Peter's Mood on 2/24

Peter was pretty bland yesterday. It was hard to put a finger on what exactly he was feeling. He wasn't in a good mood, he wasn't in a bad mood -- he was just...there.

Perhaps he did say something particularly witty or insightful or scathing during the floor work, but unfortunately, I didn't hear it, since I left at the conclusion of the barre exercises. I've just been suffering from a very low energy level all week, and some headaches, and I decided whilst struggling to execute the ronde de jambes en l'air that I just couldn't stick it out past the barre on this particular Friday evening, especially considering the fact that it was a higher-level class than I normally take.

He did mention one thing that I thought was noteworthy. Before the class began, he was chatting with one of the students (a male one, of course, since he rarely musters the effort to make conversation with the female students). This particular student used to be an instructor of some sort, and mentioned in the course of some story he was telling that he had stopped teaching. Peter responded that he had stopped teaching awhile ago, and now he just lectures (I forget the specific term he used, but it was something that suggested he just goes on and on about the same thing over and over). I was taken aback. You mean, he really does recognize that he's simply just an enormous bag of wind? I had no idea he was that self-aware.

Richard's class today at Ailey was much more fulfilling. Poor Richard -- he had to cancel Wednesday's class because he threw his back out. And here I was, thinking he had cancelled to attend Ray Barreto's funeral. Silly me.

Richard announced today that he was directing one of the workshops at Jacob's Pillow this summer. Jacob's Pillow is reknowned annual dance festival -- a combo of professional-level dance studies and performances that occur throughout the summer in the Berkshires. Richard will be teaching there for two weeks, and is holding auditions for admission to those classes next Sunday, during the Oscars. So while everyone else I know will be glued to their television sets, I will be at Alvin Ailey, giving it my best, sweating and praying to be accepted to the program. I cannot think of a better way to burn through two weeks of vacation time than to dance, and be with dancers and musicians and instructors, in the mountains, in summertime. I've never auditioned for anything related to dance before, so this is a completely new experience for me. I'm nervous and excited.

The Substantial Benefits of Scootering

Piaggio Group, makers of the Vespa-brand motor scooters so popular in Europe and Asia, bought a full page in today's "New York Times" to publish an open letter addressed to "all U.S. mayors concerned with America's oil consumption".

In it, Piaggio's CEO, Paolo Timoni, cites President Bush's statements from his State of the Union address on the need to invest in alternative fuel technologies, and thus break America's "addiction to oil" (for my thoughts on Dubya's speech, see my entry "You Can't Shout Until You're Deaf", in which I compare the neural functions of annoying Republicans to those of crickets). He then goes on to make a brilliant, self-serving suggestion: why not encourage Americans to travel about on Vespas instead of in automobiles?

Timoni is totally spot on in pointing out in his letter that behavioral change is just as, if not more, important than seeking alternative fuel sources in lessening our dependence on oil. We need to reduce our nation's energy consumption, not just find more ways to generate electricity. It's the same reasoning behind dealing with the problem of garbage -- reducing the amount of trash we create is much more important than recycling.

But I think Piaggio might have wasted its advertising dollars in making this bold invitation to "all U.S. mayors". I can't imagine Americans will head to scooter stores in droves, no matter what economic incentives local governments may offer to encourage them to do so. When an American buys something with two wheels, it usually has something to do with exercise or sport (a bicycle), or being really cool (a motorcycle). We're just not wired to consider such a modest vehicle as a scooter as an acceptable form of transport. Americans, I believe, like their transportation to be an "experience", not just a way to get from point A to point B, and so scooters won't fit in real well with our romanticized view of covering the road. They're just too mundane and practical.

Timoni should try investing his marketing funds in building a new brand image for Vespa here in the U.S. Maybe they can do the typical P.R. stunt -- give scooters away to really hip, good-looking people in selected cities across the country, with the stipulation that they must ride them along prominent avenues at the peak of rush hour. Train them to maneuver deftly through the clogged traffic, and laugh visibly at all the frustrated motorists in their oh-so-clumsy, fat automobiles. In fact, all Vespa's advertising should make good use of the word "fat" to describe cars and the people that drive them, because it typically produces a frenetic response in the American consumer.

Only THEN you might get some momentum in Vespa sales here, because pleas from our city governments certainly aren't going to get Americans to embrace scootering.

Che: El Guerrillero Heroico

I went to the International Center of Photography today, to catch the closing day of "Che! Revolution and Commerce".

It was a most interesting exhibit to me. This is the first time I've been to the ICP, and I feel that this institution, as does any dedicated to photography, does something unique -- it forces you to separate the significance of the photo and photographer from the significance of the subject being photographed. That's what it is -- a museum dedicated to photography. So you are looking at all these amazing photographs, and you find yourself wondering about the lives of the subjects, but then you must yank yourself out of that reverie and think about the photograph itself.

That's a weird experience I've never had before, and it was made all the weirder because of the subject at hand. I am Latin American, and studied Latin American literature, politics, and economics both as an undergraduate and graduate student, I spent a semester studying in Buenos Aires, and I worked as a journalist specializing in the region for some years after that, and so, naturally, I have some feelings about Che Guevara. I'm not sure exactly what I feel about him now -- they are conflicting feelings. I am a committed capitalist presently, no doubt, but I am fascinated by the period of history in the 70s and 80s in South and Central America, which was dominated by oppressive, violent military regimes, and U.S. involvement in said regimes. It was this history which led me to choose Argentina for my semester abroad when I was 19, and when I was way very, very far on the left. I brought back with me a silk screen of Korda's image, which I hung proudly on the wall of my dorm room until the day of my graduation from New York University, when I moved out to begin my life as an adult with a career.

About a year ago I was studying Portuguese with a Brazilian professor that insisted I write about the period, and truly consider what was happening throughout the hemisphere, and, perhaps, what that means for us today. It brought me back to that time and those thoughts I had, as did this exhibition.

But, this is a photography exhibit. It's not about Che Guevara, but about, "Guerrillero Heroico", a photograph taken by Alberto Korda in 1960, at a memorial service given in memory of those killed when a ship was bombed in Cuban waters and several innocent people lost their lives. Much has been said about Guevara's expression in this photograph, but Korda described it as something like "sadness and anger". In the exhibit, there is a videotaped interview with the photographer where he describes, in Spanish, the experience of witnessing this spectacle (Fidel making a speech during the memorial service) through his lens. I didn't write down the exact wording, but he said something about scanning the crowd on the podium that day, and suddenly, Che emerged in the second row for a few brief moments, and Korda, seeing him through his viewer, was taken aback by what he saw -- the now-famous expression on this unforgettable face. As fate would have it, he composed himself enough to snap the photo, before Che disappeared a few seconds later.

The exhibit is not about Ernesto Guevara -- it is about this particular image, and what it has represented in the over-four decades that have passed since the photo itself was shot. "Guerrillero Heroico" is probably the most-reproduced photograph in history. It has been copied on everything from political posters to underwear. I really think it's unnecessary for me to blather on about how this image has run the gamut from revolutionary symbol to kitchy fashion icon, because so much has been written about that already. Just suffice it to say that perhaps I've been completely oblivious, but I had no idea this image had been transferred to everything from cigarettes and soda to panties and cigar boxes. There was even a Che Guevara wine -- Cuba Si Cuvee Reserve 1993, bottled by Chateau Bouissel in France. Whooda thunk it?

One of the most interesting facts I learned today at the exhibit -- Alberto Korda was a famous fashion photographer before the Revolution. Ah, Fidel chose his official photographer well...

Peter's Mood on 2/19

I don't think Peter notices it when I leave town, or if he does, he certainly doesn't show it. Doesn't he miss me when I don't go to class? Certainly his world is turned upside down when I'm gone? Richard welcomed me back and asked me about my trip to France when I went to his class yesterday at Alvin Ailey. Did Peter even bat an eyelash when I returned today? Nooooooo....

I'm not sure how to rate his mood this afternoon on the 1-10, bad-mood-good-mood scale. At first he seemed to be in a bad mood, but I then later revised my opinion and decided he was feeling quite chipper, just very strict. He was scathing in his criticisms, it's true, but not in that same nasty, oh-I-give-up-these-people-are-hopeless-and-I-don't-know-why-I-keep-coming-here-to-teach-these-cretins tone that he has when he seems tired and in low spirits.

He kept stopping us during across-the-floor exercises whenever one person was doing the combination incorrectly. I'd get halfway across the room and have to halt in the middle of the routine and start again from the beginning because some student that came after me wasn't looking in the proper direction, or was trying to pirouette from the wrong position, or wasn't pointing her foot. This happened over and over. We only got through about half of the usual repertoire of floor work because he was being so particular. I'm not saying he shouldn't be particular (in fact, it's this characteristic that makes me like him so much), but it just seemed rather pronounced today. I felt we needed at least another hour to accomplish what he wanted from us during this class.

One thing that really seemed to chap his ass today was our facial expressions. He kept complaining that 1) our eyes and heads weren't moving enough; and 2) we were clenching our jaws and showing a lot of tension in the mouth area. He tried to explain to us how important it is to get rid of the blank stares he sees in so many of our faces. As he does so many times, he decided to use examples of famous ballerinas that have taken his class in the past to illustrate how clear it is to him that we have little talent.

Once he starts in on one of these stories, he totally gets lost in it, and goes on and on for like 10 minutes before he realizes that he needs to get on with the lesson already. This time he waxed nostalgic about Alexandra Ansanelli, who was formerly a principal of the New York City Ballet, and is now a First Soloist with the Royal Ballet. She apparently was written off by many as a child due to a variety of physical inadequacies, but Peter could tell when he saw her at the age of 11 that she would go far. Her eyes just sparkled, he said. She was full of expression. And we are not. Then he totally went off on a tangent about Paloma Herrera, the Argentina-born artist who is now a principal at ABT. Paloma was full of spark and guts. When most female dancers fall, they show fear. Whenever Paloma fell, she would get angry. "Alright, relax, calm down, Paloma!" her teachers would have to say. Peter seemed to think this was an interesting story. I thought it wasn't at all an interesting story because, a) all Argentines are like that -- they are emotional and get worked up about anything and everything (I know from personal experience), and b) this had nothing to do with the matter at hand. But I guess you have to give Peter that leeway sometimes -- he has to repeatedly wander through his memories of teaching great dancers, in order to make the mundane task of teaching us meatheads bearable.

Perhaps we won't disappoint him so much next class...

My Mother Doesn't Really Like Ballet, but She Thinks She Does

Let me just preface this entry by saying I love and respect my mother dearly. She is one of the finest human beings on Earth.

I'm not a very smart shopper. I tend to buy things on a whim, and the other day, when I was browsing on Amazon.com, was no exception. I have a small collection of ballet DVDs, but up until today, nothing with Gelsey Kirkland, other than the much-beloved-but-seen-like-a-thousand-times-since-I-was-four "Nutcracker". So I put "Baryshnikov Live at Wolf Trap" in my basket and checked out. I don't really care about Baryshnikov. In fact, I don't care much about any male ballet dancers -- I only care about the ballerinas. I know all about the lives of Fonteyn, Kirkland, Tallchief and Farrell, but I couldn't tell you a single thing about Somes or Nureyev or Martins or D'Amboise, except inasmuch as the details of their lives relate to the females.

Anyway, long story short, this DVD sucks. I mean, Mikhail's dancing is masterful, but the pas de deux with Gelsey are totally lacking in charm. She looks AWFUL, and she's panting and shaking like a leaf the entire time -- it's heartbreaking to watch. I'm not sure when this was filmed, but it must have been during her declining, cocaine-using years.

I considered sending it to my mom, but thought the better of it. Well, maybe I should give it to her anyway. I don't want it, and she'd be thrilled to get a DVD of Baryshnikov and Kirkland dancing. She might notice a few of Gelsey's wobbles in the recording, but would probably be completely oblivious to the significance of it, because she knows nothing about the ballerina's life -- in fact, she probably has only ever seen her performance on TV in "The Nutcracker". And she really doesn't perceive the highs and lows of technique unless it's something seriously acrobatic and crowd-pleasing, in any case.

You see, my mom professes to love ballet, and she dedicated herself to schlepping my sister and I to endless classes, rehearsals, and performances throughout our childhood and adolesence, but she didn't really know, or care to know, much about the dance itself. I think the only choreographer she could name is Balanchine, and the only dancers' names she recognizes are Fonteyn, Nureyev, Baryshnikov, Kirkland, and Brown (and the latter two only because they were in "The Nutcracker" and "The Turning Point"). Oh, and Peter Martins, although, for some reason I cannot understand, she thought he was dead. "Yes, he died of AIDS!" she claimed with conviction when I started talking about some of his work with Suzanne Farrell. "No, mom, he's alive and well and directing the New York City Ballet." She didn't believe me. And she never says anything about his dancing or choreography -- she just always describes him this way: "He was SO GOOD LOOKING!"

She doesn't know much about great ballets -- probably the only ones she's heard of are "Swan Lake", "Sleeping Beauty", and like maybe "Don Quixote". I asked her if she's ever seen performances of typical works like "Le Corsaire", "Les Sylphides", even "Giselle", and she didn't know them at all or really seem to be interested. This seems a little strange to me, considering all those years she spent nurturing me and my sister at the Princeton Ballet Society, and how much she wanted us to be dancers.

I go see dance performances all the time, and my mom claimed to want to go see the ballet. She never took us to the ballet during all those years when we were little ballerinas, for reasons I'll never understand. She doesn't go to the ballet now, but has been suggesting for two years that I take her to see one. So I bought tickets to see an ABT repertory performance last winter. I figured Mom would be smitten with Angel Corella, and appreciate Irina Dvorovenko, as both are not only technically masterful, but incredibly charming. When I told her I got the tickets, and specifically chose an evening with dancers I thought she would like, she chirped, "Kirkland?"

"Um, what?"

"Kirkland. Kirkland will dance?" she stammered.

"Kirkland who?" I responded, totally confused.

"Guh...guh...you know...Kirkland!"

"Like, GELSEY Kirkland??"

"Yes, yes, Gelsey Kirkland! She'll be dancing?" she asked, in a sincerely hopeful tone.

I almost spat directly into the phone. "Ma, can you tell me what YEAR this is???"

My mother is not that old, and not senile, so I don't get it. I simply cannot understand her sometimes.

That evening at City Center, my mother fell asleep twice -- she dozed straight through the opening "Apollo", and the closing number, "The Green Table". There were two pas de deux sandwiched in between, and she seemed to enjoy Corella (in the first) and Dvorovenko (in the second), just as I predicted, but the entire evening I felt like she was there only because I had dragged her there.

She claims we should go to the ballet again. I really don't get it.

I Love Mustard!

This is my last evening in Paris, and I stopped at a brasserie near the Place Vendome on my way back from my walk through Les Halles. I've been there a couple of times, and I like it -- it's called Chez Flotte. The food is good, the wine is good, the lighting is perfect, the service is amiable, and I can speak English freely there without shame.

I've been here over a week, but only this time consciously acknowledged that mustard is always served with dinner in a brasserie, in the same little condiment thingee as salt and pepper. I had ignored the mustard at every other meal until this evening. I decided to plop a dollop on my potatoes this time around, and was astounded. Omigod! Mustard is GREAT! I mean, I've always liked mustard, but I've never had mustard in France, on my potatoes. Greg Poupon it is NOT. It's very spicy and flavorful, and the perfect accompaniment to my dish. I'm not sure exactly what makes this mustard different from any other I've ever had in the States, but it has a very heavy horseradish-like taste. It's brilliant. I need to buy a lot of it when I come back.

I'm enjoying myself immensely, but part of me wishes I were a journalist in Turin covering the Games. Wow, the Chinese skate really well. And will you just look at that Joey Cheek? What a wholesome guy, bless him. And his interesting name. And lovely cheeks.

Stuck in Paris

Bless that blizzard -- my flight back to NY this evening has been cancelled. I'm "stuck" in Paris for one more day. Gosh darn, eh?

American Airlines was nice enough to automatically book me on flight 45 tomorrow at noon. That's lovely! Too bad they can't upgrade me to first class for my "trouble".

La la laaaaaaaaa....

Short-track Speed Skating is the Sexiest Sport EVER

OK, wait, I'm still trying to catch my breath...

I just watched one of the 1500 m men's short-track speed skating heats in Turin.

Phew!

Short-track speed skating is cool in the following ways:

• Unlike many other racing competitions in the Olympics, short-track speed skaters race not against the clock, but against each other. Athletes race in packs and try to outskate and outwit fellow competitors.
• It's incredibly fast and...organic.
• No matter how long the event, the deciding moments always seem to come during the final seconds of the race, when there are sudden changes in the ranking of who looks to finish first, and, especially in the men's races, there tend to be huge, exciting pile ups of crashing skaters, sometimes with blood involved (them skating blades are huge and sharp).
• Besides the obvious athleticism necessary in any Olympic competition, success in this sport seems to be entirely dependent on a combination of a) a mind for calculation and ability to make split-second decisions; and b) enormous balls. It's not like some other easy-to-like event, like snowboarding. In this sport, you have to MANEUVER. It's like chess on testosterone. YEAH!

It just ROCKS. I so rarely ever use that term, so please humor me.

My enthusiasm is also stoked by the overwhelming appeal of one of the USA's most famous winter olympians, Mr. Apolo Anton Ohno. Yes, he's good looking, and I'm vulnerable to that. But let me just take a moment to thank him for inciting my interest in this most-engaging sport. I have to say, a very charismatic Canadian came in second place in the women's 3000m relay this evening. I'm not sure of her name -- I'll have to look it up. She engineered a VERY daring temporary overtake of the Chinese leader, but only kept it for like a second and a half. Bless her, I hope she wins a medal.

Oh, they just showed the men's B 1500m race. Ohno choked -- he got to the starting line late, and then tried to overtake the second-place Canadian a couple of seconds too late in the race. He ended third.

Shit, this sport is something!! It's all about timing, finesse, and BALLS. I LOVE it!

Oh, wait, I should probably write about my day in Paris. Um, I went to Montmartre, sat in the Sacre-Couer cathedral and thought about life, and then left and walked down the Rue Pigalle so I could see where George Sand and Frederic Chopin used to live. It was nice to experience, but it was cold and rainy, and I was mostly miserable. And there are all sorts of awful, annoying people hanging around on the steps up to the cathedral. As I was heading back down, some asshole and his gang of friends decided it would be a fine idea to stop me and begin an interrogation. Asshole number one stood firmly in my way, grabbed my arms, and asked, "Where are you from?" I answered, "A little town called Get the Fuck Out of My Way Right Now, Also Known as New York". I'm not sure if it was my tone/words that made him and his cronies leave me alone, or the very emphatic way I shrugged off his touch, but suffice it to say I'm glad he didn't pursue the matter. Maybe if it had been sunny out, I might have been a little bit more accommodating, but today, I was having none of it.

Tomorrow I leave Paris. I hear I've just missed a gigantic snow storm in New York. I should be thankful for that, I guess.

I must come back soon.

Insomnia in Paris

It seems my insomnia has followed me to France. I really, truly believed I had left it behind in NY. "It's simply not possible for bouts of stress and assorted neuroses to visit me in the middle of the night when I'm in Paris," I thought to myself when I tacked on a few vacation days to this business trip. "I'll wander about the City of Lights for a couple of days, and return to the States totally rejuvenated and full of joie de vivre."

Um, nope. I've had a great time here, don't get me wrong, but I've found I cannot shake the insomnia merely by changing countries. I realized back in October that being in Maui (also on business, for almost a month -- you'd think being on a beautiful island in the Pacific for that amount of time would be a transforming experience) didn't do anything to cure it, but I was harboring a hope that, perhaps by crossing a national border to a place that was decidedly un-American, I would undergo some magical transformation where insomnia, and all those silly little stress-inducing thoughts I carry around with me daily in New York City, would just flutter away.

Um, WRONG. Like clockwork, at 4am the past three nights, my eyes flew open. After stumbling about my hotel room for my watch, I realize it's way too early to be up, and settle back under the covers. But then the List of Annoying Thoughts decides to take over:

"The open enrollment period for your company benefits plan CLOSES soon after you land at JFK...you MUST fill out those FORMS..."

"I have to log on to Amazon.com and order a copy of Tax Cut. Really, though, I need to hire someone...oh god, what the HELL should I do about my TAXES??"

"I've totally missed the deadline for documenting business requirements for that project at work...what will become of me?"

"My work colleagues must think I'm totally bizarre."

"I MUST find someone to hang those drapes I bought for my apartment. They've been SITTING there since the SUMMER, godammit. Why oh why am I so helpless? My dad was a talented engineer and auto mechanic. I SHOULD be handy. But I'm NOT!"

"Did I remember to throw away that banana that was on my kitchen counter before I left my apartment? Oh lord, maybe I didn't. What is it going to look like when I get back? It's going to be a PUTRID MESS!!"

"Oh my GOD, I'm so stupid and pointless!"

I don't have a therapist, and my friend Steph, who endures my bouts of self-absorbed instant messaging with grace, is probably asleep, since it is around 1 a.m. over there. Ah, so why don't I write a blog entry? That would be tres therapeutique (I don't know if that's a word or not, but it really doesn't matter, you know what I mean)!

I might as well write a bit about my day in this beautiful city, and I can forget about what an idiot I am, just for a little while. Or at least, long enough for me to fall asleep again, just as the sun is coming up here.

I got a bit of late start today, and headed out with the plan of visiting the capybaras at the Jardin des Plantes and thoroughly exploring the Latin Quarter. Plan thwarted. It was terribly cold and cloudy and miserable out, so after about 15 minutes of walking, I realized going to a zoo was out of the question. I wondered if maybe I shouldn't skip the whole thing, duck into a cafe, and read a book all afternoon. Then I realized the cafes are all full of smokers, and thought it better to stay outside. My nose is red and swollen, but I keep walking down Boulevard St. Germain, determined to make it to my destination. I could have taken the Metro, but I need some form of exercise to make up for the rich meals I've been eating all week.

A big poster outside a nice-looking building caught my eye. I strode past it, thought a little bit, and walked back to investigate. The Maison de L'Amerique Latine was having an exposition of the works of Tarsila do Amaral. COOL! I love her stuff, but I've forgotten how much I love her stuff, because it's been awhile since I've been to an art museum and taken any time to think about painters and their oeuvres. The last time I made a point of visiting a particular exhibition and really getting engrossed in the works was when that film about Frida Khalo, starring the lovely Salma Hayek, came out. That's pathetic. That's just WRONG. Note to self: must see more art on a regular basis.

So I head in, and it was fantastic. Of course, all of the descriptions of the paintings were in French, but I could understand like 50% of it, and thoroughly enjoyed reading them. There are a few works I'm going to have to look up in English later -- like Urulu, which basically looks like a big egg, nestled in a snake-like form that reaches out and wraps around this, um, pointy thing sticking out of the, um, ground. Tarsila was a pioneering modernist. Her works aren't meant to be described literally. I'll, uh, figure out a more intelligent way to describe it, after I've had time to read how more-qualified, artsy people write about it. Heh.

I considered buying the exhibition catalog, but it was only offered in French, so I figured I'd best leave it. French people and their...FRENCH. Sheesh. Well, at least while I was wandering around I heard a decent amount of Portuguese being spoken, and a little bit of Spanish. Thank the lord. The Maison de L'Amerique Latine seemed an oasis from my English/French conundrum -- for the past week, most of the time I've felt inferior because I Don't Speak French, but here, I could speak Portguese and Spanish, and was thus temporarily freed from my English-only, Stumble-Through-French-Phrases-In-a-Most-Embarassing-Way prison. At least in Portuguese, I can speak naturally without thinking too much. It's very comfortable for me. Note to self: spend more time studying languages.

By the time I pried myself away from the Maison, it was late afternoon, and getting increasingly cold. I made a valient effort at navigating myself through my book's walking tour of the French Quarter, then headed back, making sure to walk through the 7th and get a look at the Hotel des Invalides. I schlepped up Avenue Duquesne, then turned on Avenue Bosquet, making my way towards the Pont De L'Alma. The Eiffel Tower was all lit up with sparkly, flashing lights. I'm not sure what the occasion is, if any. Maybe France won something in a rugby tournament or in Turin. Who knows.

I had a mediocre, but expensive, meal at an Italian restaurant on Rue de Tremoille.

Maybe I can go to sleep now. It's 7:10a.m. Ah, but there are some French men outside my window yelling at each other. I cannot understand what they are saying, but there is also a machine sound and some clanking noises, so it sounds like garbagemen. But today is Sunday. It cannot be possible that French workers are collecting the garbage on a Sunday. Maybe it's just some drunk people.


Bonsoir...bonjour. I hope I will sleep.

Tiny Soaps and Scary Wallpaper

Today was my first true day of vacation here in Paris, where I wasn't schlepping from one hotel to another and during which I, with great effort, limited my time returning email from work colleagues to one hour. Hooray for me!

My new hotel is the Prince de Galles on Av. George V. It's definitely a step down from the Westin Paris, but I cannot complain, at 72 euros a night. One thing I always like to do when I'm traveling for work is compare the amenities and other features of my room from property to property. What the Prince de Galles seemed to lack in quality of decor (they have this frightening wallpaper with a white background and bizarre ochre-colored drawings of what look to be medieval scenes from the French countryside, with a matching bedspread AND shower curtain - yikes!), they attempt to make up for in the provision of all manner of toiletries and other personal-care items: in addition to the requisite shampoo, conditioner, lotion, bar soap, and sewing kit, they provide bath salts (!), shower gel, shoe mitts, shower caps, slippers, cotton swaps, eye-makeup-remover pads, and a manicure set. I find it kind of annoying -- I'd much prefer a clean-looking bedspread to all of these miniature grooming items. Women are particular and tend to bring everything they truly need for their morning routine with them when they travel (we religiously tote our vigorously-tested, preferred brands of hair products, toners, facial moisturizers, etc), so the toiletries end up being irrelevant. I think to myself what I might choose to put in a hotel room were I to start a new hotel chain. I'd try something different: instead of shower caps, soap, and shampoo, I'd design a cute little packet replete with zit cream, condoms, and cough syrup, just to see how guests would react.

The GM did send an amenity, but instead of the great wine and fruit (lychees!) I got before, this was a plate of disgusting concoctions that I guess I would describe as "cookies" -- they were these round things covered with some sort of multi-colored goo. I bit into one, but there was no discernable flavor other than sugar, and the texture was spit-inducing. The contents of that plate went straight into the trashcan.

Being that it was a beautiful sunny day, if not a bit cold, I eschewed public transportation and walked across town to the Iles St-Louis and de la Cite. I didn't go into the Notre Dame cathdral because I've been there once before and I wasn't in the mood to shuffle along through the crowds. My main goal was to cover lots of ground, reading my "Walking Paris" guide, and learn about who used to prowl through these same streets back in the day. I passed through the spot where Julio Cortazar set his short story "The Son of the Virgin" (which inspired the seminal 1960s film "Blow Up"), as well as the stunning hotels whose tenants included Charles Baudelaire, Theophile Gautier, Marie Curie and Camille Claudel. My guidebook mentioned an interesting story about the Pont St-Louis (formerly Pont Rouge) -- in the 17th century the city authorities tortured a gypsy woman for some crime allegedly committed in the area. Her grief-stricken mother put a curse on the bridge, willing it to collapse. And collapse it has, seven times so far. The present bridge is relatively new, dating only from 1970.

I knew before coming here that Paris is gorgeous, but it's been so long since I've been outside the Western Hemisphere that I forgot just how beautiful this, and indeed many history-rich Old-World cities, are, in comparison to ones in the States. San Francisco, Chicago, and New York are pretty, but just don't belong in the same aesthetic class as those places that were thriving metropolises long before those New-World ones were born. And we Americans have a tendency to pave over landmarks to build parking lots and high-rises anyway, so what little we had gets lost.

I found myself wishing fervently that 1) I were a talented photographer with a decent camera; and 2) I knew how to draw. There is so much that I wanted to record in some sort of visual format, but I sat there forlorn, resigning myself to gazing appreciatively at things and knowing the memories of what my eyes were taking in would fade. It wasn't just buildings and bridges and the Seine that I would have tried to capture. I was sitting in a cafe, looking at my menu and trying to decide what to eat for lunch, when my waiter seated a most extraordinary man across from me. He looked to be about 75 years old, with some of the most character-rich manners and facial expressions I have seen in a long time. He was of considerable girth, and moved very slowly and deliberately, walking with a cane and taking lots of time to settle himself into his seat. He had very heavy eyelids and wispy white hair that stood out in a variety of directions, although he had very manicured sideburns. He was wearing an old ratty gray sweater and an expression that I don't have the words to describe. He wasn't grumpy, but he had the air of an entitled senior citizen that seemed to exasperate our quite-affable waiter. Ah, if only I had a charcoal pencil and drawing pad, and could channel Hirshfeld's talent for just ten minutes. The white-haired man should have been a character actor. Perhaps he was. We finished our meals at about the same time, and he left. I lingered over my coffee, hoping to observe more such interesting personalities, but none appeared.

Oh, well. Tomorrow is another day. I'm going to the Jardin des Plantes (a friend of mine tells me they have capybaras there, which I'm sure to find quite entertaining), and then I'll wander around the Latin Quarter.

I really should just make a point of missing my plane back to the States on Monday. I could see myself living here, if my lungs could tolerate these tobacco-addicted Europeans.

Swamp Nurse

If you subscribe to "The New Yorker", you probably got your most recent issue in the mail today. Before you toss last week's issue (2/6, with a cartoon of a greenhouse full of red roses on it) into the recycling bin, make sure you read Katherine Boo's article on pp. 54-65. Read the WHOLE thing. It's a wonderful piece of reporting. If I were to ever become a freelance journalist, this is the kind of stuff I would aspire to create.

Ms. Boo spent the course of a year observing the Nurse-Family Partnership program in Louisiana. The NFP is a non-profit organization based in Denver, and supports a program of home visiting by registered nurses in several towns and cities across the U.S. The nurse-visitors work with low-income, first-time parents and their children.

The article isn't so much about the program itself and whether it works (Ms. Boo herself is a little dubious of the objectivity of its founder's study on the program's success) -- it is a gripping account of the nurse-visitors' experiences and of the lives of their cases. It chronicles the stories of two young mothers and their caseworker, Luwana Marts.

By the end of the piece, the reader feels emotionally involved in the lives of these people. I was hoping fervently for success for these poor families and their caseworkers, although the reporter very honestly describes both the courage of these young mothers, and the self-sabotaging decisions they make. I'm not going to say what happens in the end, because I don't want to ruin it for you.

This one's definitely going in my clippings files.

Patience for Learning About Retrolefaction

We began our training today at the Westin Paris. The first thing that impressed me about the session was the conference room -- it was a high-ceilinged space that could compete with the halls of Versailles. The first words out of my mouth were, "Holy shit!"

The crowd was a delightful mix of trainees from all over Europe and Africa. One thing I discovered about the Europeans is that they are quite a staid bunch. They are nice enough, but rather reserved compared to other business associates I've met from the Western Hemisphere. I expect people from the sales and marketing departments at our hotels to be much more outgoing than I (I'm just a shy, dorky analyst-type from the corporate office), but I felt very much like a loud, goofy, overy-talkative American next to them. The contingents from Italy, Spain, and Portugal seemed somewhat more lively, but they were timid in comparison to their North- and South-American counterparts I've met at other gatherings.

We finished the day's sessions with a "team-building" wine-tasting class. It was lovely, really, but the entire time I couldn't help but marvel at how un-American the presentation was -- only a French presenter could consider it perfectly OK to blather on for two full hours about six wines to an audience that had spent the past 9 hours sitting in that very room listening to a software trainer. He spent 15 minutes alone describing the details of retrolefaction. And I had to hand it to the European audience -- they sat there and listened to him respectfully. You could never get away with that with an American audience. You lose the attention of Americans after 20 minutes or so during the course of a training class unless you are breathing fire, performing acrobatics, and giving away cash prizes at regular intervals.

Well, tomorrow's a new day, and we have a more exciting agenda, complete with video. And I think I've gotten over my murderous rage incited by people smoking cigarettes in a public place.
That would be a good thing.

Bonsoir!

Teri Garr is Kind of Annoying

I landed at Charles de Gaulle this morning with a fever and a head full of snot. I forgot to pack my decongestants in my carry-on, and therefore suffered through the 8-hour flight without a wink of sleep due to this awful cold which I contracted a convenient 2 days before takeoff. I was very miserable and not at all happy about being on the road, despite the fact that all my friends and colleagues expect me to be terribly excited. Yay, France! I'm in Paris! Yeah!

I have to hand it to the Parisians, though -- I flew through customs, found my way to a taxi, and was at my hotel in no time. I real breeze, checking into France. And I haven't had to speak a single word of French, which has been a lifesaver, since I know about 5 words. EVERYONE here speaks perfect English, EVERYONE -- the cab driver, the bellman, the receptionist, the housekeeper, the waiters....it's amazing. It's like they never deal with anyone other than Americans and Brits. I'm in awe.

I feel VERY guilty about not speaking any French, despite how accommodating everyone has been. I don't know if it has something to do with where I'm staying (an exceedingly foo foo shee shee neighborhood in the 1st arrond-whatever), but I'm struggling between a feeling of being utterly grateful that my woeful state of unpreparedness hasn't stifled my ability to communicate with others, and indignation that I can carry on as if I were still in New York. I should be punished for not having spent the last five weeks immersed in my Frommer's and Lonely Planet's French language guides, right? But no, it seems I can approach anyone here without even the slightest nod to attempting to speak French, and it is expected. Well, god bless whoever set that precedent. I shall endeavor to speak French later this week when I have more time and energy to spend with my language books, but for now, this system works just swell for me. If these French people are happy to accommodate my English, fantastic. One less thing I have to worry about right now.

Ah, so why do I find Teri Garr annoying? I'll get to that in a second.

I checked into the Westin Paris, and I've been put in a well-appointed suite. It's quite luxurious, although the layout is a bit odd -- my accommodations span two room numbers (3100 and 3102) -- there are two wings, each with their own separate full bath and closets. I guess I'll need to find some excuse for entertaining a group of people while I'm here, because otherwise, this space is a total waste. I tried to get my sister to with me, but she couldn't get the time off from work. Anyway, the general manager was nice enough to send up a bottle of Burgundy and a fruit plate. I was pretty impressed -- it had cherries, raspberries, and lychees. LYCHEES, for chrissake. When's the last time you had a hotel fruit plate with lychees?? Nice.

So I know I must go to sleep immediately because I've missed an entire night's sleep and I'm jet lagged and I have to be engaging and thoughtful in tomorrow's all-day sessions which begin at 8am, but for some reason, just as I'm about to turn in, I cannot sleep. So I turn on the TV. And they're showing the movie "Tootsie". I never saw the original, so I am in a complete fog about everything that is going on. I'm just left to try to enjoy the comical aspects of the gestures of Dustin Hoffman, Bill Murray, and the rest of the very talented comedic actors, without understanding what is being said, since the whole film has been dubbed in French. And it was at this point that I decided Teri Garr was annoying. As I watched her, I could almost hear her voice and imagine what she was saying, and somehow, it just wasn't funny to me. I'm not sure what it was about her that I could not accept. Perhaps her hair was bothering me. I really don't know. I just realized that, for some reason I could not pinpoint precisely, I don't enjoy watching Teri Garr. OK, well, fine. It's a good day when you learn something new about yourself.

I don't know if I'll make it until the end of this movie. I really need to sleep. Tomorrow's going to be a reaaaally long day.

Alors....


d

You Can't Shout Until You're Deaf

I look forward every Tuesday to the "Science Times" section of my daily newspaper. I was never very interested in science in school, and I'm not nearly smart enough to understand most scientific principles and discoveries now, but I'm one of those people who enthusiastically buy scientific writings for the common folks written by the likes of Oliver Sacks and Brian Greene. I still can't seem to grasp the most basic elements of string theory, but I happily keep trying.

In yesterday's "Observatory" section, Henry Fountain wrote about experiments a group of English biologists performed on crickets. They were studying a phenomenon called corollary discharge signalling, in which, when the brain sends a signal to various muscles to speak, a copy of the signal goes to the auditory system, desensitizing it so it doesn't get overloaded. Crickets were chosen for the study because they have a very simple nervous system and make very loud noises -- crickets chirp at sound pressure levels that have been measured at more than 100 decibels, yet they don't deafen themselves. Scientists discovered a couple of years back that, at the precise instant a cricket moves its forewing muscles to create a chirp, its auditory neurons became inhibited, or desensitized, presumably by some chemical neurotransmitter. The new study found that a pair of neurons carry the signals from the muscles to the auditory center.

It is with this information in hand that I opened up this morning's paper to read the coverage about the State of the Union address. I haven't watched the State of the Union address since George W. Bush became president. The reason for this isn't because I am an unconcerned citizen, it is because our president is such a woefully bad speaker that I am entirely unable to watch him make any public address whatsoever. When I try to listen to him talk, and witness him foul up the English language or make all manner of goofy faces or gestures, I feel embarrassed and ashamed to the point of physical pain. I get headaches, my stomach churns, and I simply have to turn away. So I'm stuck finding out about what he said by reading about it after the fact.

Similarly to proclamations in the past several years, he warned against the "false comfort of isolationism". He also declared that "America is addicted to oil". I angrily set down my paper and wondered for the one hundred thousandth time how it is that Republicans can say such ridiculous things with a straight face, and on TV with the whole world watching, no less. America is too dependent on oil? Like, DUH! We have been for how long now? And which party is it that does their best to quash any efforts at conservation of resources and implementing standards for fuel efficiency? And which politicians are the ones intimately connected with oil companies? And he has the nerve to make this "bold" declaration, as if it were news and he and his party were truly committed to an honest solution! Argh!

And he keeps bringing up this word, "isolationism", to describe efforts by peace activists and pragmatic politicians to have a rational, open discussion on how to end the war. That's not isolationism, that's simply a demand to have our leaders develop an actual PLAN. Just because Bush threw this country into a war with little thought and no strategy doesn't give him the right to call those who are trying to straighten out his mess "isolationists". Gah!

It just made me so flummoxed on the train this morning, but then I remembered the crickets, and it all became clear. I know why Republicans can say these things without shame or breaking out into uncontrollable laughter at the sheer brazen stupidity of their remarks -- it's corollary discharge signalling! When a Republican opens his mouth, it's like an advanced form of what happens when a cricket chirps -- he is desensitized to the sound and the meaning of his own words. Eureka!

Now we've just got to get those English biologists cracking on discovering how it is that Republicans, and other unreasonable and presumptuous humans, are born with this genetic deficiency. Or maybe it's a mutation that occurs spontaneously when certain adults vote for the first time or decide to run for office. The world is full of scientific mysteries.