Tag: travel (page 1 of 4)

Some evenings are perfect.

When Benjamin and I stepped into Rosebud for our last dinner in Paris, we knew instantly that we were going to have a lovely night.

First, I should provide a little back story…

Rosebud does not have a web site. We learned about it because our landlords here in the States loved it and suggested that we go. Arnaud and Corinne know us well, and we trusted their advice. We were very excited to see a little of their Paris.

When the concierge at our hotel asked if she could make dinner reservations for us, and we answered that we wanted to dine at Rosebud, she paused. She had never heard of it. Maybe she was accustomed to tourists requesting nearby places. Maybe because we were from the States, she thought we’d want a more touristy place, more English, less French. Maybe because she was young, she knew most of the hip, new restaurants, less about the established, historical ones. She was sweet and bubbly, and throughout our stay, she did her job well, selling Paris to us as a city buzzing with energy.

But we wanted a quiet place. Arnaud and Corinne knew Rosebud to be such a place, so did we when we walked in that night, and so did novelist, Alexander Maksik, when he first visited. To quote him, we were all seeking “a place of permanence, of ritual, of detail… and [we] liked the look of it, the lamp, the blue velvet curtains, the quiet hum of conversation. The light [was] low. A photo of a young Marguerite Duras [hung] discreetly behind the bar, which [ran] the length of the room, a stack of jazz records at one end. The wood [shone] under years and years of lacquer.”

Rosebud was beautiful.

A distinguished gentleman wearing a white jacket and black tie greeted us warmly, first in French, then, seeing our apologetic expressions, in friendly English. He showed us to our table and asked if we wanted a pre-dinner drink. Of course we did. When Benjamin tried to order a framboise, our host shook his head. “No, no sir, you do not want this before dinner. After perhaps, yes, but before, no.” We both smiled. This was a man who knew the business of food and drink. So Benjamin asked, “What do you recommend?” Music to Benjamin’s ears, he responded, “Perhaps a bourbon side car?” I ordered one of my usuals, a vodka tonic, and to my relief, our maître d’hôtel approved.

The pacing of the service at Rosebud was perfect.

But another necessary side bar…

Along with the bright lights and obnoxiously loud music of too many restaurants here in the States, one of the things I can not re-adjust to about this “culture” is the constant questioning, the menus-in-your-faces-hurry-and-order mentality. “How are we doing here? Can I get you more bread? Would you like to hear the specials? Some dessert tonight?” Oy! I waited tables, so I know the up-sell training drill. But after dining, really dining in Europe, I feel like waiters here are pests. I am not proud of this statement. It feels like betrayal to my former co-workers.

It’s just that being left alone to sip and talk for a moment (or fifteen whole moments) is nice. This gives you a chance to absorb the atmosphere. At Rosebud, we were treated not only to the luscious sounds of quietly spoken French but to Chet Baker. Ahh… now this whets the appetite. After the appropriate acclimation, our waiter returned with the menus, and we ordered what he recommended. The menus were gracefully whisked away and we were left alone again to listen, chat, and view the other patrons.

We were the only English-speaking people in the restaurant. Regulars strolled in to be greeted with hugs and kisses. Their drinks were in front of them as quickly as they could nod to the bartender. One woman, dining alone, sipped a red wine and read her book. A couple came in holding motorcycle helmets. The waiter scooped up the helmets and tucked them on a shelf behind what had to be the riders’ customary bar stools. Another very young couple kissed between sips of their cocktails. When I say they kissed, I mean they were ‘making out’ unashamedly, or ‘necking’ I think, perhaps as only Parisians couples can. Honestly, everyone seemed perfectly at home in Rosebud, perfectly Romantic. If I lived in Paris, oh if I lived in Paris, I would aspire to have my signature drink here. I would write here.

Once again, an informative anecdote…

I learned from reading Maksik’s article that several artists lived on rue Delambre–namely Man Ray, André Breton, Paul Gauguin, Sartre, and Henry Miller. Hemmingway and Fitzgerald also met on this street. I knew those spirits lingered! I could feel them watching us in Rosebud.

Our food was fantastic and traditionally French–steak, frites, salad, truffles, and of course, a chocolate soufflé for dessert.

We did not want to leave, not Rosebud, and not Paris. But this was a fitting farewell. We complimented and thanked both the waiter and the bartender profusely. To our delight, they invited us to return the next time we were in Paris. And there will definitely be a next time.

After we left the Musee d’Orsay, Benjamin and I decided to stroll. We could take out time. We had the whole day to soak up the streets and cafes of Paris. Ahhh…this was what we loved to do in new cities…walk, walk, walk, sip, and discover.

The buildings of Paris were gorgeous. As we meandered, Benjamin and I talked about how Paris (and Prague and Berlin) made us feel so charmed. Yes, it was the history, simply knowing that those structures have withstood time and survived wars. But even more so, the older buildings of Europe carried particular sounds. The architecture was quiet.

In the younger United States, the buildings seem to amplify. I love the sky line of Chicago, but this city exhausted and overwhelmed me at times. It felt loud. Maybe it was the height or the steel, but when I commuted to work among the sky scrapers, and then stayed downtown to attend evening classes, I was tired. I was ready to retreat to the softer tones of my neighborhood brownstone.

Every time I have visited New York I have felt more energized than any other city in the U.S. Yes, there was always a bustle, of course, but I felt calm. Most likely, I was more relaxed and inspired because NYC permeates with art and history. Chicago had lovely art too, but the dominant feelings there were of hard work and walking fast to keep ahead of the next blizzard (sorry to poke fun, Chi-town. You know I love you, you cold beast of a city). I also think that for me, New York felt the closest to a European city, probably because of Ellis Island or simple geography with it being closer to the continent.

In Paris, we rode through crazy traffic and there was lots of movement, but the muted colors, the curves and lines of the buildings hushed these, settled them somehow. And it was just so pretty to see varieties of old growth trees, people reading under statues of poets, and flowers everywhere in the gardens. Paris felt welcoming. In one endearing moment, we watched as two little boys on pedal-less, wooden bikes recognized each other in a park. They were toddlers, probably about three years old. When they saw each other, they hugged and kissed on the cheeks. Then, I swear, they rested their elbows on their bikes and started chatting like two gossiping grandpas. So cute!

We passed little shops selling chocolate, perfume, candy, clothes, and shoes. Elegance and fashion are synonymous with Paris, and after walking several blocks, we decided to stop at a cafe and watch the parade. We chose a place called Sip Babylone, and it was perfectly Parisian with its dark wood, cheerful music, mirrors, and art on the walls. We sat at a corner table and ordered wine, cheese, and bread (bien sur!). No one was speaking English, and as usual, I relaxed to the sounds of a beautiful language that I did not understand. We lounged, listened, and people-watched for a couple of hours, and then it was time to visit 27 Rue de Fleures, the former home of Gertrude Stein and Alice Toklas.

My love for Ms. Stein and Ms. Toklas began a long time ago when I went to New York with my friend Rita. She and I saw an off- Broadway play about letters written between writers and their lovers or friends. I remember feeling enchanted by how Gertrude and Alice “spoke” to one another through ink. I then learned about their artist salons, the notable writers and painters who dined and drank with them in their Paris apartment. So I had to go.

The apartment was marked with a plaque bearing their names. It was humble, and part of me wanted there to be more recognition, simply because I think what both of them did was so crucial. I suppose this is my respect for mavens–people who have the gift of bringing other people together, people who host parties and do it well, with the intent of creating an atmosphere of lively conversation. People like this are rare. I seek them out in my life, and when I can, I try to be a maven.

I wanted to go inside that building. We saw people coming in and out. It was after all, a ‘normal’ apartment. But I wanted to be the crazy lady who asked the current residents questions like: Do you hear ghosts conversing or debating in there? Can you feel tension and attraction among them? If there were ghosts in there, maybe they would rearrange the art or have something knock the residents on their heads if they were discussing art and the ghost disagreed. Or maybe they would simply try to bring people together.

Obviously, I let my imagination get carried away. How could I not? This was the site where some of the greatest, creative brains came together for parties. Like natural places or museums, this was holy ground. So I stood there, dreaming and thinking, paying homage to two women who had created a scene.

Visiting the fifth floor Impressionist collection of the Musee d’Orsay felt like I was walking in a dream. Often during my months in Europe, I felt this way. It was the quiet, pastel quality of European cities. I am an incurable, unapologetic Romantic, and there is perhaps nothing more silver than wandering in a Paris museum.

It was crowded, yes, of course, but with city travel comes the ability to filter or mentally separate yourself from a group. Truthfully, I wanted to be physically alone on that floor, among all those paintings and sculptures. Similar to swamps, beaches, or woods, museums are places of reverence for me, and I prefer solitude in them. Also, I found myself pretty teary the entire time I was in the Musee d’Orsay, and I wasn’t sure about crying so openly in public. Back when I was in grad school, one of our teachers took us on a field trip to the Chicago Art Institute. As he stood before Van Gogh’s “The Bedroom,” he started to cry. I remember him saying something like, “I’m sorry. Every time I see this painting I think about how lonely he was.” I suppose if an accomplished professor could respond so openly, then it was ok for me too.

As I stood in front of Van Gogh’s “Self Portrait,” with his vivid blues and signature brush strokes, I remembered my teacher’s comment, and I cried. I wondered about how Van Gogh felt as he painted. Were those heavy marks made in moments of frustration? After he laid down the big swatches of color (and the oil dried), did he rest before he painted the thinner marks, like the simple lines to denote his shoulders? Or did he work constantly until the painting was finished? Admittedly, I hadn’t read much about Van Gogh, and someday maybe I will. There in the museum, in front of his face, looking into his intense eyes, I wanted to keep more questions than answers. It was an honor simply to stand beside his portrait.

With Renoir’s “Two Girls at the Piano,” I was immediately transported to my childhood. This painting made me think about my Mom, and how happy I was when she gave me my first piano. “Two Girls” has beautifully soft colors, a sweetness of the moment. Looking closer, I saw a transition of textures, from the fabric of the standing girl’s sleeve to the seated girl’s hair and finally to her ribbon. It was humbling to see how Renoir achieved this. I wanted to close my eyes and touch that small part of the painting, to see if my finger tip could detect the subtle differences. Obviously, I did not.

And I did not try to climb into Monet’s “Blue Water Lilies” either, even though I wanted to. Those dripping willow branches and the lilies in the water looked inviting. I don’t know if I can accurately describe this or not. I felt like Monet’s reflections were inside my body, coming out from my skin. Maybe it was the scale of it, the brilliance of the colors, but it was tangible. To see something that shimmers and to feel that shine inside is heartbreaking and beautiful. The next time we visit France, I need to see his gardens.

Yes, walking in the Musee d’Orsay affected me emotionally, intellectually, and physically, as all powerful art should. Degas’s sculpture, “Small Dancer Aged 14,” was particularly striking. She is three-dimensional, life-size, and life like. Degas used real hair and actual ballet slippers in this work. At the time of her unveiling, he was criticized for how he sculpted her face, something about not making her feminine or beautiful enough. She was gorgeous to me. The museum keeps her in a large glass box, which emphasizes the idea that she is more a part of an anthropological or natural history exhibit and perhaps less a work of art. She is both. We all are.

I kept thinking about the time and labor in those rooms. How long each carefully chosen composition must have taken. How many hours the painters must have worked as they tried to capture the light with accurate color. What intimate processes sculpting and figure drawing are. While you are not actually in physical contact with the body, in a sense you are. Your eyes are following every line and contour, and your hand is moving in time with your eyes, almost touching.

When we reached the end of that long series of rooms, we moved with the crowd to exit onto the rooftop. The views of the city from this rooftop are famously beautiful. For the two us, it was seamless…from rooms of paintings into a painting itself…the stunning, dappled horizon of Paris.

Since I was a little kid, I have wanted see Paris. One of my favorite books (which I have kept since 8th grade) is Impressionism by Pierre Courthion. I used to spend hours looking at the paintings inside. I admired the artists who seemed to play with light, who saw the world just a little softer, a little more quiet. Somehow, I guessed that living in a city like Paris could inspire this kind of painting.

I was also obsessed with ballet. I took lessons for awhile, but I think mostly I was interested in watching it, not only the movement, but the costumes, especially the point slippers. I associated ballet with France too. I thought that living in a city like Paris would inspire everyone to move gracefully.

I was right. When Benjamin and I departed the train station and then wheeled through the city toward the hotel, I felt elated.

Paris is lovely.

I know that as much as this city has been praised, it has also been criticized. And yes, there should always be a balance of positive and negative reviews. This is healthy critical thinking. But for this post, from this traveler, I must join in the chorus of hallelujahs for the City of Love and Light.

When I saw the Eiffel Tower, I felt like I needed to whisper. I knew that it was one of the world’s most beautiful structures, but until I was standing beneath it, I had no idea how pretty it truly was, like lace…soft grey during the day light and silver and gold sparkles at night.

I have another favorite book called Radical Lace and Subversive Knitting by David Revere McFadden. This book is “a collection of artists who apply traditional knitting and lacemaking techniques to unusual materials” (Holly Hotchner, Director of Museum of Arts and Design). In this book, artist Cal Lane, shares that she used to work as a welder. One day, as a joke for her co-workers, she placed doilies on the machinery. Inspired by how these contrasted, she later began to cut things like shovel heads and wheel barrels to make them look like doilies. The Eiffel Tower reminded me of this, only on a much grander scale.

Of course, now that I am not traveling and have a different focus, I am chasing my usual “research rabbits” down their little holes. I wanted to know what influenced the designer, Gustav Eiffel. I was curious to see if lace played a part. What I discovered was fascinating! During the 1880s, when the Tower was being built, Japanese art was influencing Europe, and in Japanese Shintoism, there is a concept called ‘ma.’ Loosely defined, it is a place for the mind to rest, a respect for emptiness. As someone with a great need for quiet and space inside her brain, I love this. My rabbit hole research had me looking at images of leaves in reticulation and dewy spider webs stretched between thin branches. And according to the same site, yarntasting.com: “Gustav Eiffel was a bridge designer, well schooled in a discipline where wind pressure counts as a weight to bear, and a dynamic one at that. Building a lattice permitted the tower to become the world’s tallest structure by reducing its wind resistance. We look at it and see the iron bars, but the space between them is crucial to the workability of the design.”

The spaces in between are where essential breathing happens…where we slow down. This was Europe for me, Paris especially.

Yes, I stood beneath Gustav’s creation in awe. I imagined a younger version of myself in grey ballet shoes, dancing on the Eiffel Tower.

Obviously, there are differences between the individual residents of a country and a country’s officials. This is true everywhere to varying degrees. Like many U.S. citizens, I have experienced the bureaucracy unique to some of our more frustrating systems (the DMV, for example). Never before, however, was a power display as frustrating and simultaneously humorous as when we were aboard the D-Bahn leaving Germany.

I am a writer. I observe and record, and I try express my opinion with some sort of balanced, open-mindedness. But there is also a mischievous Catholic school girl within me, (let’s call her Suzy) who when faced with a verbal scolding or a passive-aggressive guilt-trip, must bite her tongue to keep from laughing. Hopefully, Suzy Wise Mouth won’t surface too much as I describe our departure. But I can’t make any promises.

So we were on the D-Bahn, and the conductors were coming around, as they do, checking passports and stamping tickets. Benjamin had purchased our tickets over the phone. The DB official on the phone instructed him to print the tickets at the station and show them to the conductor when asked. This is what Benjamin did. When Conductor “Franz” came by, he took a look at our papers, sighed melodramatically and said, “No, this is not ticket. Please you looking for ticket.”

Benjamin was calm at first. “This is what the machine printed.”

The conductor sighed again, and I swear I saw him roll his eyes. “You buy on phone?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Benjamin, “and the man on the phone told me to print these at the station. This is what the machine printed.”

Conductor Franz began to steam a bit around the ears. “No, no,” he shook his head, “This is seat number. I need order number. How I know you pay for ticket?”

“I don’t understand,” said my love, trying for reason, “How would I have a seat assignment if I didn’t pay for a ticket?”

Franz wasn’t having it. “No, no. You call please and get order number. Then I make in machine you buy ticket. You call please. You get number and write number here.” He pointed to the top of the paper.

As the one in our partnership who dealt with the utilities people, the apartment people, the bank, and the HR department of his job, Benjamin had had enough of German red tape. He was tired, and he just wanted our vacation to get under way smoothly. I hadn’t dealt with as much German civil service, so I had more energy, more faith that this was simply some sort of mistake. I also rather liked practicing the little German I had learned, so I decided to make the call.

Now, speaking on the phone in another language is one thing if you’re trying to do something fun, like rent a bike for a day, or find out if a store has a certain brand of shoes. It’s ok if you’re taking to an actual human. When you’re dealing with an automated service that is providing options of buttons to press, and you have no idea where most of those buttons will take you, well, you press and guess, and hope you’re not sent to another robot. I pressed and pressed until I heard a blessed human voice. This DB official was very nice, and she actually laughed saying that the number that Franz was looking for was indeed there, on that paper, in the left lower corner. He didn’t know to look for it.

Hmmmm…now Suzy was ready. I was trying to keep her in, but man, she wanted out badly. She was positively aching to snort with laughter in his face. I mean, c’mon. This was a classic “head-does-not-have-a-clue-what-the-ass-is doing” kind of a moment.

But when I returned to our seat, I saw that Benjamin was clearly upset, thinking that they were going to kick us off the train. I reassured him that it would be ok. I whispered that it was Franz’s mistake, I had memorized that order number, and I was ready. Benjamin breathed a little sigh of relief. Suzy felt protective. She hated it when anyone made her love feel this way.

To make things even more unnecessarily complicated, Franz brought his boss to our seats. I bite my tongue. I had to. The two of them looked like a pair of ridiculous bobble heads, with their fingers in their belt loops, rocking forward and back above us, trying to be intimidating. They were saying things that were supposed to make us feel bad like, “Paper tickets are better. Why you not buy the paper ticket? This is not good.” And blah blah blah…I could feel Suzy beginning to smirk, and I had to swallow to stop her.

I didn’t want to make matters worse. For Benjamin’s sake, I quickly and silently told Suzy that knowing we were right was enough. We didn’t need to prove it. So instead of laughing, I changed my face to mirror their non-expressive mugs, and very slowly, with an ink pen, I hand wrote the order number as large as I could on upper part of the ticket (centimeters away from the computer-printed number of the same digits). I showed it to Herr Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee. “I believe this is the number that you need, ” I said, deadpan as I could muster.

“Ah, yes, very good,” they responded, and after fiddling with the machine that would print yet another paper, waiting for this machine to connect on-line, and bobbling some more, they left us alone.

Suzy finally smiled, triumphant. Benjamin could rest now, and we would cross the border soon. Tschuss, my temporary German home, Auf Wiedersehen!