopping distractions. Now you can almost relax and contemplate – an old, rarely used concept.
The Promenade Vert ends nearly at Bastille with its Opera House that extirpates any last memories of the infamous prison whose siege in July 1789 laid down a red carpet for advances of the French revolution. Now, with advances complete, the square is a busy epicentre of anything that sings and dances. This gives much fertile ground to food establishments catering to pre, during and after crowd, just like the various teachings of the tribulation eschatology. Predictably it is all very busy so be careful not to be overrun by pesky Parisian traffic consisting of undersized cars, diminutive chainsaws and super-sized egos. Through a cafe crowd of leisurely lounging pensioners I rushed into presumably quieter reaches of Marais.
Not so fast, finding tranquil Paris might still be possible but not in Marais. Antlike activities are rife with two-legged creatures covering any inch of the ground. Even the exclusive Bourbon feel of the Place des Vosges had dust on its ermine. Here, the prideful and sufficiently stupid Luis XIII (his statue really) did not flinch as if in the complete oblivion of being surrounded by peaceful picnickers rather than by brave and half-inebriated Les Mousquetaires.
My quest to find a Jew among the jubilant crowds was still pending. I was not the only one in the company of many clutching Rick’s material for life guidance. Somewhere between Rue Payene (heathen) and Rue Rosier I spotted a wide black hat and whiskers. “Few” I was relieved, there were Jews in Paris after all. A little further down the street more signs bespoke of their existence – Yiddish cafes with spreads to remind one of his childhood, dusty book stores, a crowded Jerusalem falafel shop and a synagogue. This kaleidoscope of sights and super-thin Parisians were making me decidedly dizzy. I flopped down, squished between-spindly legged locals, to suck on a bottle of Heineken and a cigarillo. Besides needing rest before my next adventure, I eavesdropped on my tight neighbours’ French and delighted in some second hand smoke – cozy!
Paris Saint Germaine – Lesson on Undying Love
Getting to Parc des Princes to catch the season finale of the woeful Paris St. Germain (PSG) was long but simple - just follow anyone with red and blue scarf around their neck. A walk from the Metro station beckoned with much history along the street named after the venerable Jules Rimer. This dude was the president of FIFA in the swinging 20s. Imbued by general enthusiasm of rising stock markets and a chance to snub the game inventors, the English, he and his cohorts organized the very first World Cup of 1930 in Uruguay of all places. Predictably English alongside few others refused to participate and the triumphant Uruguayans lifted the trophy named after the scheming president. Quickly Jules Rimes trophy became the most coveted of them all - please do not listen to those Stanley Cup tales. People outside of Canada do not even suspect that it exists while the “Nike” (another name of the trophy) has claimed the passions of billions for generations. Made out of pure gold, the molten statuette represented the ancient Greek goddess of victory and was up for grabs only nine times as the third world title claimed by Brazil in 1970 took it away forever as bequeathed by the crafty Jules. Hoisted by tearful Pele the “Nike” disappeared into history only to be stolen from the headquarters of the Brazilian FA in the 80s. It was never found…
“Cherche le place! Cherche le place” screams greeted anyone approaching the stadium. “Oh, good – scalping season is in a full swing”, I was not going to have any problems finding tickets. My competitive juices wanted to flow but my splitting headache did not agree. As such I quickly settled for a 5E discount from the total of 55E in the centre stand. I could have bought some cheaper issues at 36E but their location was not as promising. Seat hopping did not look all that inviting either, as surprisingly many came to see the game. The team sat pretty close to the bottom in the standings and yet these guys refused to give up – an admirable lesson on undying love!
After a jaunt to the cash machine with an Angels’ looking scalper I climbed the revered steps that saw the French triumph at the Euro 1984 with Michel Platini scoring the decisive free kick against the Portuguese. I still remember that moment as vividly as it happened yesterday – Portuguese goalie diving for a sure save only to see the ball slowly seep through his hands and over the line! Triumph and heartbreak – all in one…
The stadium was nearly full despite the meaninglessness of the encounter. The stands were swinging in unison of colours, scarves and fireworks that exploded into a huge firewall right after the start of the game. An awesome sight for the fearless visiting fans fenced off in a huge cage to stay alive and for a good reason since this stadium knows many a tragedy one taking place just earlier this season when a cop was killed in a mini-riot.
All was peaceful and yet ardent with emotion in my sector. A couple of two nice Asian boys next to me were just as Parisian and any of them, jumping up and down in their passionate outbursts of happiness, anger and anything in between. Earlier in the going, the locals failed to capitalize on their chances time after time. Their leading striker, Portuguese Pauleta, was one of the culprits trying to be too cute with the ball more than once.
“C’est Portugais avec son technique!!!” my Asian neighbours were white with outrage, fingers flailing, Italian-like.
Suddenly, Les Troyes, the visitors, scored with an audacious shot from some twenty five yards crowning a brilliant play in the best Latin traditions. The entire stadium went as quiet as cemetery brunch toast. “Hopefully the second half would bring better results” I wished earnestly. The rows after rows of fans turned their backs to the pitch and started a unique, snake looking, wave, making the surrounding concrete appear totally alive, simmering in passion of the last sunrays of the day.
The wave must have helped and the second half finally brought the results everybody was looking for. First Pauleta converted an undisputed penalty and shortly thereafter he doubled with a strike that looked suspiciously like an offside from my angle. The opposition defenders rushed the assistant with tempers flaring. The cool ref would have none of it. And yet no yellow cards emerged as he exclusively relied on his mouth. Few minutes later, a couple of rivals did their version of a hockey jersey dance and yet not even a single yellow. The ref was cooler than snow and his firm talk-down sufficed once again. I thought he was the true star, but that’s ref talk as the stands sang “Pauleta! Pauleta!”
At the final whistle, happy crowds filed down Jules Rimes to the upbeat tunes of past glories and future rivalries. Roma friends can’t stand Lazio, Manchester United supporters despise the City and what do you think they hate in Paris – Marseille (!), just about the furthest geographic point on the map. No matter how far, Marseille is never far away for PSG fans. On the ride back, I learned that a good whack of all chants that dealt exclusively with Marseille – “Marseille! Marseille! Attends Nous! Marseille! Marseille! Attends Nous!” – was my momentary lullaby.
Chasing D’Artagnan
The next sunrise announced a switch from momentary burdens of modern sports to burdens eternal, the ones that come with Sunday mass. My track was towards the much vaunted organ of St. Sulpice. Extolled by Rick and hiding in upper crust quarters near Luxemburg Gardens, the visit was unavoidable. Emerging from the Metro, I was immediately awash in history – a block away from the presumed location of the De Treville Hotel. Messieur De Treville, a fearless leader of his drunken Les Mousquetaires was as much a doting patron and as a skilful courtier who participated in many an intrigue, emerging a victor on quite a few occasions. These days court has moved from the Louvre to the Champs Elysees Palace and Rue Vieux-Colombier bears no mention of the Hotel, so volatile and forgetful our history tends be, a pity.
Oh, the Mass, I was late of course with Danny, the organ player, long gone from his perches leaving the place in the near lifeless darkness. I lingered a bit, pondering a stained-glass window or two, sort of in a Code De Vinci mode. There, on the bulletin board my eyes darted from a large apologetic piece vis-à-vis the most fashionable novel to an innocent looking announcement – there was to be a concert with a choir and an organist in two hours – brilliant! The treat was partaken with stultified determination of a part-time connoisseur. The singers strained and ringed their best in a pure amateur delirium, I skipped on suggested donations box and the organ player, not Danny but a visitor from Stuttgart, took a bow from his nook but his stairs remained closed for foreign intruders. Rick would have been dismayed so do not sleep in on Sundays. I was nearly complete, nearly.
A mere fifty yards from St. Sulpice I located Rue Cervandoni. Much like Rue Vieux-Colombier, the history has forgotten it’s most famous even if fictional occupant – D’Artagnan, the precocious forth of the Three Les Mousquetaires. Now, even the street name Cervandoni is a new one. I guess the Parisians are not too keen on fictional characters and after all who could blame them since the city has witnessed a really nutty parade of true life personages throughout its existence. To my relief I did locate an old building corner that was scraped off to reveal the previous and very dear name to me – Rue Fossoyers (Gravedigger Street). Yes, they used to have cemeteries all around here but then the real estate got kind of pricey and so the skulls were removed into numerous catacombs, leaving some freshly dug holes for many a developing pleasure – our Vancouver construction lights must be cringing in envy about all that unused cemetery space.
Enlighted Splendours
One of the earlier improvements that took place on this end of Seine was the Luxemburg Gardens developed for their royal highnesses. Later, with sovereigns melting into history now only the public remains and these Parisian goers adore their green space, so refreshing and cozy in the midst of anything above twenty Celsius. Apart form the main palace turned museum, the rest is just a well-maintained public green space with a nook for everybody, common or knighted. The western end is in the firm possession of devout and ferocious chess players – just try to observe a game of speed chess, much fun even for the uninformed. Closer to the central fountain high-tension chess yields to tranquility. Here one finds modern public art, curious and very funky, tennis courts with occasional displays of high mastery and crowds of Sorbonne students leisurely enjoying their off class time - stomping, laying and cavorting on the publicly maintained grass with their super-sized mid-day baguettes and undersized pants, t-shirts and bras – have I mentioned that Parisians are about half our size?
Sure, a good diet, much walking and the prolific public transit must be some of the reasons. The others who knows? Culture definitely plays a role. In my particular view it is the real estate and the general cost of living. When a landlord can rent you, with an innocent straight face of an innocuous child, a maisonette apartment at 350E per month for less than 90 (ninety) square feet of total space, and when a trendy tiny cup of cappuccino can fetch 6E for a middle of the road (literally) establishment and when an average Parisian take home pay is hardly much above 2,000E – one starts wondering how this people remain alive at all!
Past the thinning into nothingness and exclusively white Sorbonne students, I re-entered the world on the other end of the Gardens, facing the pompously classic outlines of Pantheon. No, not that one in Rome, just a modern copy as Gauls were a tad too late to claim their supremacy over precocious Romans. Modern French, as “rightful” inheritors of the mighty Latins, finished their work with contemporary flair and purpose. While the religiously minded conquerors of the ancient world erected their marvel to house the gods, the enlightened and godless nineteen century French other gods in mind – human ones – Voltaire, Hugo and Zola, a very literally company – care to read my blog? It does not end there since Romans charge you nothing to see timeless art and even the tomb of Rafael himself, Parisians charge you hefty 7.50E and do not blink. Oh yea, I think their throw in an audio guide and all for the price that could nearly fetch you whole day at the timeless Louvre - voila.
If you are in the area and feel particularly cheap, try calling on the St. Etienne Sur Mont – a timeless jewel immediately behind and to the right when facing the Pantheon. Here they not do not charge admission and even throw a few daily Masses into the already unique architectural mosaic topping at a mind-boggling criss-crossing staircase straight in the middle of the cosy and well-lit nave. Just imagine contemplating an eternal sounds of organ wafting through the most intricate and yet well-preserved stone carvings dating back centuries. What a tedious piece of work it must have been. Just imagine all that incessant whittling. It was painful just to think of it, I felt as if standing in front the most sizable and gaudy golden altar of all – Seville Cathedral. But it is another story and so if you are feeling overfed with delights and in need of some fresh air, just poke outside to see a wedding procession (on Saturdays) or an occasional soccer game with some participants paying more attention to their cell phones than to the ball. The most typical sights though are those ubiquitous Sorbonne students milling about in their simple but latest fashions, exhibiting all possible signs of advanced anorexia and deep-seeded racism. I would dare anyone to find some representation of minorities here – mere drips. And this is not for the lack of trying but rather a tribute to numerous integration issues that give rise to much bad rap and few suburban riots. Governmental policies are not the only culprits here as there is much innate outsider distrust still lingers behind the admission standards and other things we take for granted in the Canadian nirvana.
Enthused by fresh observations and general fatigue I couldn’t help but swipe out a cigarillo with a diminutive cup of cappuccino at nine dollars zero zero cents Canadian. Setting a record for a cup of java I felt a need to linger under the characteristic Parisian awnings for an extra half an hour, just to get my money’s worth if anything else. A good dose of Les Trois Mousquetaires and many attractive pedestrians made it for an easy time kill. “There are billions of people living on less than few bucks a day” amply manifested an outdoor photograph exhibition just across the street. My coffee solace felt guilty and slightly sick. A walk down to the Latin Quarter would do…
Pious Sunday
Past the famed and original Odeon theatre now offering life theatre productions I arrived right at the famed corner where Boulevard St. Germain pauses to acknowledge an ancient church of St. Germain des Pres. This welcoming beacon of faith called to help my trouble soul, in Spanish this time. The service (catholic) at first went along its usual route with petals and wine. Later, it got a little livelier with well pronounced Latino beats, amateurish but enthusiastic choir and friendly old ladies on the welcome duty. Cognisant of the need to improve my French rather than Spanish I refrained from waiting for the conclusion of the proceedings, filing back into the rain slashing across heaps of cheap touristy merchandise and many a restaurant chair in want of customers. Minus the rain, the Latin Quarter was as unbeatable as ever for its cheap, market like, offerings of trinkets and food. Any kind and at prices that beat out the competition hands down, even in the poorer areas let alone the posh nooks around Champs Elysees and Boulevard des Capucines. Besides food, I came upon a whole row of used book stores that peddled anything under the sun. Mostly French editions were simply irresistible and certainly dirt cheap. One could really enjoy the customers who stomp around with fever of a shark feeding frenzy. I nearly got eaten.
Escaping past the famed fountain of St. Michel that reminds many as a gathering point of local malcontents astride centuries, I skated out right out to the middle of no less noticeable Pont Neuf. Conceived under the magnanimous reign of Henry IV and finished by the dutiful efforts of his son, Luis XIII, the bridge carries a very special distinction of witnessing the fateful encounter between our brash D’Artagnan and hardly any more level-headed Count Buckingham, the First Minister of the Crown under the Bible thumbing King James. Unlike his sovereign, Count Buckingham did not follow the key eternal precepts and instead followed his carnal instincts of seducing other men’s wives – Anne of Austria in this case. Had she been anything less than a king’s consort and had our mousquetaire succeeded in challenging the First Minister to a duel, the whole course of history could have turned out differently, I suppose. But it did not. Count Buckingham remained alive for a bit longer and a whole bunch of Huguenots in La Rochelle paid for it dearly – all thanks to Buckingham’s fierce rivalry with His Great Eminence, Cardinal Richelieu.
Imbued with heavy thoughts I decided to answer the pleading Sunday peals of Notre Dame. On the way, taking a sharp right turn at Pont Neuf, I came upon the true gem of class and sudden tranquility - the Place de Dauphine. It exuded such a surreal feeling of calm amidst the Parisian cacophonous traffic and set a true tone of tasteful exclusivity that I had to pose despite the annoying drizzle that drove most of the surrounding humanity indoors. Here, a triangle of buildings housing cute restaurants, chic galleries and undoubtedly pricey apartments faced each other through some unexpected greenery of a little park with serene benches and a chance to relax – highly recommended, weather permitting.
The Mass at Notre Dame was well-attended and televised in the latest technological fashions. Flat screens mounted all over the ancient walls beamed out the services conducted in the best of old traditions. I moved in closer not trusting the Japanese technology as much as my own eyes. The reward was tangibly entertaining as from a close side-view the priest appeared levitating behind his pulpit. The mesmerising effect was made possible on the account of a nearly invisible vignette of a staircase, creating a truly miraculous illusion. Maybe we should try something like this in our church? Attendance might just increase.
La Mere
The next morning I was on my way to welcome the Mother on the French soil. Refreshed by a morning jog that revealed no akin sporting souls among thousands of frazzled commuters, I was enthusiastic about an airport train ride through the suburbs. My bus ride from Orly was educational; I hoped that the view from the rails on the way to CDG (Charles de Gaulle) was going to be equally informing. Unpleasantly surprised by a high one-way fare of 8E I was on my way in a jiff as Gare du Nord sends trains out to CDG with remarkably high frequency; just do not count on using your North American credit cards in the vending machines - line-up or bring cash.
The Parisian suburbs from the tracks did not reveal many pleasantries. Predictably, the further from Paris we got the drearier the sights became with many a caved-in wall or a created roof. Here France did not look one bit appealing – what would the hordes of foreign visitors think? Could our own Lotus Land be a beneficiary (?) – I somehow doubt it, as hordes still streaming unabated to the marvel on Seine from every possible angle and in every possible way.
Once disgorged in the vast airport my travails were not done since Terminals 2A or 2B or 2C seemed miles apart in a regular walking world. Hastened up by emotions of a remorseful son, I nearly ran to compensate for my usual tardiness. Luckily, the Mother was completely at peace with transatlantic travel behind her. She was just there, waiting behind her piled up cart completely unperturbed.
Tireless and sprightly despite the age and the lack of sleep, the Mother was utterly excited to start her Parisians explorations at a neck-breaking pace as her mouth threatened to break any and all possible records.
“C’est ne pas tranquil la-bas”, a soldier brandishing some very automatic weaponry barred the access to the railway station escalator. Crowds were growing by the second. “What could it possibly be?” I mused silently.
“Bang! Bang!” two consecutive deafening shots rang out from the platform below.
“Sounds like AK-47!” somebody exclaimed in utter exhilaration.
“Better find a bus or something” I quickly retreated to the rear in the best Red Army traditions. Finding a quick escape out of the welcoming clutches of French reality seemed like a solid pretext. Packing my own AK-47 was quickly becoming very advisable and yet elusive. I did not have one and messing with folks who had looked a little chancy – “Welcome to Paris” in other words.
Amazingly, the station re-opened within half an hour. Crowds rushed in to elbow each other as if on the way to Paradise. Yellow tape barely managed to preserve the scene of disorder with strewn-about luggage and an apparent lack of blood – shucks! Whoever it was in the cross hairs, the one behind the trigger was not a particularly good shot. The victimless scene quickly merged with the quickly departing past and getting to town was becoming a priority. So much was the need to askew any form of contemplation or patience that even as a new platoon of armed to their teeth soldiers did not make as much as a squeak. The folk could not care less and the ticket machines became instant beneficiaries of universal attention. Lacking cash and not willing to line-up for a live clerk performance, we skimped on the expensive fare to Paris and boarded the train at half price - a welcome if not a risky turn of circumstances. With vengeful conductors failing to appear we were back in the crazy swirl of Montmartre in no time.
No Time to Lose
Upon arrival and with hardly any rest Mother decided to soldier on despite the heat – after all it was Paris. The first stop of the day was of course Eiffel Tower, one of the best and certainly the most famous observation site. We were not the only ones of that opinion and unwelcoming crowds awaited our appearance. Reluctantly establishing our place in the local pecking order I strayed to research other, possibly faster, ascension options. Sure, right at the next entrance there was no line-up and prices were half ours. I rubbed my unbelieving eyes for a better view - it did not come with an elevator.
Despite the overall heroics, Mother was not in the mood for more walking and opted for stay. Now, driven by escalating prices and Rick’s advice we decided to pick the second of the three levels. After thirty minutes or so we were herded into a sweaty elevator that barely stopped at the first level as everyone else wanted to go higher, to the second level at least. There most adventurous and wealthy clients were to take a separate elevator all the way to the windy top. Given the nonchalance of the ticket clerks at the first level I regretted not beating the system (buy first level tickets to go higher) – feel free to use the advice. By the way on the way down nobody checked the tickets, period, so any walkers could easily cool their heels at not charge – very tempting…
As far as the views, second level is plenty as its height lets one to see just about everything in good perspective and sufficient detail. Mother was enchanted by the simplicity of Paris sightseeing – all relatively compact and well-marked, with only few gems finding enough refuge as to evade binoculars of the curious. Among the usual suspects here was the golden basilica dome where tired and hardly successful bones of Napoleon found their resting place. France is one of the few non-dictatorial jurisdictions that value so highly the price of useless vanity and outright failure. Sure Napoleon was not of the faint heart or of small ideas, but the dismaying fruits of his labours could have deserved a different memory. As such, the Fifth Republic adores its hero, the dictator. George Bush should take heart and wait for his own historical verdict. Maybe they will give him his own basilica one day.
Mother was enchanted. Now, an hour before meeting her old Ukrainian friend and her daughter with a boyfriend by another tower, the tower of Montparnasse, we had a bit of time to enjoy one of the more secluded and enjoyable neighbourhoods around the vaunted and less than typical Rue Cler. Nestled right in between Les Invalides and Tour d’Eiffel, the posh neighbourhood retains an unprecedented-ly calm face despite daily thousands roaming about in search of sights and entertainment. So undisturbed the ambiance that one can easily observe many a local by plentiful sandy park patches at their favourite pastime - Petanque, a South French variety of bacchii. Here unlike in other spheres of life, French exhibit a knack for character playing with heavy metal balls (uncovered) and much gusto. The players tend to be older with comfortable socialist pensions, well-worn pants and all too warm berets. The pensioners are not alone as 10% unemployment also produces a side benefit of young blood willing to enter the fray. Enjoy, linger, observe, snap some pictures and exhale amidst midday tourist exhaustion – just great!
Friendly Geniuses
ses After an impromptu confusion caused by zealous Metro map makers, we finally arrived at the Tower of Montparnasse to meet our friends. They were in full force – a unilingual Ukrainian Vita, her multilingual daughter Viola and her very Quebecois boyfriend Nicholas. Finally, I got to meet the locals, or the closest thing to it. The introduction quickly split the group into two generations. English mixed with some French was the language of one while Russian prevailed in another – splendid.
After a brief orientation we brusquely moved in the direction of St. Germaine as Montparnasse was a little less palatable with its mountain of concrete, steel and glass called the Montparnasse Tower. You just cannot miss the place, that’s how obnoxious it looks. And yet it has benefits as it delivers some superb views rivalling those of Tour d’Eiffel from its top observation deck at a lower price - might be worth a visit. Besides it is a prime suicide jump-off. Some still occur despite tight security. The last victim flew right by Viola’s window since she works in the tower. Luckily, she did not notice and was spared some of the ensuing gore.
On the walk to St. Germaine we made some inroads into personal stories.
“I was born and raised in Quebec, not far from Quebec City. Have you been?” said Nicholas (pronounced Nicholya). He appeared to be a very mild and pleasant sort of chap. “Very thoughtful” some would say.
“Yea, beautiful place” I reciprocated. “And then what”
“Then I went to Chicago (University of Chicago) to get a doctorate” Nicholas reported meekly.
“Doctorate in what?”
“Math” replied he ever evenly.
“Math!” I was getting that small feeling. When people get their doctorates in a subject I can remotely understand it is OK. But math (!) here ninety-nine point nine percent of folks do not even understand what the problem is, let along trying to offer a solution. Amazing! I was awestruck and had to proceed slowly as not to stumble into some basic intellectual pitfalls.
Nicholas was the accommodation itself, explaining that despite his much enlarged cranium life was not that simple after all. Contrary to the famous Lesser-Fair pronouncements of Milton Friedman who chaired the economics department of Nicholas’ Alma Mater, my new friend’s super competitive credentials did not seem to deliver much in a way of tangible monetary results. It turns out that the world these days is very keen not only on Wolf-Eat-Wolf just in time Chinese manufacturing (some lead anyone?) but also on Fish-Munches-Fish academic employment. Here, unlike during its glorious past, it takes years and years of search for a permanent spot. Temp work is not a problem. You research, mark and teach but getting tenure, not so fast... At least you are called an “adjunct professor” as opposed to just “temp”.
After six years in Chicago, Nicholas moved on to some university in Amsterdam, where while attending one of the conferences, he met Viola – the soon-to-be doctor herself. The romance sparked and some time thereafter Nicholas arrived in Paris to work in the University of Versailles. Temporary of course, the posting provided much needed proximity to his gifted girlfriend and rather rhythmic work schedule that does not seem to send him on long train rides to the Luis XIV neighbourhood all that often – very convenient.
After prodding his economic inclinations, which (oh, horror!) somewhat deviated from the placid postulates of Mr. Friedman, I felt comfortable enough to prod further into the world of current politics in general and right wing Mr. Sarkozy in particular. Here my expectations of a deep-seeded socialist spirit were defeated on the account of Nicholas’ fairly stringent views on French immigration problems.
“Lack of desire to assimilate is the crux of the issue” he volunteered humbly
“But what about the innate French racism?” I persisted
“A much smaller problem” he concluded calmly. I knew I was defeated, for now at least. The arrival at the sunlit Notre Dame provided a good break. Magically scintillating in the pink evening skies, the ancient edifice called for a few posing moments including the ones behind the edifice, in the park amidst fresh spring roses – a very soulful sort of locale.
Being with the regulars definitely had its benefits as one was forced to pay attention to some perhaps more obscure and yet hardly any less worthy sights. The Paris Mairie is one of them. Plunked near the majestic Louvre, hemmed in by busy Seine and wrestled by the brat of an upstart, George Pompidou, the majestic edifice tends to be easily missed despite its soaring architecture, opulent front square and striking red flower arrangement gracing just about any window. Built in the best traditions of French Renaissance, the building is worthy for a snap if not a whole moment of contemplation since a number of French revolutionaries including those of the 1871 Commune found their first and last refuge within its walls.
At this point everyone seemed to be getting hungry to the point of faintness. Alas, the Mairie did not attract much in a way of affordable food and our feet inevitably led us to the spacey ugliness of the Pompidou Centre. Erected in the worst traditions of the 80s avant-garde, it reminds of a cheap plastic play cube dropped, forgotten and buried in the flawless English garden by an ungrateful toddler. More than many, imbued with preferences for perfection, share my sentiments and yet this alien object thrives, attracts and even creates. Aficionados of modern art, skateboard revellers and regular folks in search of food, beer and good time teem here like bees on honeycomb.
We promptly found a modern looking place right on its steps. Cold, cuby and pricey, it fit the bill just so. But who cares, all had a good time recounting stories of life and circumstances. Besides, I ate leftovers and even learned how to order water from tap, an indispensable tool for cheap North American travellers. It is especially useful in places like Latin Quarter where a glass of coke or a bottle of carbonated spring water could easily eat up half of your dinner tab. Well, just remember “l’eau du carafe”.
Retreating with Luis XIV
The next day was our long-awaited trip to Versailles. Armed with Nicholas’ advice to take a train from any station on Rive Gauche such as Musee d’Orsey, we did not have any troubles finding the place. With Rick Steves under my arm, I duly procured Forfait Versailles at 21.5E each. This provided for a round trip ride, access to royal apartments and a couple of other extras. Since the train ticket runs at 6E, the 20E Forfait Versailles without train was a complete rip – avoid at all costs!
And voila, thirty minutes later we were flowing with the rest of humanity right to the doorsteps of the famed residence. The first appearance was not the one I was used to on pictures. That one was on the reversed side, which the ever-suspicious Luis XIV preferred to hide from its subjects, especially the common folk of dusty Paris that he so abhorred. Quickly passing by the myriads of African-born trinket sellers we passed the huge crowds milling by one of the side entrances. The prospects of museum entry did not look entirely pleasing and the lush parks below beckoned with freshness unparalleled. The choice was simple and in few minutes Mother and I were descending down the crunchy gravel paths, along the main garden drag towards the canals. The crowds receded and relaxation set in, luring with ample benches, Greek statutes and non-functioning weekday fountains. Succumbing to jetlag, Mother could not resist pausing for a lunch break near the main lake – a very pleasant idea. The views from the bottom were just as spectacular as the reverse and there was much to contemplate among the ancient alleys approved and ordered by the Man himself. One lucky soul, the caretaker, appeared fortunate enough as to have his humble abode hide right in the middle of this earthly paradise. I wonder what it would be like to catch the very sunrise and walk the dewy paths in complete solitary peace. Hmm, romantic and safe, as no bears have been recently sighted.
On the way back Mother instigated a venture into some side gardens that revealed not only horticultural-ly pleasing and careful landscaping but also many an architectural gem disguised as laconic Grecian temples, sudden bacchanalia of golden baroque and other outdoor phantasmagoria. One of such displays was an outdoor ballroom. This creation so ably melded the golden baroque fountain cascades that descended into a shell-ly pool surrounded by sublime landscaping. The resulting effects were just spellbound-ing. Mother particularly had hard time leaving.
But leave we did, as the Luis XIV apartments were calling. Luckily, the longest line-up turned out to be none other than a bathroom queue. On the check-in through the right door, we received not only a proper x-ray screening but also very helpful sets of multilingual headphones that dispensed useful and plentiful information about the place – just press the right button. I inevitably settled for French while Mother was delighted to discover Russian on the dial. The rest was an exercise in crowd control as we streamed with thousands of other gawking eyes.
The apartments belied their humble name right from the start. Some palace bits were much more than that with the Royal Chapel and Opera crowning the list of everything unexpected and grandiose. When it actually came to the living quarters, multitudes of curious seemed to congregate especially tightly around the bedrooms. Who really cared to scrutinise yet another of the umpteen portraits, chairs or cabinets when chancing to sneak a peak into the private dealings of the great womanizer himself? And yet the man, whose libido could rival that of King Solomon, frequently managed to leave more palatable impressions on his contemporaries and posterity alike. Some even marvelled at his faithful and regular weekly appearances in the chambers of the Queen. Following each such visit the Queen was to be found in the best of moods even as the king still tended to wake up in his own bed – Sun King was a vigorous sort of chap.
Through the Queen Bedroom and newly restored Mirror Hall, we finally arrived at the King Chambers. The crowds pressed, the air hang still with intrigue and the highest volume setting on my headphones struggled to overcome verbally combative Chinese tour guides. Things were getting decidedly hairy. That was what everyone came to see – just like a famous battlefield except this one came with soft furniture.
The fateful bedroom required a wait worthy of Mona Lisa. Finally, faced with unexpectedly smallish reality of a simple double under a protective lush baldachin and smothered in blankets with complicated golden patterns, the life of the great man suddenly looked tiresome and mundane. Sure the door attributing to his many conquests was still there and the décor was as opulent as ever, but these numerous chairs lined up against the wall – surely he did not need that many to carelessly strew his hastily undone outfits. Well, these were not for deposits of worn stockings, they were for his ministers and adjuncts to await his daily risings complete with morning breath, “siege perce” and other very personal and decidedly non-regal details. It was really pitiful that after all these years of running away from Parisian crowds, our dear Luis had to succumb to full-on public exhibitions and a complete lack of private moments. On summation, the affairs of this megalomaniac intertwined so deeply with the matters of the state that the famous “L’etat est moi” does not sound all that presumptuous after all.
Other Malfunctions
Another bedroom that inspired more of colic-y reflections was the one formerly occupied by Maria Antoinette. The clueless German queen was so decidedly out of touch with reality and so engrossed in her architectural fancies at the far end of the lake (Palace of Marie Antoinette - Forfait Versailles works here) that her becoming a helpless fodder for revolutionary malcontents was only natural. They, enraged by common deprivations, had enough and swept the absolutism down the chimney of history, dragging the unfortunate queen away from her Versailles fortress. Her actual capture took place right here in the bedroom, as her highness attempted to run in the last act of utter desperation. The secret passage out of the bedroom was no ruse enough for her hunters. Caught and humiliated, she was paraded to slovenly Paris where she was to spend her remaining days in the anguishing confines of Les Tuleries, her last abode before being dragged to Guillotine.
Spat out back into the sunlight, we were not about to give up. The 21.5E included a 6E ride, 13E visit to the Luis’ apartments leaving an unaccounted quantity of 2.5E. This called for more action. After a couple of erroneous twists about the central courtyard, we located the Dauphine Apartment, with all latest efforts spent nearly exclusively in spite and hardly out of curiosity for all those Forfait Versailles tricks.
The Dauphine much like his apartments was just a painfully shadow of the Son King, his father. Waiting for succession all his life, he died never to taste the sweet wine of absolute power. All was in vain and his much plainer and almost neglected apartments relayed the mood. Surely there was still much ado about the portraits, chandeliers and vases. Hardly anybody came then and not many are coming now. Dreary and cold, you can sit here all day contemplating his bedroom all day undisturbed. Here even the occasional sunrays feel small and uninviting. A floor below his father’s, the Dauphine seemed to have been smothered by an impossible wait. Pity…
Refreshments were needed and promptly found near, in the opposite corner to the overcrowded toilets. Here one can chase a cup of overpriced hot chocolate with much more accessible bathroom visit – a priceless tip. Aside, do not forget to take a look at the ornate Orangerie, buy a trinket from a Zambian man who is about to be chased by local police and get the heck out.
Visiting with Locals, Almost
We certainly had to, as our visit to Viola’s apartment was looming near. Their place was close enough to the centre to qualify as a part of an arrondissement. Whenever booking anything in Paris, if it says “arrondissement number such and such” than it is probably closer than something called “Bois de Bologne”, Drancy or something else without a number. Before partying, a small gift was a good idea. Luckily, a bakery was just around the corner dispensing all sorts of goodies ranging from deliciously individual cheese dogs and simple baguettes to extremely wrought-over cakes and pastries. The place was hopping since the whole neighbourhood turned out for a piece of something soft and loaded with carbs. Nobody was on Atkins and the lack of bulge was quite apparent – what a conundrum...
The apartment housing Viola, Nicholas and her mother visiting from Germany for the week hardly measured 400 square feet and managed to squeeze out a bedroom between a tiny kitchen and diminutive living room that could hardly contain a small futon, TV and a bookshelf. The toilet though was very much separate from the shower in the best of European traditions. The rent went north of 700E. This was not for long as my friends were just about to leave the numbers of arrondissement for an extra 100 square feet and a room for a dinner table serving four. Voila, this is Paris! While rents here could appear half affordable given an average salary of something like 2,000E to 2,500E per month after taxes, the prices of outright ownership are just simply stratospheric. This place, coming apart at the seams due to a simple five-person dinner, could easily fetch 200,000E without blinking at all. And all this for plumbing that would not pass any inspection at home and spots of mould covering the walls. The source of penicillin was so bad here that Viola had to recently dispose of a whole bag of clothing inadvertently stored under her bed for more than average marinating time.
The tasteful dinner in the best traditions of French cooking at the Russian hands that featured crab stuffed avocado and Quebecois chicken delivered more interesting topics. Real estate was on the agenda and Viola was happy to report that this apartment was quite an ample footage offering, since Paris retains a distinction as one of the scarcest landlords in the industrialized world. One local solution here is called a maisonette apartment that typically measures less than 100 square feet, have a bunk bed with the rest fitting somewhere underneath. As far as the rent goes, one would be hard pressed to locate anything like that for less than 300E per month. I have seen some of these places advertised on Internet under the rubric of vacation properties – brrr.
Fed with enough chicken and apartment tales to last for a while we were topped off with a viewing of an apartment door that was neatly tucked in a garbage collector room on the bottom floor. Anything to find a place to live I guess. Viola assured that despite less than glorious entrance the place would go for no less than 150,000E – phenomenal! By the way moving is quite the business here as no one has the skills, wherewithal or trucks to navigate tiny stairways and narrow streets – interested? Hiring the help, Viola was not.
Profitable Thoughts
Meeting a friend far from home is always special. Meeting a fellow hydrite by the steps of Notre Dame is just as exhilarating. Brian, having just quit BCH in exchange for a good island (Vancouver Island) living was on a happy France roundabout when I caught up with him and his wife. Fresh with transatlantic flight exhaustion he was shining with delight that only people of peculiar accents can do. Being an inveterate New Zealander with a very cute sense of humour and a beer belly invariably struck me as irresistible. After a few warm hugs, shakes and chuckles at the local construction guys lugging some pipes with no protective gear or shirts whatsoever (I guess they do not have a Chief Safety Officer) we made some evening plans to catch up with the Champions League final. Breathing with perennial passion for rugby, the brutal sport for gentlemen, Brian had already managed to locate a rugby bar with few TVs, decent beer and Belgium fries high on cholesterol - and this after a mere twelve hours in the place. Sure, soccer, the gentlemen’s sport for the brutes, is nothing to rugby but the given the prominence of the upcoming clash between Liverpool and AC Milan, Brian was only happy to partake.
The Louvre, being one of the largest and most impressive art collections known to history is extremely badly mismanaged. Instead of numerous paintings, statutes and furniture pieces they should exhibit Mona Lisa, a couple of Michelangelo’s marble globs and few other Italians sprinkled with a handful of Flemish, Dutch and Spaniards. I guarantee you that if preserve this line up they could still charge the very reasonable 8.50E per and get at least 90% of the traffic. The rest of the stuff should be packed in creates and shipped all over the world to astonish folks like those in Vancouver where you could charge $20 just for a few Picassos with some Dali on the fringes. This venture could generate gobs of money and yet French persist in their old unyielding and hardly profitable traditions.
To be even more blunt had it not been for poignant and mysterious Giaconda, the must check-mark for any self-respecting tourist, the Louvre would never be what it is. You would need an army to do any harm to the precious Leonardo, the rest you slash, poke and burn almost at will. I am surprised it does not happen more often as there are parts of the exposition where some lunatic could hide for days on cafeteria food and crackers.
Not surprisingly, right from the entrance Mother and I were bombarded with pointy signs leading to the super-super-star exhibit. Trying to be collected and cool in the best intelligentsia traditions, we duly swirled by the Michelangelo(s), by the bust of His Grey Eminence himself – Cardinal Richelieu and few other stony creations. Brushing by ancient Romans and some Greeks, we plunged right into the Italian extravagance of Renaissance. This beautiful art rivals only baroque in the predictability of schemes, amazing technical quality and quick saturation that only rival that of a personal triumph over a two-pound lobster in the middle of an already sumptuous meal. Few Rafael(s) and Botticelli(s) later, we finally turned the corner ending right in the middle of the mob scene in front of the Numero Uno. Things have changed since my last visit some ten years ago. Now the painting occupied its own wall in addition to a new bullet-proof jacket, stern curator babushkas and tight crowd control ropes. The line-up to the front was as disorderly as those of the best sausage and cheese battles in the heady days of the USSR. Mother entered the human waves with expertly dexterity, I admired from the side, casting surreptitious glances at the coquettish Giaconda. Glances turned into an eye-duel and seconds turned into minutes as I had hard time escaping the captivating stare. Our eyes met from the distance at first, she refused to blink I could think of nothing but the eternal love. She was my momentary soul-mate until I remembered those insouciant tales of her presumed manhood. After all this was more than I could bear and my wife must have been washing soiled juvenile garments at this very moment. I could have stood there for hours had it been not for my sudden shame and dutiful inclinations to study the rest of the place.
I escaped, but many did not, as they were spent and undone, evidenced by the nearly empty halls housing the best Spanish traditions of Goya and Velasquez. These were getting more deserted by the meter. Finally, tucked away in an intricate maze of its own we entered completely hollow halls vainly parading masterpieces of ancient Assyrian fame. The precious mosaics did not have to be unearthed in the first place judging by the attendance. With some energy left we desired to return to the world of the living. The Richelieu wing was just an answer, stuffed with history laden Dutch, this corner of the museum also beckoned with lush apartments of Napoleon III. The Dutch were just as fantastic as ever in their quest for vivid life scenes, occasional debauchery and pragmatic portraits. Going through the Dutch exhibition is like watching a television of the 16th century – just mesmerizing. Napoleon III and a couple of Russians did not spoil the scene, as Russians reminded me of home and Napoleon III of Luis XIV whom he handsomely beat in the bedroom size. The only caveat of this museum wing is to be careful to remember how you got here. If not, be prepared to wonder in fruitless pursuit of “sortie” signs.
On the outside taking a stroll along the golden streets of consumer happiness headlined by the Consumer Mecca of Saint Honore proved to be a good idea to re-clear one’s cluttered mind. If not in the mood for 1,000E bags, stray into the Les Halles, where one can generally find a place to rest, watch pensioners play their beloved Petanque and gaze at the superb and nearly endless gothic of the unsung champion called St. Eustache. The cathedral is extremely impressive and its massive stony outlines would have tasted much fame had it been not for its world renowned cousin just blocks down the river – pity…
Back to Reality
Before heading off to the Champions League rendezvous, Mother and I checked out the immediate surroundings. Well accustomed to the hopping a-la-Africa rap we turned a corner to climb the steps toward venerable Sacre Couer. Here everything looked much softer in the pastel evening sky. No sharp smells or deafening sounds. Mother felt particularly at ease perusing many a kitsch art piece, some with a definitive claim to talent and charm. Walking a couple of circles around the live art exhibits tired me quickly. For Pete’s sake, I have just seen Mona Lisa, spare me! Luckily the place offered other attractions. The famed local vineyard on the back slope was an especially warm spot for her soul. Hemmed by urban live and merciless concrete, this green oasis is capable of refreshing and blessing many. Locals actually collect an annual harvest and bottle it with stubborn tradition, one truly worthy of the Old World. I would not mind trying a swig and Mother finally settled for picture.
After tasting enough views, affordable art and cold freshness of the Basilica we moved on down to the trinket shops. The departure was looming large and the need to stock up was becoming ever more acute. Besides, there was hardly anything else to do on the lower levels of the mountain. Going to Moulin Rouge was out of the question – I have already done some reconnaissance and the place hardly merited a checkmark. Worn-out and seedy, the whole Pigalle district appeared dreary and unkempt. Even the famed mill wheel looked small and hokey, just like one of those “the biggest in the world” creations that pop out around every corner in the hapless New World – biggest onion rings anyone?
On my way to the Brian’s rugby restaurant I stopped by the “venerable” Rue Cler. Popularized by the likes of Rick Steves, the notion was irresistible enough and I needed to cast a glance. The street is certainly delightful; it is alight with its markets, shops and pervasive wafts of cheese mould. However, it is hardly a norm as there are not that many “pedestrian only” places in Paris when compared with other locales such as Heidelberg, Vienna or even Lisbon. And people who live in the neighbourhood, where a tiny walk-up studio could fetch 300,000E, are hardly regular either since expensive meats and aromatic cheeses could hardly fit into the already overburdened wallet. So enjoy this small sliver of the silver spoon world before re-entering chaotic traffic, incessant noises and piles of dog pooh, much more typical Paris in other words.
The Game
By the beginning of the game, the rugby place was packed to the brim as well as any other nook with a TV, including the neighbouring Irish pub. The biggest club game of the year was on and the promised rivalry temptation was unparalleled. AC Milan, humiliated two years ago after letting a 3:0 lead evaporate like morning dew, was looking square in the face of their archrivals – Liverpool. Intrigue was great and tension palpable. On my arrival, Brian was already cosily installed between a post, two Belgium(s) in well-tailored suites and a plate of French fries. I closed in on his last escape by pooling a chair. Complete with a full beer glass I was set.
From here on the wine flowed, AC Milan scored and I learned that French have lost their long-term memory. Jean d’Arc was lurching in her grave as her compatriots seemed to have vast preference for the descendents of Henry VI, much to the eternal shame of Papacy and common sense. Lucky for me, AC Milan was not going to let the lead slip away this time. However, given the common attitude I preferred chatting up les Hommes Belgiques. Brian, not an avid fan, was only happy to join in. The chatter hid my Italian tendencies amidst the crowd inclined otherwise – a wise mood.
One guy was in some sort of crystal business, working out of his house in hardly a French fashion. He was actually still planning to do some work following the end of the soccer game, way past ten at night - admirable. His friend, sporting a striking girlfriend with high cheeks and very thin Parisian outlines, seemed to have other post-match ideas. In the meanwhile we found out that thirty five hour work week in Paris offices meant something different from 4PM daily departures. Instead office workers typically linger past 7PM. I guess one could feel a little guilt after a 9:30AM arrival and a nice lunch to boot. But not all in vain as for every hour over 35 for any given week one gets time in lieu. We mostly like overtime for money, they like it for time. Many among us do not know how to apply ourselves in unburdened moments; French not always know how to pay for them.
Brian’s wine kept flowing, our waiter kept running, AC Milan claimed the victory and I said good-bye after just two beers for the whole night. The beauty of French leisure lets you sip two measly glasses in the prime seats without being chased away with an expensive menu. No hard feelings, just do not forget to leave a tip. This is of course not mandatory but desirable given the frantic pace of one and only waiter. “l’Addition” and not “Le Compte” is the magic word.
Rounding the Check List
Before leaving Paris there are few things one should plan on covering. All of course depends on individual tastes, preferences and wallet size. But there are some that anyone without murderous obsessions could enjoy. One of such is the famous Parisian hot dog. Wrapped in actual pastry, twice the regular length and smothered in delicious cheese, this less than 3E creation lurks everywhere and begs for a try. Please do not run away.
After one of these I felt reinforced enough to take a long walk despite the sudden May heat, all the way from the Luxemburg Gardens to the Musee D’armee and Napoleon’s tomb. A worthy combination – one with a lesson for all not to repeat, the other with the lesson entirely missed. A strange pair of bedfellows covered with a combine ticket no less. Take it in stride, we still have time not to repeat the painful history, just make sure not to step on any Russian feet. These are numerous and unforgiving. I had a misfortune to squish a couple of Muscovite toes. The outrage was limitless despite many an attempt to smooth the brewing international scandal. I think that my Faux Pas mostly consisted of recognizing the looks and jumping in feet first with my “izvinite”. Nothing irks the New Russians more than being swiftly recognized amidst their Gucci’s and Cartier’s. I barely got out alive.
Our last excursion around the great city started on the steps of the magnificent Opera Garnier, the Old Opera as some prefer. Located right in the heart of chic Paris, the edifice of high art fits right in with the most opulent of shops, hotels and night clubs. The nearby Place de Vendome was just about an apogee of luxury, in the most sophisticated sense. As if rotating around the “a la Trajan” column of great Napoleonic conquests, the square spun all shades of gold. These were common and at risk to appear nearly as cheap as dirt. Here was the “Ritz” hotel, an inconspicuous and exclusive lair for people with jets to fly, yachts to cavort in and Haut Couture to cover the skin with. Incidentally this was the last abode that saw Diana, Princes of Wales, alive, sneaking out for a fateful paparazzi limo chase with her equally less than fortunate companion Doddi Al Faed.
As if to mock everything momentary even if royal and supreme, the eternal presence of time laughed inexorably right across the square with the likes of Phillip Patek and Breguet. These peddled their overpriced wares from under less than screaming awnings. “Money alone does not count” they chimed in competitive unisons. Yeah, right – that’s why half of Moscow wears them.
Down the Cappuccinos, the scenes got livelier and more affordable as we passed substantial crowds looking to get into a series of very appealing night clubs. The prospective clientele, all decked out in suits and size zero, looked a bit too daunting and certainly not frugal. At the end of the Cappuccinos, Viola and her mother took us to partake in the dusty and yet very elevating and definitively classical airs of the church of Madeleine. The Mother was utterly enchanted with the understated altar and its inspiring statute, that moving any further along our pre-planned route presented a problem. She just did not want to leave. Alas, we were soon expelled from the saving grace of A/C cold air into the sticky heat of a hot Parisian night. Once in a while priests have to go home too.
The Thin and Thinner
Within minutes we reached the centre of the Universe itself – Place de Concord. Thin, foreign and well-aged Egyptian obelisk marked the precise spot. I guess no matter what the progress, rockets in space or computers in the pocket, the old hawkers of the Imperial death cult triumphed over the common sense and reason after all, and it showed. The parking spots were filled with all sorts of exotics, the curb valets were spic and span, and the crowds were getting thinner by the minute. It was actually very strange that among all its culinary abundance of cheeses, baguettes and fois gras this town produced the thinnest people I had ever seen. Some blown along by the slightest whims of prevailing winds trudged about in complete defiance to the laws of physics. Completely devoid of anything but bones and make-up, some still managed to add few pieces of prohibitively weighty jewellery and yet I did not observe any immediate victims. Amazing!
Viola explained that she found it extremely difficult to find anything fitting in the French stores to wear, and this is despite her rather average size on my Canadian scales. In fact, she typically bought nearly all her clothing while visiting her mother in Germany. At least there wider “sausage and beer” hips gave her a chance to fit in.
“They start with breakfast at about nine” Viola volunteered to share local anorexic secrets.
“And then?”
“Lunch, usually a salad or something similar. After that, no food at all until dinner at eight or nine. Snacking is a complete Faux Pas and dinner is frequently lighter than lunch.”
“How do they not starve?” I could hardly keep my amazement down.
“I think they do. Starving is sort of a badge of honour. And if ever in doubt, the trick is not to show it”
“How so?”
“Make sure that there is always some food is left on your plate when done with dinner – otherwise you are a pig. Here food is a tool of social discourse. This is not an end in itself. If they could do without out it, they would”
“A-ha” I honestly do not know where Rick finds all those French willing to take on full course dinners and wipe the plates clean. According to Viola, only some uncouth provincials could have been co-opted.
Champs Elysees was the epitome of everything skeletal and, consequently, was able to accommodate incredible crowds on per square inch basis. Exotics were everywhere with coffee and beer going for King’s ransom sidewalk cafes were filled to the brim and posh perfume stores came in numbers. I loved these since one could perfume oneself to death without paying a dime. Just imagine smelling like English garden in spring, equatorial jungle and seashore sand all at the same time. I loved the samples and went a little crazy on the fumes. So blissful and calm was I in my impenetrable fragrance shield that jumping on some plate of exquisite desserts and champagne posed no problem at all. Some brightly urban clerk rushed in to defend… tool late, as I was happily stuffing my face with delicious dainties reserved for some private party. Do not put them out right next to the samples!
After few short blocks of this madness I was nearing sensual exhaustion. It was not Champs Elysees it was Champs Foule (mobbed). It was nothing Champ (field) about the place at all. Pressed by human carcasses, high heels, thin rimmed glasses and unending plethora of fragrances it felt like a good old line-up in Moscow’s GUM (department store). Arc de Triumph beckoning on the horizon announced a soon end to the overload. Taking a few pictures in the road medium (the best spot, just wait for the lights to change) we said good-bye to our Paris support crew.
Cruelties of Cheap Euro Travel
The next morning, brightened by the rising sun and a prospect of leaving this beautiful and yet very tiring metropolis, Mother and I calmly took the train to CDG (Charles de Gaulle). Not expecting yet another fusillade and parting from seemingly neighbouring terminals II and III, worry was not on a horizon.
With fifty minutes before my flight and one hour twenty before Mother’s I smugly rolled in with filled-in cart to Air Berlin counter.
“Ferme!” said she with hands wide and lips narrow
“Quoi!” one had never got totally pissed off that fast
“Completement Ferme” never such a simple word sounded as ominous. Right away I knew that insisting on French was going to be a bit of an issue as Teutonic-ally trained local personal was not going to give in easy.
“How can it be? There are still forty five minutes!” my indignant English was starting making some inroads judging by some grimaced fidgeting of my vis-à-vis.
“You can re-book” was their last defence
“What do you mean re-book” waiting for twelve hours with cheapest and thinly flying Air Berlin did not look good. Besides, what would Lufthansa bound Mother do without me in Vienna. Such prospects were simply unsupportable and my face got even redder.
“OK, we will put you in but without check-in luggage” my indignant visage must have done the trick and I was about to carry on my bag, deemed hand-luggage back in Canada.
“Not that one” this was final. As I left the already bursting bag on the Mother’s pile, she was getting hopelessly nervous. I was no less frazzled.
I swiped out the only cash of 80E between the two us and stuffed into Mother’s hand.
“Run to Terminal I. Run!” running was a fine option but with bags and sinking heart Mother was hardly a contender. She still had over an hour to get to Terminal II to catch her flight, maybe.
“Terminal II!” right before going through the X-ray machine, I realized in complete terror that I had sent Mother in the wrong direction. I snatched by backpack out of the scanner jaws and sprinted to the train station. Relief, Mother was still there, lost and utterly disoriented. Put back on the right track, she hardly stood a chance of catching her flight. “At least she would not be lost for hours in the vast airport” I thought with heavy heart. Few minutes later after the take off, I was able to see the real spread of the bleeding CDG, including Terminal II - Mother was in the able hands of God…
Vienna – Coming Home
Arriving in Vienna, still sweaty from my Parisian airport exercises, I dashed right to Lufthansa counter to find Mother’s fate. Using straight English for insurance, a friendly person in blue winked “yes” in subordination to international security. Eh, there is still something human left in the shiny sky and Mother was scheduled to arrive only four hours later than originally booked.
Now it was the time to unwind in the beautiful Vienna. The train ride was a measly 3E, the people looked normally fed and the air-conditioned train rushed by immaculate gardens, suddenly pleasant oil refinery and even almost joyful central cemetery – not a hint of dust and crumble of Parisian suburbia. Normalcy was returning with softly gurgling Wiener accent.
On the way to the pension, located within incredible five minute walk off the Hoffburg Palace, I crossed the entire first district. Sheer delight was softly filling my heart. Sure there were some hordes around always busy St. Stephens, and Opera still had to deal with swarms of music lovers but everything else was so peaceful and relaxed after the cacophony and madness behind that even horse manure smelt like freshly blooming roses after summer rain. I was not even distressed by my missing Mr. Clinton himself who had just left after some AIDS related function. Mr. Putin left two days ago after laying a wreath, where else, Soviet War Memorial. I seem to be destined to closely miss greatness on my innocuous outings. Only Queen showed up for the hockey game some five years ago - I was present.
Oh well, maybe I will meet Sharon Stone who had just reportedly arrived to participate in a huge AIDS Benefit concert to be held right in front of the gothic-ly inspiring City Hall. The concert was to be held at the same time as Klaus’s wedding, making it nearly impossible for my meeting with Ms. Stone to materialize. And yet I still harboured weak hopes. Besides, this international function attracted a very colourful crowd of counter-cultural folks. My pension, only steps from the venue, looked to be their headquarters with flags, chains and all. How did I end up there? It is a story of its own since I nearly felt victim, for a second time, to a Teutonic landlord.
After being struck from Herr Büge’s list in 2005 (Berlin) I should have been more careful. After all, it has always worked out with people in Spain, Portugal and France, why would it not work out with more serious folk? Well, it nearly did not as my perspective landlord Christian of ostensibly very urban hence variable tastes was in the descending line that went all the way back to His Grey Eminence (cardinal Richelieu). I actually suspect His Grey Eminence did not die at all and deceived everybody by simply moving East. I am positively sure about it after my encounters with Christian and Herr Büge.
So in line with all predictable habits, Christian called me just few days before my trip, telling me that his apartment suddenly became unavailable (AIDS Benefit, maybe) and my affairs would whence be conducted in the pension aptly named “Wilde”, yes it is the same as the English term. Upon checking the nightly rate was 80E instead of the expected 60E – I needed to place a call, urgently. Besides, my apartment consisted of only one sleeping room, very distressing since Mother was still coming to spend one night here before her eventual hop to Ukraine.
Luckily, my apartment was a truly spacious offering in the best of Viennese traditions, no more of that Paris crap, fit for really thin people. Did I say that? Oh yah, the streets of Vienna looked much more normal and even overweight in parts – what a relief! In addition to a huge room with three beds, the apartment had a large foyer and a nice kitchen worthy of at least two Parisian maisonettes. Quickly eyeing the surrounding, I dragged one of the mattresses into the foyer; surely Mother would not mind…
On my way back to the airport I could not resist a cigarillo trip to one of the truest Viennese coffee houses – Grien Steidl. Under the golden shades of Hoffburg and Spanish Riding School it beat anything Parisian hands down, price included – 3.20E. Who even cares that the direct sight of the Roman ruins is spoilt by the bleeding Starbucks, it could be worse, I knew.
Back in the airport to pick Mother up. The place presented a usual swarm around the arrival exit. I couldn’t even stand, nervously pacing and checking the awfully slow arrival board. A pleasant diversion came in a sudden appearance of my long-term acquaintance Mr. Granat. I was already supposed to meet him two days whence and yet fate presented another stab at serendipity – pleasant. In fact, I have quite an arsenal of such meetings that come just as often as missed dates with presidents, current and retired alike.
Finally, with Frankfurt flight arriving I could not wait any longer and simply walked across the imaginary security line to wait for Mother at luggage pick-up. In much more security minded places it would have been impossible if not outright deadly, but in beautiful Vienna nobody could care less. Eventually, scrunched by stressful flying arrangements, Mother showed up in her glory. Piled high with merchandise she was calm and collected, much to my excited shame.
Her travails in the hell of CDG ended with Air Canada charging her extra 40E for ticket change. Lucky for them she had that – bastards. Then Lufthansa wanted to charge her extra 100E for my bag. She did not have that, so the deviants settled for a 40E charge leaving Mother in possession of 2E for the rest of the day. At least she had a Canadian passport and still fearlessly brandished her passable English.
From that point on everything, including pleasant surroundings of the smallish airport, pleased her beyond expectations. Even a botched subway ride that resulted in three kilometre walk with bags and curses did not drain last ounces of her energy. It was past 9PM and yet Mother refused to give up on the Austrian charms. A late promenade delivered in spades. Small and cosy by comparison, Vienna shines by night like no other. Hugged by honey soft blanket of a summer night, we explored all the best on offer. The Parliament restored in the best Roman glories of marble and light was a true successor to Roman Forum. Austria might be just a bit of once mighty empire but its prideful traditions persist unabated.
The gothic City Hall was its soaring self with lights shooting into the skies with abandon. Spoiled and unapproachable by the foreign intrusions of an AIDS Benefit, it still maintained its stature. The Hoffburg, a little dim as to give imperial ghosts some nightly rest, shared a phenomenal nightly outlines of the New Rome that surrounded it. I had almost forgotten how charming Vienna could be, Mother was simply spellbound. Following a top rated pick-me-up Italian ice cream she could not think of anything but of returning to imbue the air of Mozart and Strauss once more. I just chewed on a street falafel in near complete ecstasy.
One Market and the Wedding
After Mother’s parting the next morning I just could not stay away from the very traditional and chaotic Saturday flee market. Like Rastro in Madrid, this one is a colourful treat filled with anything ranging from peppery donairs and succulent sour kraut to dainty antics, used books and scarves, of course. It was a brilliant and clear day that brought thousands to this boiling cauldron of folksy commerce. Squeezing between an overloaded cheese stand and barrels of pickles my patience was rewarded with a colourful yodeling dress for Sophie at 18E from suddenly very East Indian man and a pair of shoals from a very warm and friendly Pentecostal Romanian lady. I was nearly ready to go home had it not been for the main feature of the trip – Klaus’s wedding.
Klaus being a man of class and respectability did not want to let anything to chance and booked his wedding ceremony on Kahlenberg, a picturesque green Wiener Wald mountaintop overlooking the beautiful Danube. The waters might not as blue as previously famed but the location was unbeatable in keeping any unwanted riff-raff away from the proceedings. Unlucky for me, it was at the very end of a public transit line. Throw in a couple of transfers, and it spelt at least an hour fifteen beating my estimates of forty five minutes by a mile. I prayed for some inevitable delay, a picture hiccup of some sort or just sheer clerical laziness. In the end, all was in vain, as I passed a man in black on my way to the church. Austrians turned out to be an efficient lot and now they were crowding out into the sun for some group pictures. I travelled all this way to miss the golden moment – brilliant, and …yet predictable.
“Alex, great to see you, we did not see you in the crowd” Klaus was beaming exhibiting his longest travelling guest. “Were you late?”
“Just a little” I fibbed ever so slightly
“Do you have a ride down (to the reception on the neighbouring mountain top)?”
“Not yet”
“Stephan, here is Alex, could you give him a ride?” Klaus was very present despite the occasion.
“Jawohl!” retorted a young cheerful character.
Stephan was a twenty something year old Viennese fire-fighter with a-la-punk Mohawk and very friendly disposition that let my German loose on wide endless pastures with hardly any repercussions and much fodder. Being a boyfriend of the bride’s sister he had prime dibs and much company at the partying extravaganza to follow. He was my key man.
We piled on with another sister; there were four sisters and no brothers in the bride’s family; and her boyfriend Gerhardt for a short ride. From there one the fun began as my new friends had nothing else but partying until 4AM in mind. Since it was just about 4PM I was trapped for a long ride as buses probably did not run past midnight.
The reception was held in a view-venue that revealed a panorama of the whole imperial city. A little hazy through pollution and humidity, the city looked forward to the coming night lights to reveal its true magnificent self. For now I was in the reception line-up, mingling with my new and old acquaintances including Herr Meyer and Gerhardt (another one) from OMV. It was nice to see them hardly changed in the last ten years, they must have pickled or something, on all that beer and sour kraut, I guess. I had no other explanation for their relatively youthful looks.
I was dying to clarify the gift situation since the invitation asked for no gifts and outside of money I had no idea of what to bring. I might have been lost in translation but Peter (Herr Meyer) dutifully explained that it was true, no gifts outside of the immediate family were expected and any cash donation were to go to a children’s hospital. For this a plastic donation bowl was set next to a small mound of presents. I was only happy to slip a few euros and did not even ask for a receipt – imagine that.
Martina and Klaus, both a well-to-do financial professionals, did not need much in a way of financial help for their lavish wedding. Right from the start beer, wine and chunks of nice salmon hors d’oeuvres flew just swimmingly. Loading on few too many smoked delicacies I spent most of my time with Martina’s family consisting of her three sisters and their halves that included Stephan, Gerhardt and new arrival, Peter, who came from the Sound of Music land – Salzburg. Sound of Music was left to all those Americans of course, as none of my charges cared to ever watch this piece of the beautiful propaganda.
Gong (!) finally the dinner with some opening toasts and salads started. Klaus, not entirely sure that my reading of “Der Standard” ten years ago during may practicum at OMV produced much in a way of linguistical leftovers, arranged for yours truly to be surrounded by English speaking folk. Luckily, just about all of my companions preferred German so my torturous grammatical exercises could continue unabated. The only other non-German guests were a London banking couple with her hailing from “beautiful Sweeden”. I did not have to interact with them much as they had their own English huddle. At first though I was perplexed as I could not understand for the life of me why a person with German accent would prefer English instead. That was before I realized she was Swedish.
One of my table companions was Klaus’s old banking buddy John. He, originally from London, had spent the last twenty five years in Vienna. At first, I almost mistook him for a Viennese, so soft and gurgling his English had become. Now in his early fifties, he was firmly set east of Alps, surrounded by two teenage sons and a beautiful wife of all these years. He had definitely become soft on socialism and harsh on bloody free-trading capitalist bastards. Quiet ironic for someone who spent all his career working in a money trade, one would think. On the other hand, relaxed local air, perfect cold beer and enormous fried chunks of delicious swine by Blue Danube in the cooling shades of Prater (central park), and one would just find the only answer. John, a rational and successful man by all accounts, could not understand how western companies can continue to downsize and lay-off staff while riding on record profits. I found a brotherly soul.
In addition, John let me on the latest local financial scandals that included a major 3 billion dollar loss by one of the largest Austrian banks (BAWAG). The outfit nearly went bankrupt and was saved through a buy-out. All these misfortunes came at the hands of an arrogant CEO and his American-based deal maker. In addition, the imbroglio also implicated the former Austrian Chancellor Herr Wranitski. The latter seemed to have taken a bribe for covering some BAWAG dealings. He later claimed the “fee” to be a part of an expertly advise before the arrival of Euro in the 1990s.
“Can you imagine a politician advising bankers on Euro, what a bunch of bollix!” John was loved his sordid tales.
“And they come so cheap. You know, they paid Wranitski less than 100K. Hardly a great deal compared with 3B in losses, there must something wrong with the system…”
I figured there was no perfect place on Earth after all and Canada with its idiotically small sponsorship scandal beckoned no less appealing, it must have been all that wine I just chased with a shot of schnapps to clear my digestive passages – Stephan’s advice. Schnapps with the city dimming on the background – life was just too perfect.
Folksy Roots
Somewhere between the main course and the dessert, the bride was stolen. Well, in the regular country traditions she would have been taken to some watering hole in next town to await arrival of the bridegroom who had to find the location of his elusive prize and also perform a few creatively signing numbers to win her back. The countryside would have accepted nothing less.
Here, lamely, the folk just walked to the upper floor of the facility and opened few bottles of wine and sang (well I mostly listened). My half-drunken cohorts did just about every number from the Austrian folk list. This was a truly amazing cultural treat as so many seemingly young and hip managed to remember much of century old traditions. Performed in the heaviest of dialectic fashions even some regulars, like John, confessed to complete ignorance. No matter, fun was had by all with the best coming at the hands of the bride herself who delivered a superb yodeling feat with one of her aunts.
I could not believe the complexity of yodeling, I thought their throats would burst. And if that was not enough, a whole bunch of older guests, member of the same country choir, did their best to bail out Klaus who got his prize back mercifully, without having to expose his deficiently urban roots.
Musically intoned many felt right to jump on the dance floor hyped by a superb modern band that produced just about any crowd pleaser including “Neunundneuzig Luftballoons”. One of the most welcome choices were the upbeat dramatics of “Perfekte Welle” – “Perfect Wave”, a German hit of 2004. Following the Asian tsunami later that year the song was pulled from the airwaves in solidarity with the victims – amazing, considering that the song was just a sheer coincidence and had nothing to do with cataclysmic events. Yes, it is played again but sensitivity displayed by German DJs is certainly commendable, first amendment notwithstanding. Some (Ezra Levant of Western Standard, Harper’s buddy) on this side of the water do not seem to have a modicum of similar common sense to understand when publishing certain anti-Mohamed cartoons. Sure the original Danish publishers could have predicted riots and victims. But once the Muslim reaction across the world was an established fact, subsequent publishing them in Canada was clearly done in poor taste and a complete lack of accountability.
To cap off the feast, somewhere between the wedding cake and freshly cooked sausages with sharp mustard at somewhere around 2AM, one of table-mates Isabel, a very dignified and articulate matron of the local society somewhere in her sixties announced as a part of her farewell:
“Alex, I think you are wasting your time in Canada. With your international experience, you could do more here where it happens”
“Interesting thought, I will ponder about it” baffled, I am still thinking.
Alex the Conqueror
With the wedding complete, my travel friend duties were nearly complete with the exception of Herr Granat into whom I bumped two days earlier while on the look-out for my hard travelling Mother. At first I met Alexander some fourteen years ago when working for a Russian owned computer export outfit named Krystaltech. That job was my first chance to actually wear white shirts and ties to work as opposed to only register such dignified attire when filling out MacDonald’s’ job applications. The place did not play terribly well but I got a chance to meet some real international go-getters, my first New Russians and true Jewish geniuses. One of the owners, Mark, was a Russian-born Israeli immigrant who had as much penchant for commerce as for anything cultural or linguistic. He easily operated in at least four languages, made tonne of money and yet remained approachable and understanding on many an occasion. He actually hired me himself after I narrowly missed an interview with my eventual boss, Igor. The applicants were many but my credentials, blue old suit and “tutor”, as one of the occupations to hide anything relating to food service, made enough of an impression or caused enough pity. Whatever it was I came back.
The place was super interesting – it dealt in high technology, operated in few countries and gave me a chance to sharpen my talents behind the computer screen. Nothing prodigious ever came of it but I came across some interesting personal stories. Alex Granat’s was one of the most intriguing. He was a company rep in Vienna of all places. Why Vienna, that’s because it could have been Timbuktu for all that mattered. Alex was a born salesman of anything and everything. Borders and cultures did not matter. Vienna was just a domicile of his. There he settled after immigrating from St. Petersburg in the ripe age of twenty three. Having just finished St. Petersburg Conservatory with an obscure speciality of a bassoon player, he romantically entertained thoughts of becoming a star on the local scene. The scene was tempting, glorious and yet competitive with not much money thrown even at the better crop. Still much an outsider, Alex weighed his chances, left his bassoon in the closet and found his true passion in selling – computers, networks and executives – it did not really matter.
On this trip I caught up with Alex doing his shtick for an international head-hunter. Times were good, personally and professionally. Having spent a good part of life without an obvious mate, the last four had known romance with a very pleasant German woman – Anna. Besides some obvious charms, she also spoke some decent Russian. In fact that is how they met in the first place. She thought her luck moving from Stuttgart to Vienna and Alex decided to take his mom to the movies one evening. She was selling tickets in the place and Alex’s mother liked her from the first sight. The rest is history with the couple tying a know one year ago.
Besides linguistics, both of them share a passion for long-distance travel. Going for a weekend in Venice or hopping on a plane for a jaunt through Prado is just somewhat blaze being all that close. How about some sake in Tokyo or a huge steak in Buenos Aires instead? The destination for was Western Canada and my phone call was just Godsend. Alex, a huge Grizzly bear for detail, was happy to receive any help he could get his hands on. Armed with thousand and one brochures, maps and travel books, he picked me up for a get together. It took place in one of the best and classiest cafes of central Vienna – Continental. Right next door to the ornate Volks Theatre it dished out not only tasty coffee, ice cream and cakes; it also produced very tasty schnitzels. Huge, crisp and smothered in some lemon sauce, these were just to die for. But, my idyllic gourmand thoughts were not to be left along that easily. Alex spread his wares across the table and proceeded to clarify each and every detail, bump and turn between Vancouver and Banff. It took an easy hour before I could relax.
Squeezing Last Drops
After my latest reunion I wanted to test whether getting into the Vienna Opera at the last minute was a possible call. It was! The buzzing pre-performance foyer was palpitating with excitement and few people were hawking their extras at their face value of about 50E – a little too steep for me. I checked the box office but it was sold-out save for some prime seats topping 200E – no chance. They did not seem have anything resembling 7E no-view affairs of Barcelona, let’s say. But it should not hurt to ask and I did. Eureka! They had another altogether separate box office for undesirables where the lowly could pay mere 2E to get their standing spots. I guess the management did not want to hurt the sensibilities of the reputable public by mixing them with the riff-raff like me. I could not care less and why should I as I was holding a 2E wonder in my hands!
The standing seats in Vienna are available on at least three levels (balconies), some offer great views while others hide at least half of the stage. I was in there for a fight. Rushing up the stairs without anyone asking to show them my ticket – another possible frugality – I quickly discovered that I was not alone. Many had similar inclinations and had already reserved their better spots. Handkerchiefs, shoals and anything in between was the surest way to secure your spot without having to stay in the stuffy hot galleries before the show. Shucks! I was a little late, having to take on the obstructed views this time. Tired just thinking of standing for the next three hours, I hung on to the separation rail to see as much as I could of the world below. The first act of the “Ariadna Auf Nexus” by Strauss was starting momentarily.
The lights went our and magic made her entrance. Everybody seemed of the same opinion as even though this opera was not a perennial firecracker as it did not have much initial success when released some hundred twenty years ago. Only its re-mastered version did better. I sympathized since the complicated plot was certainly puzzling even as I followed the personalized monitor in German. Switching it to English did not improve the matters much, if at all. Back to German I wondered how people below, the ones in the expensive seats, fared. Not much better judging by the absence of personalized monitor devices. Figure this, I paid 2E to have one and they get screwed – there is justice after all. Just imagine sitting decked-out in diamonds, firs and silks after spending some 500E per pair. Seats are great and views are impeccable and yet you are completely lost in Strauss-ian abracadabra.
After the intermission, having mingled with the smoking public on the top view terrace I inhaled, emboldened and occupied a nice empty seat on the third level. The view was full, the opera got even twistier and yet I survived thanks to the monitor. Beautiful serenading voices just poured into my ears – a sheer delight. The diamond studded crowd below still strained in their technology-free world – even more delightful.
Just like two years ago I decided to spend my remaining euros in the airport Billa. It is a great locale being just a regular supermarket as opposed to overpriced concourse offering. Loaded with chocolates, 35 cent half-litre beers and a huge 3E bottle of local Austrian wine my trip was nearly complete. The celebrations lasted only few moments though as I was encountered by numerous and stern-faced checkers. “Shucks!” – I completely forgot about the liquids ban. One of course can avoid it by buying the stuff duty free, but I had to be a little more imaginative and it did me in. Only chocolates survived the grubby clutches.
Upon timely arrival in Frankfurt, I had nearly five hours to kill before my next flight to London. Not to be idle I planned some chores of course. The most urgent one was to mail a bilingual bible to my friend Kolya’s daughter in Munich. Kolya, a good product of Soviet atheism, seemed impervious. His daughter might do better. But not without some barriers as my remaining pocket change amounted to no more than 2.5E. Hoping it to be enough (they did not take credit) I gingerly approached the clerk at the Deutsche Post counter.
“It will be 1.5E” reported she rather cheerfully.
“Great” I started pouring my change on the counter.
“Do you have an envelope?”
“No, how much is one” I did not suspect any problems
“We ran out of single ones” problems came anyway.
“What are my options?” I really did not want to pay another $5 withdrawal fee.
“Buy a pack over there”
“But it is another 4E, sounds a little steep for a 1.5E package”
“Try an airport priest” inserted cheerfully another clerk. “After all you are sending a bible”
“Thanks” I wanted to try my luck in Frankfurt since I was going to visit the place anyway.
Half an hour later, I was on the platform amidst Frankfurt central railway station. Rushing to find another post office, I kissed the closed doors. It was Pfingst (Pentecost), you idiot and just about anything governmental was closed save for that lucky break at the airport. OK, finding an envelope here did not prove to be much of a problem. The local bookstore clerk was all help and a fresh new envelope was in my hand. With 1.8E jingling in my pocket I needed a cup of coffee. Alas, no outfits but Starbucks liked plastic. I had to sell out, on my last day of all things.
An hour long escapade into the city did not reveal many surprises as the WWII bombings left not much of the old stuff in the city where skyscrapers rule. And yet, with all that modernity it was still welcoming and familiar with Starbucks popping up everywhere like mushrooms after rain. It started to drizzle. The first refreshing drops were welcomed with open arms after the Viennese heat wave. I pushed past, closer to where the people were. My instinct did not disappoint and after a good sprightly walk I came upon of whatever was left of the old city. Charming and colourful it attracted crowds despite the weather. A large stage, erected in the middle of an old square. The speakers announced the good news on this rainy Pentecost, in un-translated American English of course. What, after Martin Luther and Zwilinge, German speaking people have run out of preachers? Anyway, the rain started beating really hard. Enough hopping, it was time to go home.
