Strange Day or Working for the City

Yesterday, I spent the morning in the social security office waiting for my number, C37, to be called. The number calling system was apparently designed to frustrate people into going home without their social security check. First of all, they don't only call numbers, but names as well. And there's no rhyme or reason to the numbers. A27, B4, Sing Kim Lee, A2, C17, Renaldo Hernandez. Sigh. On top of this, they call the numbers over a microphone. But from the sound of it, they put the mic all the way in their mouths before they speak. All seven employees had their own mic, but didn't worry about speaking on top of each other. Just in case this wasn't difficult enough, they put B and C in front of the numbers. Sounds most non-native English speakers and all old people (which constitutes everyone in the waiting room, except me) were not able to distinguish. So, I was surprised when my number was called out loud and clear after a mere hour and a half. I was happy that I seemed to have all of my papers in order. I was sad when the boy behind the counter said, "you look too young to be......married." Of course, he meant divorced. I was devastated when he tore up my social security card with Hillary Napoli printed on it into little tiny bits and threw it in the garbage.

Next stop, HR office at the library downtown. Where I had to read (with someone watching, so I really had to try to read it) the code of ethics, the no-smoking ordinance, the substance abuse ordinance, the sexual harassment ordinance, the this policy and that policy and sign my name on a loyalty oath.

Now that the city owned my ass, it was off to the doctor for a city examination. It was like going to jail. "Drivers license. Sign here. Fill this out. Take a seat." The waiting room was huge and filled with rows of seats with fold-up desks. About 40 of us waited, all shuffling, no talking. Three of us were called in at once. The waiting room door slammed shut with too much finality for my taste. One girl was taken down the hall. The other girl and I waited. Someone came for me.

"Right this way." I followed a woman in rose-colored scrubs down the hall that smelled like the seventies, into a teeny tiny office with a teeny tiny desk and giant refrigerator. She opened the refrigerator door."Step on in and take a seat."

"uh..." I looked up and saw headphones on a hook. Hearing test. She closed the refrigerator door and left me there with a recording and a button to press each time I heard a beep. The voice in the recording says, "Following the test, do not exit the booth. Please wait quietly for an attendant to release you." So, between thoughts of being locked in the refrigerator and memories of those bizarre buses that used to pull up in the parking lot at Aliso Elementary to test our hearing, I listened for the tone and pressed the button.

Really, I tried to wait quietly. For about 23 seconds. But there did not seem to be an attendant coming to release me. I debated whether or not to try the door. If I didn't KNOW that I couldn't get out, I'd be far less likely to flip out. On the other hand, freedom looked so close. I tried the door. Luckily, it opened. No one there. Hmm. Well, perhaps I got out before the test was done? No, the printer seemed to be spitting out some sort of sheet of results. Maybe I had time to sneak a quick photo of the refrigerator with my handy cell phone before she came back. I rooted through my bag, trying to look as if I were getting out lipstick or something. Finally, I found my phone and managed to fumble through the settings to get it on camera. Unfortunately, I forgot it makes that REALLY LOUD, really fake camera shutter noise when you press the button, which echoed around the small room and down the silent seventies smelling hall, I'm sure. As it turned out, I had plenty of time to snap a photo. I had enough time to fill an entire album with photos of the fridge.



Ten minutes later, no one had arrived to fetch me, so I wandered out of the office and down the hall until I found Rose Scrubs. She looked surprised to see me.

"Um, anything else?" I asked.

She led me to the eye examination closet. "Stop here." There was a tattered piece of masking tape that had nearly become part of the floor. "Read." she said, pointing to a line the chart that looked like a black and white woody woodpecker running at full speed. I opened my eyes wider hoping for some miracle of clarity. Okay, looks like an O. I decided to squint, just to make sure. No, no, it was a G. I must have stalled too long because Rose decided to help me out, "C" she said, loudly. I tried the next letter.

"Honey, do you wear glasses? You get those on right this minute." Unfortunately, I didn't have them with me.

After that, I was led into a more traditional doctor's office down the hall. With a more traditional waiting chair:


Soon, a cute young doctor came in, typing something into her i phone. She sat down and went through some questions while looking at my history. Migraines. Panic attacks. I tried to explain this was only during a short spell during a particularly stressful time in my life, but of course, Zoloft was listed as a medication I'm still on, so she didn't fall for it.

"Oh!" said the cute young doctor, "You work at Children's Book World!"

"You know of it?"

"It's only my favorite store in the whole world and my son is in Luke's book club!"

Oh goody, I just told the woman who brings her son into the store all the time all about my mental health problems. Nothing like getting to know your customers. After that though, there were no more suspicious questions and she even passed me on the eye exam.

I saw two other just-hired librarians I knew on my way out. "Good luck." I said. They laughed nervously.

Beet Salad

Single serving salad:

1 bunch small beet greens
1 beet, roasted, cut into bite-size pieces
2 Tablespoons pomegranate seeds
1 small tangerine OR goat cheese

Dressing:

1/2 shallot, minced
1 teaspoon white wine vinegar
1 tablespoon tangerine juice
2 tablespoons olive oil
cumin seeds, salt, and pepper to taste

Let the cut shallots sit in the vinegar and fruit juice for 10 minutes before adding the olive oil.
Toss greens in dressing. Put the rest of the ingredients on top. Eat!

Laundry

Things must happen in my life. Each day feels eventful and busy. But, as for something to share with you, I'm left with a big blank box. I feel the need to write. There is a little tug that reminds me I get the same satisfaction from posting a blog entry as from hanging my laundry out on the line to dry crispy in the sun. But my laundry, always an array of colors, feels particularly stained these days. In fact, it is looking downright bedraggled. I've aired all my pretty little underwear, bright-colored candies set out on a coffee table for all to see. All that's left today is the pair of gigantic, elastic-stretched grannies that have been washed so many times they're greyish white and almost see-through. You know them, right? The pair you sneak into the house and hang over the bathtub to dry so your neighbors won't have to be embarrassed for you. The ones you only still HAVE because, well, you're just so used to them.

This week, I've been walking around with my old, familiar, embarrassing underwear. I hope you don't mind if I just hang them in my bathroom. Please check the laundry line next week.

I decided on Hollywood...

but I am too tired to write about it. I start January 7. Perhaps I can learn Russian by then?

November 24 in LA

The Santa Monica ice rink was steaming as I walked by on my way to the farmer's market this particular 80-degree day.

Thank you for Castles and Pancakes

Well, happy Thankgiving everyone. My apoglogies for all calls I have not returned. It's been a busy week.

Last Wednesday my former boss called me up and asked me to develop recipes for his new ad agency to show off to their potential client IHOP. I said I was at work and probably couldn't just leave. But, money is persuasive -- I left immediately. I spent the next two days inventing pancake recipes and presented them to IHOP on Friday with my other former two bosses working in the kitchen as my assistants (he he). We got a standing ovation.

Friday I get a voicemail with a job offer from Los Angeles Public Library. They don't mention what the job is, where the job is, or how much they are offering me. They do mention, however, that unless I call back before 4:30, they will be out of the office until Tuesday.

Meanwhile...Palos Verdes Public Library calls me for a second interview--to get a tour of the library and to meet the staff. Good sign. They schedule this interview for Wednesday morning at 8:30am.

First thing Tuesday morning, I get a hold of LAPL. They tell me the what (children's librarian, yeah!), they tell me how much (well, I won't post that, but yeah!) and they tell me where (Hollywood, yeah commute-wise, not so yeah neighborhood-wise.). Oh, and they need an answer...tomorrow.

So, I haul myself to PV on Wednesday morning, have a great second interview. Love the staff, love the job. Hate the drive. Then, I rush over to the Hollywood library (since I had never been there) and on my way get offer from Palos Verdes. They upped the salary to just beat LA.

The library in Hollywood is next to a strip joint, accross the street from a liquor store, around the corner from my favorite ice cream shop, a place I've seen many an exchange of money for invisible products held in a tight fist. All legal, I'm sure. Oh, and where once I had a quick getaway when some boys were fighting and one appeared to be pulling out a gun. I enter the library and wade through a sea of mentally ill and homeless patrons to find the librarian. She's incredibly nice. And looks tough.

In the course of the 30 minutes I was chatting with the librarian at least four people waved hello and she knew them by name. One claimed that the library was the best thing in the world. Another, in a thick Russian accent, said it was like a castle. I looked around wondering if we could possibly be in the same building, and realized there was something wrong with the way I was seeing things, not the way he was.

Perhaps I could use a job that gives me a new perspective.

On my drive to the Santa Monica library where I was working yesterday afternoon, I got a call from LAPL demanding an answer. I had to go up several rungs of bureaucracy to get a hold of the city manager who finally agreed to give me more than 24 hours to decide. So, Monday morning is the decision day for both jobs.

I'll keep you posted.

A new (to me) nursury rhyme for all my wee relatives

Blow, wind, blow
Go, mill, go
That the miller may grind his corn
that the baker may take it
and into bread make it
and bring us a loaf in the morn

ps

"stuff n' stuff" is how one of my British friends imitates Americans, much in the way we might say stuff like "bloody this and bloody that" if we were imitating Brits 'n stuff.

Stuff n' stuff

So the Panasonic cameras that were on sale at Costco for so cheap...don't work. I took the first one I bought back due to a defect, and got a second one that worked for about 2 weeks before refusing to take any pictures at all. Which means now I actually have to WRITE something for my blog. Which is why you haven't seen a lot of new posts in the past few weeks.

Anyhow, I have invented a salad which, if I had a camera, would be pictured here. Imagine, please, bright orange persimmons cut into bite-size cubes, green roughly chopped cilantro, and, uh, pomegranate-colored pomegranate seeds. Top that off with a little invisible lime juice, and voilà, a tasty, beautiful, and healthful salad. Not to mention instant hipness at Thanksgiving.

My emotional state lately has been such that I've been reduced to playing games with myself in order to drum up some appreciation for my life as it is (as opposed to how it was or how I wish it could be). Now, there's nothing particularly WRONG with my life. In fact, one might look at the stats and think it wasn't half bad, but there is something wrong with my appreciation-o-meter. Therefore, the games. This game is: IF I had a husband and kids right now, what would I be wishing I had time to do? The answer today was "learn to make strudel." Ah ha! See, on Thanksgiving, I am going to be thankful that instead of cooking some gargantuan turkey for some gargantuan family, I am going to spend the day learning how to make strudel. Really good strudel. For which I have not yet found a recipe. So, if anyone has a great one, please send it my way.

Other than playing mental games with myself and inventing salads, I have started Argentine Tango dance lessons (love, love, love this dance even though all I've learned so far is that I don't know how to walk), interviewed with the city of LA and with Palos Verdes for library jobs (I should hear back from both by the end of this coming week, yikes!), and bought a new battery for my car.

I know you are all very sad that I cannot include a picture of my car battery, but you are just going to have to live without it.

Chapter 2 in which Millie meets a tree frog

“Hello?” Millie called out. “Um, Tad?” she wondered if he could have found the door too. “Taaaaaad?” she yelled as loud as she could, then held her breath, listening for his voice. In the distance she thought she could hear a far off chorus of croaking frogs. Or toads. Or whatever. But she didn’t hear Tad. Well, she was not foolish. If Tad was still missing when she got home, she’d get help. From an adult.

She turned to go back through the door. But behind her there was a forest of trees. Every one of them had a door. Every one of them had a toad symbol where the knocker should have been. Every one of them was identical. She tried pushing on the nearest one. Nothing. She tried the next. Nothing. And the next. Nothing. She started running from tree to tree frantically pushing on every door. Nothing opened. The trees continued as far as she could see. A sob like an ugly ball of yarn jumped up out of Millie’s chest and her eyes glazed over with tears. “Open, one of you. Please open!” Tired and worn out, she squatted with her back to a tree and cried.

“Excuse me, but I believe you are leaking.” Millie lifted her head. She looked around, but no one was there.

“Hello. Hello! I’m going to need you to move. You are creating a river in my front yard and I’ve just spent hours and hours cleaning and really, if I have to deal with one more mess today, I am going to grow ears, my tongue is going to shrivel up, and my toes are going to separate …”

The voice continued, but Millie interrupted. “Um, please, whoever you are, I need help. I need to get home. And I can’t remember which door I came through. Please, whoever you are, please don’t hide, please come out.”

“Are you talking to ME? Because I don’t know who else you could be talking to. Honey, I can’t really get any more right-in-front-of-your-face than this.

It sounded like the tree was talking. Confused, Millie looked more closely at the branch hanging low near her face. There, directly in front of her, was a tiny tree frog.

“Y-you t-t-talk?”

“Something wrong with that?”

“Well, it’s just, you see, um, where I come from, frogs don’t usually talk. At least, not so humans can understand them.”

“And I bet where you come from creatures are generally pink and furless too! Thank you though, for noticing I am a frog. Half of you call me a toad. Lowly as my frogness may be, I am me and I like to be called what I am. And you are…?

“Human?”

“You’re asking me?”

“Oh, no. I mean. Yes, I am a human. A person. You know.”

“And are you the same species as the short-haired and deep-voiced?”

“Short-haired and deep-voiced? Oh, you must have seen a boy! Why, yes, I am the same species. Is there another human here? Can you take me to him? What a relief. Certainly he, whoever he is, will know what to do. Come on. Which way?”

“Which way? Pshah. I’m not even half finished with my cleaning. Here you were creating waterfalls down my porch and now you want me to tromp off to take you Frog-knows-where to find some species you were asking me moments ago if you belonged to? Pshah.”

“Fine, I shall go myself. Thank you for the information.” With these parting words, Millie began to march off.

“Not that way!” Cried the tree frog hopping after her. “That way is…well, let’s just not go that way. Okay okay, come on, I will take you. But it is going to be a journey. We must gather supplies. We will need things. Many things. Too many things. Okay, first things first. One step at a time.

And so Millie started her journey, with a very stressed-out little bundle of hope hopping at her side pulling her forward by the hand.

Things that make me think of you

Fresh peppermint
Dried chilies
shrimp
Stairs
Babies
Black shirts
Grey slacks
Birthdays
Cheese

Salsa
Comics
French
Coffee
Cobb salad
Open-air Markets
Skype

Movies
Mosquitoes
Sprouted wheat bread
Corn
Kissing
Crepes

Tea
Swing
Picnics
Hikes
Long-fingered hands
Lisps
werbs
Photographs

Green
Home
Cut flowers
Long walks
Pasta with tomatoes, garlic, and basil
Fennel and béchamel
Fruit tarts
figs
Gardens
Christmas
Buildings
Everything

Surprise

Millie did not like surprises. She liked blueberries with cream and she liked fresh ricotta cheese and she like red shoes and a grey sky. But, she did not like surprises.
“Where’re you going, Millie?” said Tad.
“To the creek. Wanna come?”
“Okay.”
Millie knew just what she wanted to do. She was going to look for tadpoles. “Tadpoles with Tad,” she thought, and chuckled.
“What?” said Tad.
“What What?” said Millie.
“You were smiling.”
Oh, nothing.” Millie said.
Arg. Tad hated that.
“Do you know what I like about the creek? Asked Tad. "It’s always full of surprises. Something under a rock here, something new growing up there. Some kind of weird bug flying around. You just never know what you’re going to find.”
Hmm. Millie liked the creek because it was always in the same place. The water always made a lovely trickling sound, and the crickets chirped a familiar tune.
Tad was already barefoot. “Aren’t you coming?” He said, digging his toes into the oozy mud at the creek’s edge.
“Of course,” said Millie. She stopped at a fallen log a few feet away and carefully undid her shoe buckles. Then she pulled her white socks off and tucked them inside her shoes. She took off her backpack. In her pack, she had two glass jars, one roll of plastic wrap, and four rubber bands.
Millie waded into the creek. She looked up to make sure Tad was still upstream. There he was splashing around, running over the rocks. “I got a frog, I got a frog,” he yelled. It’s HUGE. Hey Millie, I think this is a toad!
“Eeew. Gross, Tad. He’s gigantic. I don’t know about you, but I came to catch tadpoles, not bullfrogs.”
“It’s a toad. See, feel his bumpy skin.”
“Anyway, it’s still not a tadpole. Can you go back upstream? You’re muddying up the water here and I can’t see.”
“Sheesh. Fine. Aack, come back here Toady, where are you going?” Tad splashed away.
Hmph. Millie looked at the tiny creature swimming around in her jar. Even though she’d seen it happen before, it still amazed her that this squiggly slimy thing would turn into a little jumping frog. “Let’s find you some friends,” she told the little guy, and setting the jar on a rock, she quietly knelt down and waited. Finally, she saw two tadpoles hovering not far under the surface of the water. She cupped her hands under them and brought them slowly out of the water, then quick, she poured the water and two tadpoles into the jar. “That’s good for now,” thought Millie. The freezing water that came up to her knees was starting to make her whole body cold. Millie covered her jar with plastic wrap and made it tight with a rubber band. She would poke holes in it when she got home.
Millie held still and listened for her best friend. The world sounded strangely silent. No birds whistling. No frogs croaking. No Tad splashing. “Hey, uh, Tad?” Millie called out. “Taaaaad?” He couldn’t be far. Millie headed up stream, slowly at first because of the mossy rocks. She rounded the first bend in the creek. “Taaa-aad.” He had a habit of disappearing. Still, something seemed strange. Millie started to run. “Taaaad!” Her bare feet slipped and she fell with a huge splash. Her knees hit the rocks first, then her hands. She looked down and saw blood. Her jar of tadpoles was broken, and an inch-long shard of glass was sticking out of her ring finger. She sat up, wiped her eyes on her shoulders, and tried to blink away the tears and creek water that ran down her face. “One, two, three, pull!” She told herself, and the shard was out. It wasn’t deep.
Millie felt silly for getting scared. She was only a few hundred yards from her house. Tad probably got to daydreaming, forgot all about her, and wandered off to see some bird or make friends with a stray dog. Slowly, and carefully, she began to pick her way among the rocks, back downstream in the direction of her backpack.
“Hup!?” Millie gasped. The tree in front of her seemed to appear out of nowhere. And there was a door in it with a frog symbol where the knocker should have been. “No,” she corrected herself, “a toad symbol.” Millie put her hand up to the carved toad and began to trace her fingers around its bumpy body. The water suddenly jolted her forward pressing her hand hard against the carving. She heard a “ribbit,” and the door opened.

Sick Monday

Sunday morning, I went to the market.

On the way, I saw:
One latino man kneeling quite seriously and respectfully behind John Travolta's star on Hollywood Boulevard while the guy with him took a photo.

One middle-aged man sweeping the sidewalk and singing along with the Iranian music blasting out of the store.

One poodle dressed in an outfit that made it appear to have human arms.

Many, many sex shops.

But, it was the produce that inspired me to pull out my camera.




After the market and an herb salad lunch, Orin and I set off on a hike.

A 9 mile hike. Ouch. But look how beautiful.




We got back after dark and decided to go taco-stand hopping. The first stand had a long and slow-moving line. Good sign. People were ordering for the whole family. 14 tacos, 20 tacos . The boy making the tacos chopped meat with one hand while putting tongue and tripe and what not in the steamer with the other, working so hard and so fast that I was captivated for the whole wait. Our tacos al pastor even got a bit of the roasted pineapple chopped up on top.



Next stop was for meat grilled over coals tacos. Unfortunately, when we were about three families from the front, the whole operation suddenly packed up and walked off, including everyone in line. Orin and I were left standing on the sidewalk alone, bewildered.

Third stop. the sweetest little old lady grilled our meat and made sure to ask us four times if it was one carne asada and one chorizo on the same plate and the other carne asada separate or if she should put two carne asadas on one plate and the chorizo on a separate one. When she saw us squatting by the wall to eat, she brought over milk crates for us to sit on.

We finished up with some beer and tequila at Orin's place.




It was all a lot better yesterday than it feels today.

A fine welcome home

Immediately upon arriving at LAX, I jumped on the Santa Barbara Airbus for one last romp before getting back to "real" life.

Linsey met me at the stop and whisked me off to a pedicure. Ahhh, clean, feet!

The next morning, after we had toast with chocolate sprinkles on it, for old-times sake,


she lent me her Volvo and I sat on the unusually not-foggy and not-windy Butterfly beach. Had the weather not reminded me later in the week that it is NEVER that nice in Santa Barbara, I may just not have returned to LA. Well, I studied my French vocab and listened to a violinist playing just off shore on his boat and felt I was really in some sort of paradise.


Terry cooked a delicious pot roast dinner with chocolate cake to follow and I spent the night in my most favorite and comfortable bed in the art room.

Never can I leave the Duddridge household without doing an art project. With Terry's supervision, I managed to mount the print Christoph gave me.


While getting supplies at the Carpinteria lumber yard, I ran into about five people I knew. Tom Jackson came up to me and said, "Are you related to Travis and Jimmy?" Well, I hesitated to answer that question without knowing why he asked, but there was something familiar about him and I fessed up.

I managed to squeeze in a visit to Pops and Kate before leaving town and got to hear bits about their trip to Sweden in the little gaps in my monologue about Paris where I paused to breathe in.

It felt great be welcomed back by everyone. I'm glad to have adopted such a good family.

Drooling over Kansas

I woke up over Kansas.

After three weeks with John Luke



and Yo yo (hobby horse by moi),



I had no trouble sleeping on the plane.

I was dreaming that Kevin called, but the line got disconnected. I was trying to call him back, but my the phone was so wet that my fingers kept slipping off of the keys. I woke up over Kansas with drool spilling out of my mouth, running down my chin, making a long string to my chest where a large patch of my shirt was so wet I could have rung it out. I guess the baby taught me a thing or two rather than vice versa. Downside: I slept through the beverage offering which was my only source of sustenance as I had eaten my snacks before boarding. Upside: the guy next to me didn't try to talk to me at all after that nap.

Goodness!

I finished David Copperfield weeks ago, but still I am left with deep regret that I am not Agnes. Agnes not only desires to be good, but is good. She cares for her alcoholic father all her life. She loves David, but acts as his true friend and sister, even befriending his wife. She always knows exactly what to say, what is right, what is good. She finds happiness even as her home and father and father's business collapse around her. She is confident and capable, and strong in a quiet way. She patiently waits for a reward that may never come. If only wanting to be good made one so, I would be so very, very good.

Sigh

Yo yo, my four year old niece, is pointing at my sister and yelling, "You're incorrect!" because she's sure that a band-aide won't be good for her scraped knee. Only the daughter of two Harvard grads could be naughty with such sophistication.

Calling all writers

My original intention was to end this blog after "summer oh seven" as the name suggests. However, it's been so nice being in touch with all of you (most of you are still emailing privately rather than posting on the blog, but that's okay, I forgive you) that I think I will keep it up.

I'm hoping I don't have quite as many embarrassing moments to write about now that I'm safely back in an English speaking country, but you never know. So, I'll be telling you what I'm reading, what I'm eating, and, probably about my embarrassing moments.

But, I was thinking, since Gypsy is the only reader I know of who has her OWN blog, if any of the rest of you have some good stories (like Molly's, see below) but don't have the "courage" (in the French sense, of "will or motivation" not that you aren't brave enough) to start your own, please send me your stories and I will post them for everyone's enjoyment.

Thank you!

Guest Entry by Molly

Marina, our cellar intern from South Africa had told me about a special bread that they have in South Africa called Must Bread that is made with the fermenting white grape juice (hence, only made during harvest). She said she called her mom and asked her how to make Must Bread. Apparently, you have to let it rise over night and then her mom would get up at 4:00 in the morning to punch it down, let it rise again, and then bake it so the family could have warm bread in the morning.

Well, she told me this and we marveled at how nice her mom was to do that and how much work that was and too bad that she didn't have an exact recipie.

What do you know, two days later I enter my office at 7:00 am and am immediately hit with an intoxicating fresh, toasty smell. "why does my office smell like...."

"I made bread!" Marina interrupts me. And she unveils three huge loaves of still warm must bread! It was sooooo good (eggs and sugar and must plus her kindness made it so). We all stuffed ourselves and there was still some left for the tasting room and the construction workers working on our new tasting room.

Marina had been joking about needing someone to marry from the states so she could stay here. All the guys said, "Yep, now you'll have no problem marrying".

For Cherry

Okay, this might not be the most authentic mochi, but it is soooo good.

16 oz mochiko flour
2 1/2 cups sugar
1 tsp baking powder
1/2 cup butter, melted
3 cups milk
5 eggs, beaten
1 tsp vanilla

Preheat oven to 350. In a large bowl, combine mochiko, sugar, and baking powder. Mix well. Add remaining ingredients to mochiko mixture. Mix well. Pour into a 13x9x3 baking pan. Bake for one hour. Cool. Cut into squares and eat!

After today I'll be able to take a deep breath, relax a minute, and dig in to some French lessons. I have disappeared in order to madly get everything together to apply for a Fulbright. This involves 8 letters from various people, including 2 institutions in France, UCLA professors, language teachers, transcripts....and the idea that they may not reach me in time and all of my planning would be for naught, was stressful. It's not quite said and done, but I send my portion off tomorrow with 5 of the letters and my proposal, and the rest of the letters will hopefully arrive on their own at UCLA. Right? Of course, right.

Meanwhile, the whole Chuang family is asleep at 7:47 am -- oh I jinxed myself, there's the baby now. Gotta go!

Deathrow

7am. I leave Alain's flat in London. I'm headed back to the US. Alone. I'm getting used to seeing myself off and welcoming myself to the next place. On the tube map someone has pasted a "D" where the "H" should be on "Heathrow". I'm being dramatic, but that's how I'm feeling. My shoulders ache with my too-heavy bags. My head pounds with lack of sleep. The pit of my stomach protests that I am leaving the one person I want not to leave a continent and an ocean away.

Somehow the hungover NBA cheerleaders in front of me at the airport don't even cheer me up. Though, I am mildly entertained.

"God, he was the hottest guy I've seen, like, ever...I don't even think I saw his face...I mean, when we woke up this morning, I was almost afraid to look at him."

A few minutes later: "I totally should have asked his name."

Well folks, it's great to be back in America.

Okay, okay, some credit. The nicest boy sat next to me on the plane. He was from Boston. He asked me about my book and he offered to help a disabled woman with her luggage. 20 maybe, big nose, funny glasses, dorky shoes. I loved every bit of him for not being a cheerleader.

Escape to Normalcy

So, I've discovered why I need to read happy, lighthearted, the-protagonist-is-always-all-good children's literature. Today, in London, I decided to go for a run. I'm staying at Alain's which is in a suburb, with meandering brick and gravel paths occasionally jetting you through some field of blackberry bushes or a little wooden bridge carrying you over a canal with water lillies. So, I'm running along discovering one delight after another, when it occurs to me that I am the only human around. My footsteps on the gravel become the soundtrack to a horror film. I slow to a walk near the deserted preschool playground. From somewhere far off I can here kids screaming in a game of soccer. Everything is perfectly still. Except my heart, which keeps pounding away as if I had not stopped running. I tell myself I'm nuts, it's Sunday, of course no one's about. See, just a lovely day in the forest. But it doesn't help. The mossy grey fence posts that seemed so picturesque only a moment before now snicker at me as they dance among the tall green weeds surely hiding something sinister. Somehow the solid metal razor scooter laying in the middle of a courtyard of bricks looks limp, like someone has dragged its life, the child, from it and left it there to die. I hear footsteps ahead. A young man is walking his dog. He calls the dog to him. I say hello. He says nothing. I start jogging again, along the edge of a park. Now I can see the kids playing. It's a birthday party. I let my arms dangle and bounce for a moment laughing that I have managed to scare myself. But as I jog past a man and say hello again, I realize he looks as if he could be mentally ill. I decide against going down another deserted path completely tunneled by brambles and turn instead toward the party. I sit on the grass nearby and stretch. A woman reads her book on a bench. The young man comes back with his dog and they play fetch. The little dog runs for the ball each time, but often forgets to pick it up before bouncing back to his master. It looks like rain. I decide to head home. But, where, exactly is home? I was so enthralled with injecting evilness into the quaint cottages and meandering pathways that I did not pay attention to where I was going. I follow my nose. Ah, yes, here is the hill with the stairs I ran up. See, a typical suburb like I know at home. Dads out with their kids. But besides my delusions, there are signs of the city even here. Beer bottles and empty cigarette boxes lie scattered on the ground. I dash past the preschool and find my way back to the canal. It isn't long before I am back, well exercised, in Alain's spacious apartment where his room mates are babbling away while they cook lunch and hang their laundry about the house to dry. I open my happy children's book, (thank goodness I finished Harry Potter already) and escape into the mind of someone more sane than myself.

Madrid continued...

After the flamenco show, we went for churros y chocolate. Probably the best combo in existence. Except the un-authentic ones are much better. The hot chocolate was thick, but due to a thickener of some sort rather than mass amounts of chocolate, and the churros were skinny and not sugared! I found out from Ana later that the fat churros have another name, but they didn't even begin to compare to Mexican churros y chocolate (which is what they serve at Cobras & Matadores for all of you who've gone there with me). So the flavor was disappointing, but just the idea that we were eating hot churros and hot chocolate in a crowded little bar at 1:30 in the morning was quite satisfying.



We managed to drag ourselves out of bed around noon the next day. We took the grand tour, Alain style. A quick jog through Plaza Mayor, a nod and a waive so some famous statues, and the rest of the time for eating. We had bocadillos (which you should try saying out loud right now, because it's fun.) Not as tasty as it is fun to say though. Just ham. On bread. With no butter or oil. Which is kind of the point of a sandwhich in my book.

NOT to worry, we found good Spanish food. Alas, in a tiny bar with no name and piles of sugar packets and cigarette butts littering the floor, a woman and her husband worked side by side, both managing to move deftly around the kitchen without removing their gaze from the tv mounted on the wall behind the customers chairs, clearly for them, not the clients. First they served us up chorizo, pulled from the casing, flattened like a thin hamburger, fried:



Next we had tortilla español which must have had an entire bottle of olive oil in it. Sooo good. Alain befriended the owner and got lots of Spanish practice in. She told us the croquettas were the thing to have, so have them we did. Whipped potatoes mixed with bits of ham breaded and deep fried. Sigh. Alain continued the conversation while I nodded and smiled. I heard the word Paella and was so overcome with longing that I momentarily forgot I was too shy to speak Spanish and asked if she had some. Well, the restaurant wasn't serving it, but she pulled out her lunch box and shared some of her own with us! It wasn't hot, but still delicious. We were there for quite some time eating one thing and then another. Our bill totaled 8 euros 50 cents. And this picture was free. Unfortunately, her husband had fallen asleep in the back and she didn't want to wake him for the photo op.

(oops, we took the picture on Alain's camera. Check back later, I'll try to add it.)

Madrid is a colorful place indeed:



With some cool buildings:



And a lot, a lot, a lot of ham:

Madrid

The hour and a half flight from Paris to Madrid ended up taking from 9am to 4pm, door to door. Alain and I both arrived from our waterlogged countries to perfect not-too-hot-not-too-cold beautiful sunshine in Madrid. Ana, the friend we visited, lives just outside the city center in a cute neighborhood full of clothing and shoe shops, restaurants and a Corta Ingles -- a gigantic mall-like beast where we spent a portion of each day trying to decide which Lomo Alain would return to London with. The closest metro station was actually on her block. Ah, the metro! So consistent, so quiet, so lacking the smell of urine in the staircases. I'm not looking forward to being back on the maybe-it'll-come-maybe-it-won't bus in LA.

Madrid, was, admittedly, a bit empty, like most European cities in August. However, we managed to see two excellent Flamenco shows, eat some good food, and walk a good portion of the city. Night one of flamenco wasn't Paco Peña, but we were about four feet from the stage, rather than four miles. The male dancers like to sport mullets and show off their muffin top bellies, which is somewhat distracting from the beauty of the dance, especially when they spin and their sweat comes flying off of their face to land on your face. Ick. However, one of the singers was totally amazing. His voice was so full and yet so easy on the ear, almost soft. It seemed impossible that it was coming from a little skinny guy we saw afterward wearing baggy jeans and high tops. Two of the women we saw dance were incredible. They weren't young (maybe 35 and 40), and they were quite robust, but so strong and so beautiful in their movements and so powerful in the rythms they stomped and clapped that I was completely mesmerized. Biggest hit of the night with the rest of our party was Alain's sighting of Franka Potente who was sitting at a table not far from us. As usual, I had no idea who she was.

To be continued...

Boggled

It poured down rain all day yesterday in Paris (and is still pouring down rain today). We had to leave the library by a different door due to the flooding outside of the usual exit. Did this keep library patrons away? Of course not! I felt like those poor cafeteria monitors in elementary school when "recess" was held indoors because of the rain. I had a bunch of kids. For a long time. But they were great fun.

These two brothers were with me for hours. The older one read the entire Disney version of Alladin to his brother, in English. With a speech impediment and a French accent. The younger one sat quietly staring off into space for at least 45 minutes while his brother read. I'm not sure he understood a word. I pulled out boggle for the boys to play next. Pretty soon I heard, "In English this time," (the older brother had perhaps lived in the US when he was younger as his English was quite a lot better than the younger.)
"No, French," (said in English.)
"It's better in English."
"I don't care, I'm doing French.
"Okay, you do French and I'll do English," (well, if you know the game boggle, this just won't work for the scoring system.)
Their American mother came in later and they decided to play together in English several times and then in French once for the younger one. The mother sounded great to me in French, but she had to ask how to spell things and some of the meanings. I've always thought how fantastic it would be if I have kids one day for them to be fluent in another language (if only their arguments would be about weather to play boggle in French or English!) but it was the first time I recognized that, like this mother, I would never be as full a part of their world in that language as I would be in English. As Nels would say, "Hmm. That's sad."

I'm off to Madrid this morning. No new entries until next week.

Magic Baguettes

I saw Harry Potter (all in English this time). It's my duty, as a children's librarian. When Cho and Harry kissed, a little three-year-old voice from the back summed it up: "Yuck."

The most entertaining part of the movie, though, was whenever Harry pointed his wand at someone and said, "Expelliarumus" (a spell which relieves the opponent of his wand) the subtitles read, "Sans du baguette." No wonder everyone walks around with "baguettes" here.

Little Miss Sick

It's been pointed out to me by several private commenters (come on guys, be brave, make it look like someone besides Gypsy is reading my blog) that I did not mention what I was sick with. Indeed, I was deathly ill with...an allergy. I was raised not really believing in allergies, so this never occurred to me. But, 3 allergy medications later (actually 2 plus a pain killer), my cough is gone, my throat is better, my chest no longer feels like it is being hugged by a boa constrictor, and I can even breathe through my nose (I'm not sure I've ever been able to do that.)

Doctor visit w/no insurance: 22 euros
total for 3 medications w/ no insurance: 8.5 euros

And a cute doctor who wore high heals with her full skirt and matching shirt and hopped up to sit next to me on the examination table to get a better look into my ear.

Le Metro

Thursday

I was supposed to go to French class and then to work, but I was so sick, we spent most of the day figuring out how to get me to the doctor and then actually getting me there. Gypsy was good to have along a) because she speaks some French and managed to convey all of the necessary information to all involved parties, and b) because I would have put it off until I was dying, which I ALMOST was and now I feel good as new (thanks to all three meds I'm on!). It's nice to have a big sister.

Not long after the doctor, Gypsy had to catch her train to London for her flight out the next morning. The trip went by much too quickly. I could hardly process that she was here before she left. Thinking about the week, I can't believe it was our first trip to Europe together. It all felt so normal. The way it should.

Wednesday

Gypsy showed me the Jardin du Palais Royal which was shops surrounding a gigantic rectangular garden and courtyard with an art installation. The installation consisted of of different height pillars painted white with black stripes. Everyone turned into a kid here and had to stand on top of a pillar and get their picture taken. Amazing. The shops were closed, due to the holiday and it being August, but we had a grand time peeking through the grates and looking in on vintage designer clothes.

We then walked through the center of Paris (Notre Dame de Paris had been cleaned since Gypsy last saw it -- it used to be black, but now is...whitish.) We discovered the cafe that is practically outside my door is quite good. Gypsy had a smoked salmon salad, and I had one with prociutto and a fried egg. The best part, they take the restaurant tickets I get from work to pay for my lunch, but never end up using since I almost always bring food with me.

That night we went to Le Refuge des Fondues, a place Gypsy had been with Shaun six years ago. We drank our wine out of baby bottles and Gypsy did the honor of stepping over the table (everyone sits at one long skinny table) to get to her seat.

Tuesday

Um, I slept until noon. We got out of the house around 2, bought some bread and cheese and figs and went back home to eat them. We then tromped off to the Musee des Arts Decoratifs. We didn't realize that there were different ticket prices for different parts and we saw the furniture when we meant to check out the jewelry. Not to worry, there was a gift shop which was almost a museum itself. After, we went for a delicious, thick hot chocolate at Angelina.

That night Gypsy took me to a belated birthday dinner at Le Comptoir which looked to me exactly how a French restaurant should. There was even a customer wearing cute yellow shoes which was also exactly how I thought it should be. All of my stereotypes fulfilled by the look of the place, I discovered some new things as well. I like fois gras cold after all (so delicious on the green bean salad Gypsy ordered) and I was wary of the rhubarb panna cotta, but it topped the aforementioned crème brûlée.

Monday

After arriving in Paris at 9:30 am, we napped until 3 and then headed out to the Natural History Museum and the Jardin des Plants. I'm not sure what the French signs all said, but the displays were so attractively lit and the building so amazing that I enjoyed it anyway. In the garden there was a menagerie...so, first you see the dead ones, then the live ones.

What really stands out from this day is the crème brûlée we had that night. I don't know how this happened, but a very touristy place near Montmartre had very good food. The waiter made fun of us in as friendly a manner as one can make fun of tourists, going so far as to introduce us by name to his mouse when Gypsy pointed the little guy out as he scurried around our feet.

Sunday

Alain gives us a whirlwind tour of London including breakfast at an old pub, a trip to Brick Lane and the markets there, and a running tour of Camden Market where we saw a lot of weird shops and people (and hats, clearly) and we had hot fresh cinnamon donuts. So good I forgot to take a picture (!)

Saturday

Gypsy suffers a trip to a crowded bar after overnight plane trip. Worth dragging her out as Alain's friends were so very fun to talk to and we discovered delicious falafels.

Gypsy was here.

Well, I am back. Thank you for your patience. I hope you didn't mind the elevator music.

Okay, let's start from the beginning. Remember, "Gypsy is coming?" What I meant was that Gypsy WOULD be coming in a few days. I uh, arrived in London one day too early to meet her. We had to buy new train tickets to get to Paris, which weren't available until Monday morning (instead of Saturday, as planned). And when I say "morning," I mean we left the house 3:45am, mind you. The whole fiasco was due to me not realizing that one cannot arrive somewhere before one has left somewhere else. Luckily, Gypsy's only comment: "I thought we were packing a lot in."

There was an upside though...for me, anyway. We missed our "fanciest dinner ever" which was to be on my birthday (and thank you, by the way, to all of you who sent me birthday emails. It was very very nice to be remembered.) but, I finally made it to a Tango lesson with my ol' partner in dance-related-crime, Alain. It was so much fun. We are pretty much professional now. If I could just hear the beat, we would be anyway.

Since Gypsy and I had a shortened stay in Paris I thought I might as well go ahead and get sick, lest we enjoy those few days too much. To top it all off, it was ascension week or something and everything was closed. We did, however manage to get some good stuff in. (To be cont....)

Gypsy's Coming!

Well, wish us luck. The whirlwind begins today upon Gypsy's arrival. 24 hours of fast and furious London will cover a flamenco show (getting great reviews both for music and the dance), drinks out with Melissa, her boyfriend Ted, and possibly Simon and Cat-O (sorry James, the name really stuck). In the morning we're off to Borough market before we jump on the train to Paris. We'll recover Sunday and Monday as nothing will be open in Paris. Oh, and Tuesday and Wednesday because it's a holiday and nothing will be open in Paris. Nice planning on my part, huh? She may be more efficient at blogging our week, so please check her blog out (I am so off the hook!)

Mmm...

Italians would refuse to believe it. French would turn away in disgust. I have mixed the two cuisines in the most horrid and delicious fashion. For lunch today, fresh goat cheese crottin filled with figs spread atop a chewy baguette soaked in olive oil. For dinner, penne with peperoncini, crème fraîche, parmigiano, and chervil. And, yes, I ate a lot more than that. That was all that was left when I thought to take the picture.

Le Week-end

Did you know fluency in the language of country of residence can actually be a health hazard? For the past month it has been scary, difficult, humiliating, each time I walk into a bakery, a restaurant, a store, an anything. This does not prevent me from patronizing these places, but it slows me down a bit. Not so with my native French-speaker visiting. The past three days while Alain was here were spent testing out every possible bread, dessert, hot chocolate, tea...you name it (exception: we were too traumatized by our first attempt at coffee to try again).

Alain showed up with chewy, delicious, hot bread filled with chocolate from a bakery at Place D'Italie (a 10 minute walk from my house). We proceeded to lunch at the Luxembourg gardens (another 10 minute walk from my house -- did I say my house? I meant my closet). We made a bit of salad of an oak-leaf like lettuce, crunchy green beans, red belle pepper, a very dry, hard goat cheese, and some chewy bread. Dinner: Alain had ravioli with a buttery wine sauce and fois gras (why I ordered the saffron mussels after his loving description of this dish, I will never know.) We were tempted to order the ravioli for our main course as well, but decided on shark and steak instead. The potatoes were lovely with a maple flavor, the shark and steak just okay. As the menu is set up for you to order an appetizer, an entree, and a dessert, we decided the best course of action for next time would be to order the ravioli for all three.

Day two, thanks to Alain's planning and navigation skills, we managed to ride bikes all around town. This seemed to justify the bread with lardons, the orange flower water cake, the hot chocolate with cloves and cinnamon, the chocolate tart, and the roasted chicken. We discovered the most delicious drink for the hot hot day that it was: a smoothy made of passionfruit and milk. And this is all before we went to Ladurée and had Oolong tea with orange blossoms, kouign amann (if I have the name right), which I can't even describe but was good enough to momentarily make me forget the Italian marzipan-like cake mentioned earlier.

Pictured above: Alain, after a few too many good things to eat.

I'm sure we did something besides eat, but I can't quite think of it.

Tour de Paris

My life in Paris just got much, much better. Today I discovered Velib. Okay, I actually discovered Velib when I first arrived (though it's new, so it wasn't running yet) but I finally got brave enough to attempt the directions today. Turns out the have an English option.

What it is, is free, communal bikes! You pick a bike up at one station and drop it off at any other station (there are stations all over). Work just got about 40 minutes closer. And the bikes have baskets on them, so no more dragging my stuff around hanging off of my shoulders giving me cramps. Only down side is the bikes weigh a TON (like, I who was hefting a way-too-big--for-me bike up and down tall train stairs in Swizerland without a hitch, could barely get it up a curb.) All of my pictures will henceforth be a blur as I whizz by the sights.

Tomorrow, Alain comes. Don't be looking for posts until after he leaves on Monday.

Huh.

Eric and Amélie

Eric is a friend of Alain's (and of mine too now, weather he likes it or not), but up until I met him in person the other day, I knew him through photos. He has a camera. Alain does not. They travel together a good deal. So when Alain sends me photos of his trips, they are a bit like the photos of the ceramic garden dwarf in Amélie Poulain. Here is Eric in Madrid. Here is Eric in Stockholm. Here is Eric in...well, you get the picture. He actually lives here in Paris, though he is off on a (nother) trip at the moment. I lucked out and caught him in town one night this week. We ate some deliscious, Italian-style grilled vegetables and laughed about all of the funny things Alain does (like never walk less than full-speed and always throughly researches whatever town he is in for the best coffee, the best cheese and the best desserts, much to the enjoyment of us less reseach-oriented, more consumtion-oriented folk.) After our dinner, we climbed the stairs to Montmartre. He talked, I puffed. After I finished ogling at the view, the building, and the astonishing amount of tourists, he very appropriately took me to the cafe where Amélie worked in the movie and we had hot chocolate.

Zurich Pictures Up

Thanks to an over-the-phone computer tutorial with Linsey, I got my Switzerland photos online. If you're interested in seeing oodles of pictures from my weekend in Zurich, you can see them here. You may want to turn the slide show on a very rapid setting since there are so many pictures, it's almost like a flip book.

2 Months in Paris

Believe it or not by how much time I spend writing on this blog, I have a few new friends here in Paris. I met a little group of people through Zabi, who I rent my apartment from. I had a lovely pic nic with this group of 5 others and myself a few weeks back, but forgot my camera, so I can't show you. I don't know if I learned any French (they all speak excellent English -- arg, jealous), but I heard a lot of French and that was good enough for me. The only language issue came up when they invited me to come with them afterword to the "cinema". And bought tickets to a movie in Chinese (with French subtitles, of course). Had the movie been in Italian, I may have understood a bit. Had it been in French or Spanish, I would have gone just to soak up the language. But uh, reading French and hearing Chinese. Not a chance.

So, Loic (above) and I made up for it the other day and went to an American movie. Who was to know that half of the dialog in Two Days in Paris was in French? And they don't put subtitles on the French part, only the English part, Silly. The movie is about an American guy and French girl who come to Paris. Adam Goldberg was excellent at the I'm-trying-not-to-feel-like-a-complete-idiot-even-though-I-don't-have-any-idea-what-you're-saying. face. So, if any of you want to know what my two months in Paris is like, check it out. The parts in English were funny (though, I was the only one laughing so either they didn't translate very well, or perhaps it just wasn't as funny as I thought.) The parts in French were apparently very funny, but I couldn't really tell you myself.

Lazy Jane

On Saturday I did a Shel Silverstein story time for 9-12 year olds at the library. Nine kids came and the greatest thing is...the parents actually bring the appropriately aged kids to the appropriate programs. There were kids there who I know have young siblings, but the little ones weren't there. Whew. Imagine trying to keep a 2 year old still for an hour of Shel.

The kids were so great though. They all went home being able to recite Lazy Jane.

Lazy,
Lazy,
Lazy,
Lazy,
Lazy,
Lazy,
Jane
wants a drink
of whater so she
waits,
and
waits,
and
waits,
and
waits,
and
waits
for
it
to
rain.

(Lazy Jane is lying here with her mouth open, catching all of the words, but I can't find the picture online.)

I did tell them he wrote songs for Johnny Cash. I did not tell them he drew cartoons for Playboy. I'll let them make that discovery on their own. By the way, those of you with kids...Shel Silverstein's website is great -- coloring sheets, poetry activities, etc.

Today I did the first ever story time in August at the American Library in Paris. They usually stop all programs in August because everyone's on vacation, but I thought there might be a few kids still here with nothing to do. And there were. I had fifteen kids ranging from 2 to 12. They stared at me blankly when I read Don't let the Pigeon Drive the Bus, but laughted at A Friend for Minerva Louise. Next week I'll be bringing a guitar (I found a friend with one) and doing a song time. Finally that music school is coming in handy.

For Terry

Hello, I hope someone prints this out for you (hint, hint, Linsey). I just had to let you know that I think of you every morning when I walk by this olive stand on the way to work. Ain't she a beauty? Sorry it's sideways. I can't manage to turn it.

Hmmm...

It sounded nice, working at the library Tuesday through Saturday and having Sunday and Monday off. Sunday to relax and Monday to get errands done, right? Wrong.

A lot of things are closed here on Sundays. Everything is closed on Mondays. I have been trying to buy vegetables for a week. But I have to be either at French class or at work every morning by 9. And even though the beautiful affordable outdoor vegetable market couldn't be any closer to me unless it was actually in my apartment, I can never manage to buy my vegetables before work. After work, I can make it before they close IF (and yes, that was meant to be a big "if") I leave work on time, do not get lost going to the metro, do not get on any of the three lines going in the wrong direction, and don't take the wrong exit out of the metro station and find myself completely turned around when I surface. Besides that, it stays light until 10pm and I get off work at 6pm, so I often like to walk. It takes about an hour, and I get to see Paris. Only, then I skip the vegetables. In addition, I find a lot of good new bakeries. This is a very bad combination.

Anyway, back to my days off. SO, really the only time I have to buy things is SUNDAY morning (the markets are closed Sunday afternoons). And, since Sunday is my only day to sleep in (I know, I said I have Mondays off, but I meant that I go to class on Monday but not to work) I, uh, pretty much like to take advantage of it.

Clearly, this is all a conspiracy to make me fat.

Correction

Oops, that "best cake known to man" (Lonon entry) was actually an Italian marzipan-like dessert. So much for my chef taste buds! When I find it again, I shall publish its true name.

Ladurée

I heard about Ladurée before I went there. Supposedly the best and most unaffordable macaroons on earth. And indeed, it all turned out to be true. Just before leaving for Switzerland, I decided expensive or no, it was the perfect treat to bring Christoph. I got a little box of eight: Two pistachio, two rose, two caramel, and two vanilla. BUT, for the sake of research (and while they were fresh), I had to try just one on the train. And I still had 5 hours of train ride left. I DID put the box neatly away in between each one, determined not to eat them all before I got there. Sigh. Christoph got four, which isn't bad, considering.

For Diane

New shoes, new shoes,
Red and pink and blue shoes.
Tell me, what would you choose,
If they'd let us buy?

Buckle shoes, bow shoes,
Pretty pointy-toe shoes,
Strappy, cappy low shoes;
Let's have some to try.

Bright shoes, white shoes,
Dandy-dance-by-night shoes,
Perhaps-a-little-tight shoes,
Like some? So would I.

BUT
Flat shoes, fat shoes,
Stump-along-like-that shoes,
Wipe-them-on-the-mat shoes,
That's the sort they'll buy.

-- Frida Wolfe

The Library

The American Library in Paris was started in 1920. Though aesthetically there is not much indication of time period, the feel is quaint. The books are all old favorites minus a few new popular ones. The "film" we show at the end of each story time is actually a slide projector and a tape player played simultaneously by the librarian. On Wednesday we watched and listened to "In the Night Kitchen." The woman's voice and music were as funky and strange as Sendak himself. I wanted to get up and get my groove on to "Milk in the batter, milk in the batter... in the niiiiiiiight kitchen." Helen is the children's librarian who I am working under. She cannot be described in American terms as nothing fits her so well as the word "lovely." The only problem is I enjoy talking to her so much a hardly get any work done!

Helen took me on a "field trip" to La Joie par les livres: www.lajoieparleslivres.com. It is France's national depository for children's books. I had read about it and was planning to visit, but I am so glad I had Helen as an escort. She got us a tour with the director and translated for me. They collect all children's books published in France, plus some from a number of other countries. The artwork on the walls alone was enough to make me renounce the English language and my American citizenship, and wish with ever bit of my being that I could speak French and work in the EU. Librarians who work there review all of the books for library publications. Dream job.

Zurich

D Chatz gaht uf Wallisellen,
chunt si wieder hei,
hät si chrumi Bei,
piff paff puff
und Du bisch duss!

I actually learned to chant this, much to the annoyance of everyone on the train. It's the Swiss German equivalent of Eeny Meeny Miney Moe (without the racial connotations, I think). I was in Zurich for the weekend visiting Christoph. Though this was my fourth trip to Zurich, it is still hard for me to believe the place is real and that I didn't walk into a picture book. The grass is green. Bright, bright green. The hay is yellow and stacked in long loose haystacks like Little Boy Blue sleeps under. The water is solid turquoise and everyone has window boxes filled with red geraniums that are always in bloom.

On Friday we went for a long walk to the Town of Roses. To get there, we crossed the lake on a bridge built on top of ruins of a medieval bridge used by pilgrims traveling from monastery to monastery. The bridge was recreated in a contemporary style, and the juxtaposition of it against the old monatery and castle was striking.

The next day we rode bikes. I'm not sure how tall Christoph is, but my face usually lands around his bellybutton if we hug. I rode his bike. Yes, indeed, I had to tip over to get off. Which made stopping for traffic highly inconvenient. Luckily, we were out in the country most of the time. Only in Switzerland would you find smoothly paved, perfectly clean roads that connect every bit of farmland, forest, river and hillside. Never have I ridden so comfortably (and so fast due to huge street bike tires) in such beautiful territory. We rode out to a monastery where the monks make beer, cheese, sausages, and a delicious bread filled with dried fruit. We rode back along the country roads (picking blackberries on the way) in order to find some of the local cider. Instead, we found some of the local weather. It poured so hard that I was actually breathing in mouthfuls of water as I struggled to stay atop the bike. My waterproof jacket was full of water. My waterproof backpack was full of water. When we finally found a restaurant to duck into, water gushed out of my shoes with every step and my jeans clung to me like a heavy skin. The restaurant was fancy, but they let us in. Nothing could have tasted better, being drenched (or wet as soup, the French would say) and freezing, than the veal in a creamy reduction sauce and hot potato pancakes like the ones Gypsy fed to me at the swap meet in Germany. We made it the rest of the way home in a friendlier downfall and finished the night off by making a blackberry sauce from our day's gathering and pouring it over ice cream. After a lot of hours on a bike, calories were no consideration.

The next day we went on a hike and walked through the city and Christoph showed me all sorts of tricks for taking better pictures with my new digital camera. It dried out nicely from the day before (thanks to a long session with the hair-dryer.) Even still, my pictures don't do the beautiful weekend justice. Christoph has a way of turning the simplest every day thing into art. The way he folds a blanket or arranges vegetables in a bag to be taken to a barbecue. Or makes a picnic out of crackers and cheese and yogurt feel like a feast.

Blonde is as blonde does

This is a story from from an old email to Gypsy and Mom, but I thought it worth filling the rest of you in on:

Yesterday, someone stopped me and asked me for a lighter for his cigarette. I didn't understand the word, but I understood the motion and managed to shrug and shake my head in a way that he understood without me having to reveal I couldn't speak French. Well, today I found matches in my purse and thought "Ah ha! If someone asks me for a lighter again, I'll be able to offer them a match, which will make me feel very helpful and French." (Truly, I had this very thought.) So, today a girl stopped me and I thought from her hand motion she was asking for a lighter. I dug through my purse for my matches. She shook her head "no" and kept repeating herself in French (obviously). Finally, she pointed to my pants. My zipper was down.

Lunch Break

One block from the American Library where I work all day, is a boulangerie that serves up a baguette with fillings of choice --saucisson et cornichon for me s'il vous plaît-- a drink, and a dessert (oooooh, the choices) for 5.50, the amount of the "ticket" I get from work to pay for lunch everyday. If the weather is drizzly, I sit in the cozy bakery and eat. If it is nice, I walk one block to the Eiffel Tower.

London Cheese

London did not disappoint; it rained all of the ten days I was there. Upon arrival, I was presented with Pecorino Romano that Alain had bought in Rome, vacuum packed and saved. Four cheeses from Rotterdam followed. Two cow, two goat. The most delicious chewy bread with chocolate had been brought from Paris on the Eurostar that very morning, and it took us all week to get to the sausages from Spain, little sweet waffles, and the densest and yummiest cake known to man.

We did a few other things besides eat. Like attend a seven-hour play: Angels in America. Amusing for the first three hours. Enough said. We were VIPs at a Formula 1 Grand Prix. When we sat down in the shmancy VIP tent to eat our shmancy VIP food where the monitors were blaring with the race, Alain asked the waitress if she would mind turning the TV off. We eventually made our way out to the track and watched, um, maybe ten minutes before being tempted away by the free massages, ice cream, and salsa band.

We also went to a contemporary dance show at Saddlers Wells Theater http://www.sadlerswells.com/show/DANCE. Each routine consisted of over 20 dancers whose movements were so interesting and to such great music that we were shocked to find we had been watching for an hour and a half when they took their final bow.

During the week, Alain worked, and I stayed home while it rained and rained. I wrote stories and drank tea and then, when the sun came out for a few hours, I walked around and ogled at old buildings and made friends with the booksellers (I was even offered a job at The Children's Bookshop!) and poked my head into libraries.

I cried when I left. Cried on the tube and right on through the announcement to "mind the gap".