Duke Dip

Christmas Sour Cream Cookies

noreply@blogger.com (John Duke) — Sat, 25 Dec 2010 02:44:00 +0000

At my surprise party last week, I was reminded of the cookies that Mom usually baked around Christmas time. They are soft and yellow-white with a sugary icing and sprinkles. Having only one at a time is not an option. Jenny sent me the recipe she uses, which I hope to use when we go stay at the Evermore Barn.

Sour Cream Cookies

2 C. flour
1 t. baking powder
1/4 t. baking soda
1/2 t. salt
1/2 C. shortening (I use room-temperature butter)
3/4 C. sugar
1 egg
1/2 t. vanilla
1/2 C. sour cream

I got my copy of the recipe over the phone from Mom. I only have the ingredient list, not the instructions, but I just make it as I would any other cookie recipe. Old school recipes always want you to sift the flour, but I never do and they turn out fine because we're living in the Modern Age of Finely Ground Flour.

Preheat oven to 375. Mix together flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt. (Truth be told, I don't do this either, but it's a good idea so that everything is evenly distributed.) Cream together shortening/butter and sugar. Beat in egg and vanilla. Stir in half of the sour cream, then half of the flour mixture, repeat. Bake for 8-10 minutes.

Jody said that she icings them while they are warm, but I always wait until they're cool.

Jody responded, "I never sift the dry ingredients, just mix them with a fork. I also never use sour cream in the sour cream cookies. I add about 1 tsp of vinegar to 1/2 cup evaporated milk and let it sit a few minutes before adding it."

Jenny added, "I use sour cream if I have it and sub if I don't, but I don't measure the vinegar and use whatever milk I have and sometimes a combo of nonfat with a shot of half & half."

If there are other variations out there, let me know. I want them to be perfect, just like Mom's.

Kolache vs. Potica (a northern region dispatch)

noreply@blogger.com (marc) — Tue, 07 Dec 2010 14:39:00 +0000

Nothing says Christmastime like baked goods, and for Duke-Dippers, the baked good that says it best is kolache. The kitchens at my work are brimming with goodies, and on today's early morning reconnaissance I came face to face with what I consider the holy grail.

That's right kolache! Except, wait a minute, it's not kolache. The package says "potica." A quick search reveals that poticia is the common Slovenian name and kolache is more of a catch-all term for cakes. Have Duke-Dippers been eating poticia all these years (gasp!)? Probably, but who cares!

In my official role as investigator I took a slice of the kitchen poticia back to my desk... uh, I mean back to my lab for analysis. There were minor differences in what we grew up with -- a little too much nutmeg and walnuts that were chopped into almost a paste instead of being left a little chunky, but all in all it was surprisingly close to the real thing.

Northern Minnesota residents seem to be particularly fond of the cake. And now that I know this, another conundrum has been cleared up for me. About a year ago, I started hearing people talk about kolache (pronounced: "ko-LATCH-ee"). What the "you betch-ya" state refers to as kolache is actually more of a breakfast roll with a sweet filling. So if you find yourself here for a visit, now you'll know what to order and not be disappointed.

In the case of kolache vs. poticia, I say let them live in harmony. Eat them both.

Na zdraví (cheers)!

One-Click Installation for all your Essential Applications

noreply@blogger.com (Peter FD) — Wed, 27 Oct 2010 09:23:00 +0000

Ever reformat your hard drive and despise the fact that you have to download and install all of your essential programs again (like Adobe Reader, Flash Player, Spybot, etc.)?

I just found a website, http://www.allmyapps.com, that does all of this for you and allows you to access your personalized list from anywhere on the internet. Select from a variety of programs via categories, popularity, and even browse other user's lists. This site works with linux, windows, and mac (ugh).

John is Inducted

noreply@blogger.com (Rose) — Mon, 04 Oct 2010 03:08:00 +0000

Peter got us tickets to a JMU football game this weekend. You know what that means: John is no longer a college football virgin! We figured, what with Peter being a senior and all, we'd better get ourselves to a football game NOW. We made that decision just as JMU embarked on some big wins, and found their tickets all sold out for the season! But Pete has friends, and one of his friends' father generously treated us to some of his season tickets.

We picked a perfect day, with sunny weather in the 70's. Pete, John and I picnicked before the game, but we avoided the tailgates so as to be fully present at this momentous event. I have been to a few college football games (thanks, Dad!), but this being John's first time we wanted it to be really special. To give you an idea of how excited he was, I'll share our conversation with absolute accuracy:

Darien: Let's go to a JMU football game! I want to see the marching band!
John: I'd rather see the football game than the marching band.
Darien: Ok!
...
Darien: We've got tickets!
John: ... (looks like his computer just died) ...
Darien: You said you wanted to go!
John: I was KIDDING.

As you can see, we all ended up having fun, even though JMU lost to Delaware, 13-10. It was a fairly close, fairly engaging game. The fans were insanely enthusiastic. The marching band rocked.

JMU Touchdown!

Bless bless

noreply@blogger.com (John Duke) — Mon, 19 Jul 2010 01:08:00 +0000

Fearful of running out of time, we got out of bed early to say goodbye to Reykjavik and drive our rented Hyundai back across the fields of harsh black lava half overgrown by mosses and tiny plants to the airport in Keflavik. We had packed the night before, and we were even able to stuff into our well-traveled backpacks the additional clothes we had shipped to Iceland.

The last time we flew out of Iceland, the airport counter was mobbed and we barely made it on the plane before the doors closed. This time, we had nothing to worry about. The airport was virtually deserted, and the desk clerk, with nothing better to do, fell all over herself to wait on Darien and Antonia while I struggled with returning the car -- either my Icelandic or my credit card failed me, for I was unable to use the self-service option to refill the tank. The shuttle driver who took me to the terminal explained a bit about the history of why the airport was built at Keflavik, extolled the 70 degree heat wave we were suffering, and told me that vik means "bay." I hadn't known that, or more likely I had forgotten that.

We ate a little, drank some dark coffee, and Darien purchased a fifth of Brennevin for a friend. Evidently, some people actually do choose to drink it. I had my sunglasses repaired at an optical shop that had already opened and Antonia spent twenty minutes dousing herself with perfumes in the duty free shop.

We were finally ready to board. We still had several movies to look forward to on Icelandair, an eight hour layover in Boston (napping on vinyl airport chairs, pushing Antonia around on a luggage carrier, lunch at Legal Sea Food, scoring handfuls of free samples of beauty products from a maid in a hallway at a neighboring Hilton, Antonia and Darien becoming so airport-stupid that a barista mistook them for foreigners and kindly showed them how to count out American money), and Peter and Jonathan almost making it to the airport in Richmond on time to pick us up. That was the future. The present had us looking through the window of the gangway, waiting to board. Across the tarmac, 115 kilometers distant, Snæfellsjökull's white ice glimmered in the morning sun. That the mythic mountain across the vik is usually obscured, and was now revealed, could only be explained by the influence of the dancing huldufolk on its ley line. Bless bless, Ísland.

Black coffee, blue sea

noreply@blogger.com (John Duke) — Sat, 17 Jul 2010 04:23:00 +0000

The wind blew all night. I heard the whistling whenever I stirred, not in darkness but in soft light. We rose early, simply because that was when the light intensified. We marveled that the laundry on the line next to the farmhouse didn't take flight, as the wind blew so hard the sheets and shirts flew parallel to the ground, like beagles straining at the leash. We went up to the big house for breakfast. The food wasn't as bad as I feared, and it certainly filled us up. Tina told us it was too windy to take the horses out. They would be spooked by the wind, she said, and it would be no more pleasant for the riders. That was too bad, since it was something all of us had been looking forward to. Wind in Iceland can be treacherous. It will rip the door off a car when it is opened, flip the car over, then use the blowing volcanic sand to strip it of its paint. Don't mess with the gray areas on the map in Iceland, and don't mess with the wind either.

We checked out of Lýsuhóll and drove down the peninsula toward the white domed glacier. At the cutoff to Budir, we instead turned right. The peninsula narrows here, and the sharp ascent skirts the eastern flank of Snæfellsjökull toward Breiðafjörður, the large bay to the north and gateway to much of the Westfjords. We gained the summit and drove a bit before turning around and heading back down. Our goal was Arnarstapi, a small fishing village with a monumental piled rock sculpture of Bárður, who was part human and part ogre. Bárður stands sentinel, gazing out to the sea.

Bárður's story is told in the Saga of Bárður Snæfells. He was descended from giants and men. Bárður was the son of a king from Northern Hellaland in Scandinavia. He staked claim to the land of Laugabrekka by the Glacier at the end of the 9th century. Later in the life Bárður's giant-nature became ever more apparent. In the end, he disappeared into Snæfell Glacier, but did not die. Bárður became a nature spirit and the local folk around the Glacier petitioned him in matters large and small. (From plaque at "Bárður Snæfells, Deity of Mt. Bárður Snæfell" by Ragnar Kjartansson)

We were leery of the arctic terns, or what Icelanders call kria. They nest by the thousands here and are aggressive in protecting their young, dive bombing and pecking at the heads of intruders with their sharp pointed beaks. Today they are quiet, however, and simply screech and swoop. We stood at the rail of a wooden bridge crossing a stream and watch the kria play in the water. Periodically, one or two would dip into the water and let the current carry them downstream toward us, dipping their heads in the water and fluffing their wings, before rising up again and taking flight. They took great joy in entertaining us on the little glacial rivulets.

We found a path snaking through the lava field and hiked westward along the coast for two and a half kilometers, past gray wooden signs for Draugalag, Bolholar, Natthagi, and Einbui. I've poked around a little since, and I am still not sure what the signs mean. My best guess is that they indicate the names of ancient family farmsteads or place names from a millennium ago. The area had been settled 1,100 years ago, and its history is chronicled and maybe even embellished in some of the sagas. [See Maria Roff's explanation of the names in the comment to the post.]

The trail leads along the edge of a cliff formed mostly by jagged lava, but some of the rock are basalt pillars that seem to have shot straight up from the earth, puncturing the surface. To our left the Atlantic was impossibly blue. It was easy to see in the lava sculptures surrounded by the seawater images of people, of animals, of other creatures. On our right, the glacier (Snaefellsjökull) and the mountain (Stapafell) watched our progress. We marveled at our luck with the weather. It was a good 70 degrees (or 21 in Icelandspeak) and sunny. The cold and wet weather gear we had shipped out was superfluous.

After several easy kilometers, we found our destination in Kaffihús Hellnum, gray cement and burnt red steel roof. It was once a tiny, one-room fishing bungalow. Now it is a restaurant with a few tables inside and an attached wooden deck facing the ocean, where one can watch the waves tease the rocks. We were too heated to sit outside, so we sipped our espresso and shared a chocolate cake at one of the tables inside. The whitewashed interior walls are bare. The last time we were here, the work of Icelandic artist Adalheidur Skarphedinsdottir hung there. After that trip, Darien surprised me by giving me an ink print of Adalheidur's for my birthday. It now hangs in our living room.

We hiked back to our car quickly and began the drive to Reykjavik, but this time we stayed on the asphalt. We passed Lýsuhóll and saw the wind had settled enough that the horse riders were out. We do not stop. In Borgarnes, we call our friend Thor and ask him where we can buy the national dish pylsur (or hot dogs made from lamb), which for some reason Darien and Antonia really seem to want. The pylsur has a tough casing and is smeared with mayonnaise and sweet mustard, which one can tolerate by flushing with water after every bite. We cut almost an hour off our trip by paying a few kroner and taking the tunnel that burrows under the Hvalfjörður fjord. It is almost six kilometers long and 165 meters below the surface. We pray for the skill and knowledge of Iceland engineers.

It was getting late by the time we returned to Reykjavik. We still had shopping to do, so we went straight downtown. Antonia and Darien followed their gathering instinct by poking around in a wool shop and a bookstore, while I amused myself on the street. I sat on a bench outside the wool shop. Next to me sat a pile of yarn and needles, with a sign inviting passersby to stop and knit a bit. Several did while I sat there. A small record store on a hill, which looked no different from the houses surrounding it, had a band playing in its backyard. I stopped in. A half dozen other people watched. The band sang in English, but after each song addressed the crowd in Icelandic. They complained about the economic conditions and sang American songs of protest. The music was decent. Darien and Antonia wanted to make a hat trick of it and go to a hot pot for our final day in Iceland, so I went to the third floor of one of the larger bookstores and drank coffee and wrote and daydreamed. Evening was approaching, so I returned to The Three Sisters to take up residence again, but this time we were in a different building closer to the docks. The two ladies showed up shortly after.

We met Thor downtown for dinner. He wanted to dine somewhere nice, but that meant he had to leave his wheelchair below and struggle up a flight of steps, which he was happy to do. I again passed up the horse meat on the menu (here called foal, an appellation I'm not sure is better or worse) and stayed with the tried and true fish. Thor works as an editor and translator for scientific works, so we talked about his work, and living in Iceland, and literature, and culture, and Italy. He told us his daughter was sensitive to certain types of psychic influences, and that Iceland is crisscrossed with ley lines believed to have certain powerful, mystical qualities. The hidden folk of Iceland are often found around these centers, and Thor told us several true accounts, worthy of being written in the newspaper and retold over and over. One of the most powerful centers is out at Snaefellsnis, where we had just been. I am not certain if Thor really believes in the ley lines and huldufólk, or if this is what all tourists are told to make certain we come back. If that is magic, it works.

Glimpses of eternity

noreply@blogger.com (John Duke) — Sat, 17 Jul 2010 02:49:00 +0000

Darien and I rose early and walked downtown for provisions. Marketing in Iceland is a challenge, since it is so expensive to get food in. Vegetarians suffer here. We were soon in our rented car on the road, heading toward the former gathering place and parliament of the ancient Iceland clans, Thingvellir, and then eventually out to Snaefellsnes. On a sudden impulse, we pulled off the road to revisit to Halldor Laxness's home, Gljúfrasteinn. The Nobel poet is among the most revered of contemporary authors in Iceland -- sort of the Bjork of literature. Darien was hoping she could find an English translation in the shop of something she hadn't read yet, but no luck. The weather stayed warm and sunny, and the stream behind the white walled house still ran cold and clear.

We continued up the highway so Antonia could get a look at Thingvellir. Apart from its historical interest, Thingvellir is a geological marvel, where one can look across the plain and see the results of glacial movement and the fissure of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge tectonic plate, to say nothing of seeing distant geothermal steam billowing out of the earth. We would have liked to take a hike across the lava fields, but didn't have time. Instead, we asked one of the rangers about the gravel road cutting toward Snaefellsnes. On the map it looked shorter than heading back to Reykjavik and back up the coast, but we knew that it was unlikely to save time, even though it was a mere 50 kilometers away as the crow flies. The ranger said the national road service had given the nod to the route, and she thought our little Hyundai could handle it. Looking at the map, we saw it just skirted the gray wilderness. We were in an adventure mood, so we plunged ahead.

We climbed slowly up the road, tailing a pale blue and white van. At a fork in the road, the van went right. We stopped and studied the map. Left seemed safer, so we took that. Looking back, we saw that the van had reconsidered and was turning around. The grade in some parts was quite steep, so I left the car in second gear, sometimes slowing to less than 20 kilometers per hour. We passed a car parked on the side of the road. A blanket was spread out and a couple was sunbathing surrounded by the lava outcrops, moss, and sedum; I resisted the urge to take a novelty photograph, but now wish I had. In parts the road turned into a jittery washboard, and the jarring slowed us down, but sometimes I could get up to 40. When the road smoothed a bit, there were often large stones in the middle, so I had to decelerate again so I wouldn't kick one up under the chassis and damage something. We passed a dead lake, with nothing growing around it, and saw glacial mountains in the distance. We were told afterward that there were a number of waterfalls to be seen along the road, but we didn't notice them. Maybe we were focusing too hard on staying on the road. No one passed us, and few cars came the other way. In spite of the stark moonscape environment, we weren't bored. The colors -- greens, golds, dark blue, umber, and infinite shades of gray and brown -- kept our interest, and there was always something new to see. We traded several hours of time on a dusty road for glimpses of eternity.

Eventually, the road began to level a bit, and we came into a valley with farms. Sheep, horses, and wheat fields were our companions for the last half hour before we hit the asphalt again. We could see Borgarnes, a coastal town of 2,000 leading up to the foot of the Snaefellsnes peninsula. Gas was in order, since there were long stretches of empty road ahead of us. We knew there wasn't much in the way of food in Borgarnes, but Darien called ahead to our dinner destination and ended up with a recommendation. She is very resourceful that way. We ended up at Landnamssetur, which was not a bad restaurant by Icelandic standards, and where "tender horse flesh steaks" really was on the menu. I settled for a salad with smoked wild trout with rye bread baked at a hot spring -- the waitress wasn't sure how they did it, but evidently the baking dish is buried in the heated earth near a geothermal eruption and slowly baked for hours. Even if you don't have a thermal spring handy, you can still try your hand at traditional Icelandic rye bread. I was still hungry so I ordered a quiche, which had some indeterminate green leafy substance baked into it. Antonia and Darien decided upon the buffet, which had a very nice soup and tasty hummus. Unfortunately, the tourist shop lured the two in after lunch and we did not escape without a few purchases. The building were we ate was built in 1887, among the oldest in Borgarnes. For a country that has been around for over a thousand years, buildings don't last all that long.

We headed out to the peninsula toward the Snaefellsnes glacier, or Snæfellsjökull. This is a mystical place for Icelanders, where the hidden folk (huldufólk) are common and strange things can happen to the unaware.

I once visited a cave at the foot of the glacier where eerie singing voices are heard, and have seen rocky outcroppings in the shape of creatures that seem to move.

I once went horseback riding and lost my wallet, and searched for several hours. Several months later someone sent it to me, saying it was found on the floor of the cabin I stayed in.

It was at Sanefellsnes that Jules Verne found his passage to the center of the earth here. I had to slow several times for sheep in the road, and brake hard once when a farmer decided now was a good time for him and his dog to move his herd of cattle across the road. We crossed glacial rivers and whizzed past plains that would be flat were it not for the black lava rocks that rose up everywhere. The mountains have rugged, vertical cliffs at the top, then slope rapidly down from the crumbling stone, gradually flattening out enough that you can imagine the cliff rocks at the top breaking and pulverizing and slowly forming the base. The mountains grew closer to the shore, encroaching upon the sea, as we continued along the peninsula, slowly squeezing out the land and pastures.

We spent the night at Lýsuhóll, a horse farm with a half dozen modern Scandinavian style cabins. We shared one with a few other travelers. A herd of the diminutive Icelandic horses -- don't call them ponies -- grazed right off our front porch. Tina showed us around. She was German, working temporarily on the farm and taking visitors out on rides. She was waiting for her job as a teacher of the developmentally disabled to start later that year in Germany. The farm itself uses animal therapy with troubled youngsters, so it was good training for her. Next to the property was a school, but at this time of year when the students were gone it was converted to a spa because of the hot springs that bubbled up there. Antonia and Darien of course decided that additional schooling was in order. I stayed behind.

In the evening we went to the Hotel Budir for dinner, reputedly one of the best restaurants in Iceland, even though it sits on an isolated spit of land on the edge of the Atlantic surrounded by lava wilderness. It was a over a kilometer from the main road out to the hotel. On the way up to the lonely hotel, we saw a young man walking, carrying a guitar case and rolling his luggage behind him. He was walking away from the hotel toward the main road. We constructed several stories about him, and hoped we could pick him up on the way out.

We had been turned away last time we were at Budir because we didn't have reservations, but this time the restaurant was only three-quarters full on a Friday night, so we had no trouble getting in. We sat in a windowed room near the bar, having a glass of wine, and looking through a brass telescope at the distant mountains across the water and soaring birds. The ring of one of our cell phones unsettled us. It was Peter, who had a question for us. "If you were going to have body work done, where would you take your car?" he asked, which was his way of informing us he had hit a deer on 64 and almost totaled the RAV. Gabriel and a friend were with him at the time, but no one was hurt other than the deer. At least we could dine in peace.

I had three types of lamb for dinner. The most interesting was a dish in which the lamb was shredded and heavily spiced. The potatoes were thinly sliced and layered, with lots of butter between. The wait staff was either very haughty or very obsequious. The hostess would barely look at us, while the waiter repeatedly interrupted our meal to ask permission to fill our water glasses. They were very small glasses, so he asked a lot. Another waiter, his blond hair in a tight ponytail bun, had eyeglasses he said were of German design. They looked like they were inverted, with the frame on the bottom and the lenses sitting freely on top. They were wrap-arounds with an aluminum look to the frame -- all very trendy. "It makes perfect sense," he told us. "Your vision isn't blocked by the frame." Plus, it looks very smart.

We walked outside afterward, peeking in the windows of the wood frame church and reading the gravestones near by. We went up to the edge of the shore. The waster was deep, deep blue with swirls of green. It was past 11 PM and still the sun reflected off the mountains across the water, and on the white glacier in the distance. The gulls sounded the close of a day that never ended.

The Deal of the Universe

noreply@blogger.com (John Duke) — Thu, 15 Jul 2010 14:12:00 +0000

We left our rooms (with by now dry clothes) by 6:00 AM for the hike down to the bus station, over the cobblestones with our fully loaded backpacks. Just when I was starting to feel comfortable with my French, the simple act of trying to buy a bus ticket destroyed my confidence, but eventually we got it straight. We arrived in Deuxville with ten minutes to spare (but not enough time for a croissant), heading back toward Paris. We stopped near the old opera house so Darien could look for phantoms. She and Antonia ordered too much food (they are inconsistent meal sharers), and to top it off Antonia had to send hers back because of ... well, it was unappetizing and inedible. As we got up to leave what was a mediocre meal, she noticed that ten euros had been tucked under her plate, which showed some class. She and Darien refuse to acknowledge that this was their last meal in France.

We had to work a bit, but finally figured out the train to Charles de Gaulle airport. We gambled that we needed to be in terminal two and lost, which put us half an hour behind where we should have been as we scrambled back to terminal one. The line for Icelandair moved very slowly, and we were virtually the last ones on before the doors were shut. Antonia and I rewarded ourselves by watching Sherlock Holmes. We practiced Icelandic on the TV screen. Antonia gloated over her scores, and Darien corrected us.

We were greeted in the Reykjavik airport with complimentary shots of brennivin, the Icelandic schnapps made from fermented potatoes that literally means "burning wine" but is known by the simple name "black death." If you drink it quickly, you can get it down. There is a reason one can't buy it in Virginia. We rented a small, tinny Hyundai with strict orders not to enter the interior of the island with it -- the so-called gray area on the map that requires proper equipment or you die.

We found our way easily to our familiar hotel, The Three Sisters, but before going in we had a food crisis to manage. Darien had only one place in mind -- the little, greasy hamburger stand on the edge of the wharf across the street from the Sisters called Hamborgarabúlla Tómasar – Búllan. We ate frequently there in 2006 during our previous visit. It is plastered with rock and roll fliers and posters from fifty years ago. Darien forgives or overlooks the lack of cleanliness. We all selected their Deal of the Universe (burger, fries, and drink, which we all upgraded to milkshakes). Darien and Antonia salved their conscience by ordering the vegetarian option made with some sort of falafel mix, but cooked on the same grill with the high-fat burgers. I don't play games and just order the meat. I was sure the brennivin would kill whatever was in there.

They boy behind the counter was 17 and very friendly. He had lived in Iowa for five years, and then in the San Fernando Valley until his high school was closed because of drugs and he called his grandmother and said he wanted to come home. That was his story, anyway.

We went over to The Three Sisters and met Sandra, one of the ten children of Thor and Sonja. The last time we had visited Sandra had been living in Sweden. There was a minor mix-up of rooms because Darien had forgotten the little detail of Antonia traveling with us, so there was only one bed. It was all straightened out and all of us then fell deeply asleep, exhausted and excited.

We woke up at some indeterminate time. Maybe it was 8:00 PM, but it could have been noon with the way the light suffused the room. Light in Iceland is different. It seems to permeate everything, as if it is coming from more than one source. Colors are more vibrant and buildings glow. Awakenings can be disconcerting, since one's sense of time is disrupted. The familiar markers of day and night are fused into one.

Antonia and Darien went off to a hotpot to relax (one of their main goals) and I wandered the streets. Darien found me at 11:00 PM in a coffee shop and we returned home. We slept with the blinds open. I slept fitfully. Each time I woke up, it was light. There was no darkness. Only the quiet told me it was night.

Showers of rain, showers of sparks

noreply@blogger.com (John Duke) — Thu, 15 Jul 2010 00:27:00 +0000

Bastille Day, our last day in France. We had our petite dejeuner in the old, thick-walled tavern, sharing a table with a British couple. We discussed our respective health care systems and travel. Liliane spoke with us about travel arrangements; she was going into Deuxville in the afternoon to pick up her husband from the train and it was agreed that Antonia would drive with her so she could purchase our tickets.

Antonia and Darien had an urge to shop, so I ventured off on my own. I wandered all through the old part of town and along the wharves. Eventually I found myself high above the town in the hills, where there was newer residential construction. I worked my way along the edge of a valley and came down at the Rue Republique, a street I was familiar with. I passed the lavatoire where the people used to wash clothes and La Forge workshop, with its wild murals and sculptures. There was a note waiting for me back at the room, telling me where to meet the other two. I walked back to the cafe district along the wharf and met up with them, where they had already selected a table and umbrella and a red wine. Lunch was punctuated with increasing frequency by firecrackers being set off by young people near the water.

After we returned to the room, Antonia left for Deuxville and Darien and I went to pick up some groceries for breakfast, since we would have to be at the bus station at 7:00 AM. Dark, bulbous clouds gathered overhead. We watched them race across the sky, but I thought we would have enough time to look at the gardens and walk up the ridge on the eastern side of our inn. Wrong. While on the ridge, a few large drops fell, then suddenly torrents of rain. We were on streets without any shelter and the water running down in rivulets. Our clothes stuck to our bodies and our hair dripped and our shoes squished when we walked. We made several wrong turns before we found our way back, soaked and dripping. The bathroom had a towel warmer heated via the hot water pipes, and we used that to set our clothes out to dry.

As promised, we returned to Au Bouillon Normand for dinner, where we had a table reserved for us outside, but guarded from the coastal cold by glass and plastic walls. In addition to the two sons, their sister was also working this evening. Once again, the food failed to disappoint. Our hostess brought us three complementary aperitifs in honor of Bastille Day. I asked one of the boy waiters how one says Happy Bastille Day in French, but he said it was not a greeting that was exchanged. "It is not important," he said. "It is only important to the president and them." The firecrackers continued during dinner. We saw kids as young as five lighting them. My main course was veal. Antonia and Darien had cod with large morel mushrooms. Partway through dinner, a parade marched by, with drums and brass horns and people following holding paper lanterns on poles with candles inside. There was some commotion when several of the lanterns caught fire, sending smoke into the air. We ordered espresso and calvados again after our desserts. His mother finally gave the youngest boy permission to leave, and he hurried off in search of mischief. Bastille Day must be important to him as well as to the president.

We strolled over to the water's edge where a crowd was gathering in anticipation of fireworks. Darkness falls late at this time of year, and it was almost 11:00 PM before they started. They got off to an anemic start, but turned in a respectable show as they got warmed up. We whooped and cheered like French patriots with each burst of gold, of red, of blue, of silver. "Thank God for the Chinese," said Antonia.

How to eat a mussel

noreply@blogger.com (John Duke) — Tue, 13 Jul 2010 14:44:00 +0000

Antonia rose at 4:00 AM to watch the tides sweep in. Darien and I contented ourselves with walking onto the balcony to soak in the moonlight. Even the night gulls were silent. We took Antonia at her word that she actually hiked back up to the monastery. No one else was awake on the island. Even Mont Saint-Michel's ghosts were sleeping.

We rose early to attend Lauds up in the monastery before breakfast. We waited in front of a massive oak door with a half dozen other people. A balding, bearded monk unlocked the door to let us in. He had a decidedly modern watch in his pocket that he eyed carefully, and then precisely as the 7:00 AM bell tolled he took out a large brass key and locked us in. He also used some sort of magnetic device he pressed against the wall to securely lock the door. It was a mixture of ancient and new that made me think of James Bond movies. He escorted us up several flights of stone stairs to the chapel. When we entered, one of the sisters was in the center of the chapel, pulling a rope to ring the giant bell high above in the tower. She was wearing a robe of soft pastel blue. With each pull of the heavy rope, she was lifted eighteen inches off the ground, swaying slightly, before the pendulum of the bell lowered her back gently. She finished the call to bells and donned a white robe over her blue, to match the other nuns who had been waiting. The priest who let us in was the only male attending. He knelt in front of the altar to the left; the eight or so nuns knelt to the right. The service was mostly in French, and mostly sung. I'm glad we didn't miss it, but didn't want to take photos. We were escorted down the same stairs by the priest. The fortress door was shut behind us and locked, returning the community to its isolation.

We finished packing and went down for our petite dejeuner at the hotel. We ported our luggage off the island and met on high ground our same red-shirted bus driver with the round belly. He didn't bother to get off the bus to help us stow our luggage. There were only four passengers, but already crowds were streaming in to visit the rocky island. We stopped in the village for one other rider before continuing.

The bus took us back to the station at Pontorson. I had 45 minutes before the train left, so I dashed off on foot into town to look for an electrical adapter. Most of the shops were not open yet, and the ones that were did not have anything. Finally, a clerk directed me to a computer store, where it was suggested I just replace the plug-in cord to my computer transformer with a European style connector. For six euros I was back in business and jogged back to the station with enough time to chat with some Americans and a New Zealander on the platform. We took the train to Caen and walked over to the bus station right next door. We bought our tickets to our last destination in France, Honfleur. We knew the drill now, and stored our own bags under the bus.

We rode for more than an hour before arriving at the station near one of the several little bays that define Honfleur. The buildings escaped the bombs of World War II, so the architecture is better preserved than in many other French towns. Our inn -- La Cour Ste. Catherine -- was built in the 17th century, as described in a little leaflet I read:

The most of the buildings around the courtyard date of the 17eme century. It built near the old well and the remparts. It was a convent of the Augustines nun's congregation. The old porch and the breakfast room are of this period.
At the 20eme century, the place began a cidery. A press for apple juice and cider were put in the principal building and a coffee grocer's in the office.
In 1975, the first renovation began as part of safeguard area. The rooms have been renovated since to 2002.

Well, I would hate to have had to write that in French.

It was a good fifteen minute walk over cobblestones and largely up hill. Liliane was our proprietress. She also runs the American Cafe in the building, where Christian (large, big girthed, gap toothed, smiling and joking in halting English and unintelligible French) cooks. He made our lunch and we read the movie posters on the walls. Liliane introduced us to her short-tailed cat, Casimir. I took this as a sign of something, I don't know what, since he was not particularly friendly.

The picturesque town was filled with tourists and bad art in the shops, but all very photogenic. Whereas Parisians seem to enjoy parading to display their style and fashion, in Honfleur showing off one's dog seems to be what is important. The church is called Eglise Sainte-Catherine. It is built of timbers and masonry and decorated in a style Antonia referred to as belonging to someone's grandmother. It was not built to support the steeple, so the steeple is on the ground across the street.

The essential parts of the town are quickly covered. It is a warren of alleys and small, twisting streets. We listen for cars approaching so we can squeeze against the walls and let them pass. We see old community laundry facilities, the library, and La Forge, a sort of artist workshop that we would love to tour, but is closed. We wandered into a drug store and met Christian. We didn't recognize him at first, holding a helmet he uses for a small scooter, and laughed some more. We pantomimed what we wanted in the store, and with the help of a couple of boys found that they didn't have what we wanted. Back at our room -- which amazingly enough is on the first floor, a small compensation for being so far up the hill -- we discover the Internet (or "wee-fee" as the French say) is not configured properly. I don't have the courage to explain to Liliane in Frenchy English how to fix it, so our Internet drought continued.

For dinner, Liliane recommended Au Bouillon Normand, near the water but away from some of the more popular places. It is excellent. I start with oysters again, which are even better than what I had in Mt. St.-Michel. Darien and I have fish. The owner speaks very little English, her two boys who serve a little more. They don't understand our jokes, but laugh anyway because they know they are jokes. Our hostess is very warm and helpful. At one point she comes out to show Antonia how to pry open her mussel shells with another shell, and then use the shell as a set of tweezers to eat the meat. She even hand feeds a few to Antonia, who gleefully opens her mouth like a young bird. We end with espresso, which one of the boy waiters recommend we take with shots of calvados, alternating sips of the two. This same sort of apple brandy had probably been made in our inn the previous century. Before we leave, we make reservations for the next evening on the patio. It was just that good.

Sleeping with the monks

noreply@blogger.com (John Duke) — Tue, 13 Jul 2010 01:50:00 +0000

It was still raining when we woke up, and neither the bakery nor the market were open. We were scheduled to leave Paris and thought about taking a taxi to the train station, but the expense and Pascal Un convinced us otherwise. We fell back on our Metro standby. The first car we were on was hot, crowded, and suddenly stopped moving. The minutes ticked away, chipping away at our hopes for making the station on time. The Metro started -- and stopped again. We finally got to our transfer point, and hopped on the car that took us to the station. We thought we had reserved enough time to catch the train, but it was seeming more and more improbable, particularly as the walk from the Metro to the train station was a good hike. In the station, we saw some of the choristers in line to change money for their trip back to the States, but we hurried past, hoping against hope we would make it on time. While we did get to the ticket booth before the train left, we hadn't the foresight to make reservations the night before. Fortunately, there was another train leaving the next hour. We resorted to our typical response in time of crisis and found a place to eat.

I experienced my first pay toilet in the station. Clerks at the counter accepted the coins, and one could even pay to bathe. Male and female areas were divided, but there was no wall shielding the clients from the open reception area near the clerk. One knew very well what those men standing facing the wall were doing.

We settled on the train at last and had a very smooth trip to Rennes. I was beginning to love the French intercity rail system -- clean, efficient, and fast, even if you do have to pay to use the facilities. We grabbed baguette sandwiches smeared with butter in Rennes and changed trains for the trip to Dol de Bretagne. When we arrived, and in my rush to leave the train, I unplugged my laptop but forgot to remove the plug adapter. Things began to look bleak for continued Internet access.

We spent a lot of time in the train station figuring out how we were going to leave the next day, but Antonia eventually figured it out -- one more train ride, this time to Pontorson. We then boarded a bus for our night's lodging in Mont Saint-Michel. The portly driver was quite friendly, but evidently handling luggage is not in his job description. He did deign to open the bin on the side of the bus for us, but we had the task of stowing our gear and locking the door ourselves.

It was only a fifteen minute ride to the abbey. The driver told us where he would meet us the next morning (on high ground to avoid the rapid rise in tides) and we dragged our luggage through the main gates of the monastery. It was a steep ascent over rough cobblestones. The narrow street was filled with tourists, and the shops carried all manner of gewgaws and kitsch. We found our hotel's reception desk, then were escorted even higher up the tiny island, largely above the crowds, to our room. We had a balcony with a lovely view of the bay and causeway to the mainland. There are plans to turn the causeway into a bridge to let the water flow freely around Mont Saint-Michel again, with the idea of removing the silt that has built up over the years. If we turned around on our balcony and looked up, we could see the spires of the monastery looming dramatically above us.

We went back down to the market area and ate inferior crepes and coffee at our hotel's restaurant. We feared this would be a portent of food on Mont St.-Michel. After the refreshment, we walked along the ramparts, up steep stone stairs, through narrow alleys, past moss-encrusted walls of oranges, umbers, and greens. We tried to attend evening service in the monastery, but evidently Mondays are the monks' night off. As the tide began to come in, the gendarmes started to clear people off the beaches. The rapid change in tides and quicksands are a constant danger.

We decided against the 30 euro omelet made "in the traditional French style," but watching the men beat the eggs in large copper bowls while tapping out a rhythm with their whisks was very entertaining. We were getting hungry again and took the advice of one of the tour books and hunted out Chez Mado. We were pleasantly surprised at how good it was. I ventured the oysters for my appetizer, which were excellent. I had to help Antonia finish her very large bowl of mussels.

I had the foresight to ask at my hotel desk for an adapter, but didn't realize until later that it was the wrong type. I used the remaining power in the computer to re-charge my camera. We were beginning to starve for Internet.

We paid eight euro each to tour the monastery. It was a combination of the melodramatic (one room had a mist machine and billowing blue sheets to emulate the sea) and the starkly beautiful. Some rooms had solo musicians playing -- a harpist, a flutist, a cellist, a harpsichordist. We explored a garden court, old prison cells, and stunning views of the bay from the upper plaza.

The tourists had fled with the last buses off the island and the rising tide. The streets were near deserted and dusk turned to dark. The gulls still cried out, circling the towers, and a cat ran before us down a stairway. As we made our way back to our room and beds, we could almost hear the voices of monks, chanting their evening prayers, in the monastery built into the rocks of Mont Saint-Michel.

Singing for your supper

noreply@blogger.com (John Duke) — Mon, 12 Jul 2010 03:51:00 +0000

We were due at Notre Dame for mass at 11:30, the scheduled time for the choir. On the metro, we met Leon the Singing Dog. Leon and his master, a Frenchman in a pale aqua pastel buttoned shirt with no sleeves, wore matching hats. When the Frenchman set down the woven basket he was carrying, Leon would jump in to be carried onto the train or up the stairs. The Frenchman gave us a handwritten card with a Web address so we could enjoy the wonders of Leon later.

The choir was positioned behind the altar and hard to see, except for Darien, who was on the end closest to the congregation. I could hear Antonia's voice, but not see her. The cantors were wonderful, but several choristers told me Antonia upstaged them. I didn't disagree. Like fish in a rain-swollen river, the crowds circled us on the periphery throughout the service, most with cameras and often with flashbulbs punctuating the service. Several thousand people attended the mass, not even counting the fish swimming on the edge.

We metro'ed back to the apartment to drop off the music and robes. We walked back through the Marais so Antonia could purchase some jewelery for a friend. We found something in a little boutique where several artists had wares, surreptitiously buying Antonia a set of earrings at the same time. Darien and Antonia bought a falafel afterward, and let me finish the pita after telling me how good the filling was.

Back at Notre Dame, we arrived in time to hear most of an organ recital, which was marred only by the incessant chatter of the crowds around us, even among those ostensibly there to listen.

We drifted off in search of the Musee d'Orsay. Antonia's internal GPS was upset by sunspots again, however, and we ended up going in the opposite direction. Darien was beginning to fracture. We slowed the pace and fortified Darien with strawberry gelato and Perrier. We were close to the Cluny gardens, but by the time we got there they were closed, so we strolled over to the Luxembourg gardens and sat for a while in Saint Sulpice church, listening to a bit of organ and choral singing and looking at the murals by Delacroix.

There was an attempt to arrange dinner with some of the choristers, but we wandered around Montparnesse for close to an hour trying to get our bearings and find their hotel. A barista in a sidewalk cafe was very helpful. We finally found our friends, but most of the restaurants were closed because it was Sunday. The hotel manager tried valiantly to get us taxis to a restaurant, but it just wasn't working. Half of us went on and the other half stayed behind to eat bar pizza, drink beer, and watch the final game of the World Cup.

The metro back was hot, crowded, and loud with raucous Spanish partisans. The Spanish cafe near our apartment overflowed with revelers, but they soon quieted down.

That night, the lightning and storm came furiously. Antonia got up and shut the doors to our balconies to save the wooden floors from the rain.

Seeing Paris, one step at a time.

noreply@blogger.com (John Duke) — Sat, 10 Jul 2010 21:28:00 +0000

I miscalculated this morning. I assumed that Antonia or Darien would shop for our breakfast, but six flights of stairs evidently was too high a barrier.

We went out. It was too late for croissants, so we were given baguettes with butter and jam to have with our cafe au lait. Metroing over to Notre Dame via the Bastille transfer point was easy now that we had already done it successfully. We looked around the plaza a bit, but the line to get in was too long, so we walked to La Sainte Chapelle. The line was also long there, but Antonia and Darien insisted. I was afraid they would run out of time before they had to be at rehearsal, but it worked out.

All the major sites have intensive security. I sent my bag through, but forgot about my belt, passport, coins, camera -- I kept lighting up the wand. Antonia and Darien had to hurry off, but I stayed to enjoy the light from the stained glass a bit longer. It was a pity the panels and elevated altar at the front were covered for renovations.

I walked across the Seine to the Musee de Cluny, which has a marvelous collection of medieval art. There were samples of various types of gardens in the front (medicinal, pleasure, practical), but the blooming season was largely past. Part of the structure were Roman ruins. The most famous holdings in the collection are the lady and the unicorn series of six tapestries, to which an entire room is devoted. There were also headless bodies, and bodiless heads, from statues at Notre Dame. The revolutionaries mistook the statues for the kings of France, when they were in actuality intended to represent the kings of Israel. Oops.

I hooked back up with my women and we walked over to La Rue des Barres to a restaurant that a friend of Antonia's had recommended, L'Ebouillante. We sat outside under an umbrella that was not doing a good enough job at protecting us from the light rain that had begun to fall, so we moved inside and took a table upstairs next to a window. Even with the rain, it remained stuffy with no breeze. We shared a bottle of wine to prepare for the climb up the cathedral's tower. I had a crepe that was made from semolina flour; the other two shared a dish. We were all quite satisfied.

Sainte Gervais church was right next door. It was quite a contrast to the mad carousel that is Notre Dame. A contemplative service was in progress. Instinctively, everyone who entered the church knew to remain quiet and still. The order that uses Sainte Gervais has a mission of living in the city, to support art, to help the poor, to exist in quiet. In many ways, it was the most impressive church we visited. One wall was clear glass panes; the only decoration was the ivy climbing along it outside.

We stood in line at Notre Dame, waiting our turn to ascend the towers. Across the way, an elderly woman of about 85, with long flowing white hair and a red negligee, stepped out on her balcony. Before I could take a picture, she went back inside. Her's were the only pink sheer drapes in the building.

There are 400 steps to the top of Notre Dame. Two-thirds of the way up we meet the chimera and gargoyles, and had a chance to look out over the city in each direction. We entered the belfry for one of the largest bells. Originally it took eight men to ring. The interior is all wood, built to absorb the shock of ringing so the stone would not crack. I cajoled Antonia inside, but the height and ability to see far below disconcerted her and she had to go outside to settle her nerves. Oddly, standing on the exposed walkways did not bother her. We made the final ascent and then came down in one long spiral.

We walked back towards our apartment, passing the Pompidou and going into the Marais. It is late enough we decided to eat before going up and stop at a corner cafe near our place. They remembered us from the previous night when we stopped to ask directions. They know very little English, so they induced a man sitting at the bar drinking coffee to come translate. He is very good humored about it, and very helpful. Later, we ask the waiter if we can buy our translator a drink, but he has no clue what we are asking, so before we could stop him he retrieves the young man again to help. He politely declines because we have already made him late to meet his girlfriend. Or maybe he just wants to get away from us.

We watch World Cup and enjoy a quite decent meal. When it is time for dessert, the waiter enlists the assistance of the couple sitting next to us. Darien and Antonia try the ile flottante -- a floating island of whipped egg whites, cream, and who knows what else.

When we are almost done, a car stops next to us in the street. A wallet is tossed down from a window above us out onto the street. The man gets out of his car, retrieves the wallet, and drives off. No words are spoken, and we construct our own story about the man.

There are 91 steps up to our apartment.

Baguette?

noreply@blogger.com (John Duke) — Fri, 09 Jul 2010 23:01:00 +0000

This pretty much sums up how we are faring in France. Thanks, Gabriel.

You are under heaven

noreply@blogger.com (John Duke) — Fri, 09 Jul 2010 18:57:00 +0000

I made my first foray into a French market for our breakfast -- oranges to squeeze, salami, bananas, yogurt, cheese. I also picked up three types of croissants from the bakery right next door to our apartment. Pascal Un had highly recommended it, and he was right. I had a minor coffee disaster in the kitchen, but I think I figured out the French coffee technology.

Antonia went off on her own to wander the Marais, while Darien and I walked down Voltaire until we got to the site of the former Bastille. We took the Metro over to the Louvre, but she had to leave right away for rehearsal. I visited an exhibition of the history of the Louvre, which was particularly interesting because I was still reading The Three Muskateers, and a lot of the significant scenes are played out there. I also looked at paintings from the Italian Middle Ages and Renaissance. The Mona Lisa left me a bit cold, given the camera hungry crowd that enveloped her. I couldn't get close enough to have a proper look.

The performance at the L'eglise Sainte-Marie-Madeleine was probably the best yet. The acoustics were very fine and Mark teased the crowd by sustaining final notes until they reverberated throughout the space. Pascal Un brought his niece, and they were both enthralled.

Antonia headed back to the apartment alone, since we intended to get more Louvre time in. La Madeleine is in on the Rue Royale, home to couture names even I recognized. We spent over 28 euro on a couple of beers, then started to walk back to the Louvre through the Tuileries gardens. Darien confessed she was completely fatigued, so we went back home instead.

It was after 9 PM before we went out to a place on Rue Thimbaud Pascal Un recommended. (I never did meet Deux. I am told he is The Quiet One.) The restaurant was pricey, but we ate lightly -- Darien a piece of rock fish with a pureed mushroom, Antonia a small cucumber soup with salmon, and me a lobster salad. The waitress rushed us through ordering, but then loosened up and was very informative, helping us to choose food and wine. For dessert, she recommended Darien have baba au rhum, which the waitress seemed to drench with a quarter pint of rum. "You let the rum come up to your nose, and then take a bit of cream not too sweet, and you are under heaven," she rhapsodized.

At night in our rooms, we sweltered.

Some doors close quickly

noreply@blogger.com (John Duke) — Thu, 08 Jul 2010 17:53:00 +0000

We were expecting to have to scrounge in the kitchen for our breakfast because we were leaving so early, but the buffet had already been laid out for us, as sumptuous as the previous morning, lacking only the warmed milk. We bade farewell to Micheaux and were on our way.

A taxi had been ordered for us the previous night. It was right on time. We arrived at the station in plenty of time to meet the Triplets there. Antonia helped to work Olivia (age 7) into a state of frenzy over our destination -- Marne-la-Vallee, or Disney Parc.

JP, Jeff's friend, met us at the gate as arranged to help us experience a little French version of magic. JP was very gracious and charming, but it didn't start well. He was trying to arrange for us to store our luggage for free, but the clerk at the desk was very slow and we had to stand in line for close to 45 minutes. We tried to assure JP that we were fine, but he was obviously distressed, at one point saying, "I am embarrassed to be French." He hated it that this was our first introduction to Disney hospitality. The other problem in the park was dining. The quality of the food was akin to what is found in Anaheim and not French cuisine in general. We did receive exemplary service from a clerk in the Emporium, who not only found Darien the type of water bottle she was looking for, but also went off to fill it with cold water for her.

Euro Disney is like an alternative universe to an alternative universe, meaning its sense of strangeness is magnified. Everything is familiar, but different. One expects everything to be in a certain place, and sometimes it is. More often it is skewed a bit. Things are missing, so one tries not to let one's expectations rise too much. The seasonal staff are not trained to the same Disney standards as in the U.S., so interactions often are dreamlike. One knows what should happen, but it often does not.

Antonia and I were overly insistent on Darien riding Space Mountain. Halfway through the line she learned it did a 360 degree loop, at which point dread turned to terror. She rode with her eyes closed and did not get off laughing. It is a good thing that she did not ride Indiana Jones, which is nothing like its Anaheim cousin. It also does a 360.

We almost had Disney overload from lack of food, but finally found a place we could all agree upon. One word of advice to the French: stick with what you are good at, and leave your hands off our barbecue.

We didn't want to leave too late, so at 10:30 we went to catch the train. It was on the platform, its doors open and waiting. Antonia stepped on -- and the doors closed. Darien and I remained on the other side. The doors wouldn't open. We pantomimed through the glass window. I had Antonia's cell phone and Darien had her wallet. We stared as the train pulled off. We frantically jumped on the next one to leave fifteen minutes later. We didn't quite know where we were going, and we were sure Antonia didn't. I thought I would see if she was waiting for us at the next platform stop. She wasn't. I vowed to check every stop until we arrived in Paris. Darien was afraid I would get stranded as well. At the next stop I stuck my head out the door and looked both ways up and down the platform. There she was. "Antonia!" I shouted. "Get on the train! Get on the train!" She leaped and made it. Whew. We giggled hysterically all the rest of the way to Paris.

In spite of some misadventures, we had a great time -- thanks, Jeff and JP. Anytime you want to use the library, just let me know.

We didn't find our new apartment until after midnight -- 18 Rue de la Folie Mericourt. It is owned by two men named Pascal. One of the Pascals -- Pascal Un we call him -- stayed up and gave us an extensive tour, even though we just wanted to sleep. The apartment had a kitchen, bathroom, several bedrooms, and most appliances other than what was needed for laundry. It is impeccably tricked out. "Just what you would expect in a Parisian apartment owned by two guys named Pascal," observed Antonia.

I am convinced that the reason the French are in general thinner than most Americans are that they haven't invented elevators yet. We are on the sixth floor.

Be careful what you order

noreply@blogger.com (John Duke) — Thu, 08 Jul 2010 00:06:00 +0000

We get a good start on the morning. The buffet breakfast downstairs is absolutely the best we have yet encountered -- croissants, breads, peaches, kiwis, oranges for hand-squeezing, four varieties of cheeses, cereal, jams, yogurts, apples, bananas -- even a pot of warm milk for the coffee. The cat Micheaux purred on Antonia's lap through the meal.

During the previous day's visit to the cathedral, we learned that one John Duke of Bedford, who died in 1435, was buried there, near one of he massive pillars behind the altar. He was regent of France when Jeanne d'Arc was tried and burned in 1431. Rumors swirled among the choir of my illustrious ancestor, though he was one I didn't necessarily care to claim. Looking into it further in the cold light of the Internet, I learned that his name was really John of Lancaster, Duke of Bedford, and even appeared in one of Shakespeare's histories. One writer said that by and large his rule was one of fairness and rectitude, other than that little affair in 1431. I will not be revising my genealogy.

Being of sound knowledge that I didn't have to carry the burden of an ancestor's guilt on my shoulders, I was able to visit Jeanne d'Arc's church and monument with equanimity. The church is modern, taking its inspiration nautically. Darien was enthusiastic about it, Antonia and I less so. Some parts were extremely effective, such as the solid wall of stained glass panels behind the altar, or the planked ribbing on the soaring ceiling, a rich brown.

We didn't have any luck finding a replacement for the water bottle Darien left on the stairs up to the bell tower in Chartres, when halfway up she feared that she might need both hands free to clutch the walls.

An older choirister was sitting outside on a bench with her cane. A young French girl took her for a beggar and tried to giver her a coin. The elderly woman refused. The girl returned to her parents and brought the chorister even more coins. The choir should view this as a funding opportunity.

Darien and I wanted to visit the Musee de Beaux-Arts, where there was a major exhibition of impressionists who worked in the Rouen vicinity. An entire room was given over to studies of the cathedral by Monet. I chose one of these, although a street scene by Gauguin competed for my affections.

We met Antonia for lunch at a little place we had spied near our hotel called Taverne Saint-Amant, across the street from a former abbey and run by a charming older couple who seemed to enjoy their guests as much as the guests enjoyed the fare. Saint Amant was evidently quite a drinker, so the tavern was devoted to his memory and ideals. His love of the good life eventually caught up with him, and he spent his final years racked with gout and pain. The good life also caught up with the sisters of the abbey, who in the eighteenth century were told they could no longer wear their taffeta dresses and hats or entertain visitors in their quarters. They were likewise required to cut back on their drinking. Being a bride of Christ just wasn't as much fun as it used to be.

Darien and Antonia wanted to share their meal, but an imperfect command of the language left them staring at their plates in mild horror. Note to self: do not order boudin in France unless you have a fondness blood sausage. Darien ventured a nibble, but Antonia soldiered on and finished both their portions, even claiming she enjoyed it, although it is suspected she was simply maintaining the honor of the family name.

The two rushed off to rehearse in the cathedral. I arrived later, shortly before four. There was a good crowd of some 200 people. They were very receptive and gave the choir warm applause. A little French girl of eight approached Antonia afterward and told her she had a beautiful voice. Her voice does certainly give the choir a sharp edge it would otherwise lack. The spirituals the choir customarily ends with are the crowd pleaser. When she gets going, Antonia would probably hold her own in a black baptist church.

On the steps, still in her robes and looking very ecclesiastical, Antonia was asked in some detail by a long-haired young Frenchman about the choir's schedule. He persisted in asking about it, then finally left. Antonia said he seemed more interested in her personal schedule than in the choir's.

We timed how long it would take us to walk to the train station in the morning, then decided we should take a taxi instead. Darien and I had wanted to tour the permanent exhibition at the Musee, but that part was already closed. Antonia opted to view the impressionists, and I followed shortly behind to get a second look. Darien decided she would do better settling in the park to read. By the time we finished, the two were starting to melt down, so we walked back to our first Rouen restaurant. Antonia and I shared a bowl of mussels. Darien had tried one earlier, so she declined the oportunity to sample again. We strolled around a bit more to enjoy the fading light of our last night in Rouen.

What he didn't say ...

noreply@blogger.com (Rose) — Wed, 07 Jul 2010 13:00:00 +0000

... about the next few days.

Sunday, July 4: Happy 4th of July, Happy 29th Anniversary, and Happy Birthday Jody!

John detailed our scenic hike (that included the American Church on our way to the American Cathedral), and he mentioned that he had to go forage for food for two starving, cranky choristers. What he didn't know was that during practice, our choir director chose that particular time to give us an impromtu homily on sweet manna and how it tastes so good in our mouths. He was speaking metaphorically, but Antonia and I didn't see it that way. It seemed a cruel twist of fate.

But John came through. Before our practice was completed, croissants and juice sat on the table awaiting us.

Our hotel Le Parvis was not only lovely and well-located, but it boasted excellent food for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. As our waitress brought the dinner plates, mine was the only one that featured a small, periwinkle box balanced on the rim--the delivery mechanism for my anniversary gift. The waitress seemed tickled to be the bearer of a surprise gift--a hand painted, 5 kr Icelandic coin. Check out Manny Zeevi and his hand painted coins from around the world wearable art.

We sang at Chartres on Sunday, and on Monday we had time to tour the cathedral. While John and Antonia napped I climbed the bell tower. It was high. I was scared. I decided to let my red Sigg water bottle rest, halfway up the tower on a balcony ledge. That would free both of my hands to grip the walls as I climbed the rest of the way up, and back down again. (Most people climb stairs with their feet; I like to use my hands.) Sadly, my bottle had traveled on without me when I returned. I finally found a replacement 4 days later: red, pseudo-Sigg, with a great design: Disney's High School Musical.

On to Rouen on Tuesday, again wearing our invisibility cloaks on the choir bus. In the cathedral, when we encountered the tomb of John, Duke of Bedford (not John Duke of Bedford) within minutes after the discovery word started to spread through the choir that an illustrious ancestor of John's was buried there. Good example of how rumors start and how quickly they travel (I might have had something to do with that). We liked to refer to the other fellow as Johann Dux.

Back to our fashion conscious daughter. As you recall, she purchased a fascinator ("hat" to you crude Americans), and it needed a box in which to travel across France, Iceland and on to its new home. As Antonia visited various boutiques searching for a free "hat" box she found herself a bit language challenged. At one point she was in a boutique ("shop" to you crude etc. etc.), and the shopkeeper (we'll call him Jean Luc, because that was his name) spotted us outside. Jean Luc came out to inquire if we might help in the translation process. We mightn't--but we were mighty pleased to be asked.

We aren't strange. We are just Americans

noreply@blogger.com (John Duke) — Tue, 06 Jul 2010 23:39:00 +0000

Our last morning in Chartres. The petite dejeuner was even less petite than the morning before. A third was left uneaten.

The aromatic trees are lindens, or tilleul. There is a double row in the large plaza between the cathedral and the train station.

The bus ride to Rouen is almost two hours. There was some unusual personal grooming taking place on the bus, which I fortunately missed. I don't want to have to live with the image for the rest of my life.

We are staying at Hotel de la Cathedral on the second floor, and the walls of the cathedral grounds are right across the alley, almost within an arm's grasp of our window. From our hallway, we can look down on the courtyard; on the upper platform we can see two blue wading pools, with goldfish swimming next to rubber ducks.

Sine the only reason we have come to France is to eat, we take the recommendation of the hotel clerk and go up the street to a restaurant that is "not touristy." Darien says that is good, because we are not tourists. The food at Petite Auberge is authentic and the prices reasonable. Darien and Antonia try to share a meal, but don't manage to make themselves understood and end up each with a full meal. I have salmon pate followed by fish that the waitress apparently called "juliette," but we are not certain. Next time I travel I'm going to spend more time studying the language of food.

After our espressos, we tour the cathedral. We can't find an English guide and don't care to go with the rest of the choir. Even English language tour books are out of stock. A local journalist overhears Darien and Antonia and interviews them for a local paper. She wants to find out why foreigners visit Rouen and what they think of it. She can't think of the English word for etranger and refers to them as strange. I agree.

The cathedral -- Notre Dame de Rouen -- evokes sadness. It took seven direct hits from bombs in WWII, and this now defines it identity. Whole stained glass windows were destroyed, and clear glass sits in their place. Some windows have been reproduced post-war. There are newer stones in many of the vaults, indicating where damage has been repaired. The oldest spire was completely destroyed. The people of Rouen have tried valiantly to restore the cathedral, but in doing so they have accentuated its tragedy.

We walked around and sipped a coffee at Le St. Romain Creperie, then wandered along small streets gazing in the shops. Antonia was overcome by a fit of aquisitiveness and visited a shop filled with original hat creations -- La Boutique de Mamanat 17 Rue Saint Nicolas. Two women were working there -- one to design and create, and the other to sell. Darien and Antonia ooh'ed and ahh'ed their way through innumerable fittings, and finally agreed on a feathery affair that they called "fun," and that the clerk assured us would go well with an accordion. The hat maker had only had her shop for eight months, but had been creating hats since she was "this high."

We followed a recommendation from the hotel clerk for dinner. It was pleasant enough, but not as good as some of our other meals. Darien and Antonia learned how to properly ask to share a meal, so we hope not to have that problem again. The cheese platter -- fromage -- after dinner is excellent.

Making out, macaroons, and Poulenc interminable

noreply@blogger.com (John Duke) — Mon, 05 Jul 2010 14:49:00 +0000

Antonia came home from her night of carousing. We don't suspect any French babies resulted. We took our breakfast (petite dejeuner) downstairs -- croissants, bread, brie, jam, salami, ham, dried fruit, fresh orange juice, coffee.

The choir had a tour of the cathedral led by Malcolm Miller, an Englishman who has been doing this for fifty years, with several books out on the subject. We learned about how the windows and stone were gradually being cleaned, the historical stages of the building, and the symbolism in the church. Antonia talked her way into the bell tower for free. She and Darien were both starving again by this time, so we went back to our hotel for lunch.

John: "I like to try different places to eat."
Antonia: "I like to create relationships."

I tried the salade oceane this time, while the other two shared a lasagna plate.

After naps, Darien and I toured the glass museum and workshop, where a lot of the restoration of the glass in Chartres and elsewhere is done. The guide first gave us a lecture, then showed us an exhibit of the modern artist Kim En Joong.We walked down the hill to the factory. Francois of the three degrees told us about his work, then we watched a woman putting together a leaded window.

Darien and I strolled along the river, where we observed ducks and a swan. We were told by several of the choristers to be careful when we walked by the park, because there were people "making out." In spite of my diligence and attempt to walk as slowly as possible, I didn't spy any open sex.

We rewarded our labors with coffee, macaroons, and truffles. This called for another nap.

By 9 PM we decided we should eat again. We walked to a crepes restaurant on a winding street off the cathedral's plaza and sat outside, next to a woman. As we struggled to understand the meaning of the words on the menu, it was obvious we were amusing the woman and that she was anxious to help us. We soon fell into conversation with her -- Veronique -- and learned that she traveled and conducted seminars on public speaking, team building, etc. We spoke of food and travel, and she gave us recommendations freely. The crepes in Chartres are much thicker and larger than we make at home, almost like a pancake. Mine was topped with salad and vegetables. Veronique recommended a caramel crepe for dessert. We took our paper place mats with us, since Veronique had written much useful information on them.

We fell asleep to the recorded music of the cathedral's light show. Over and over and over again. It lasted until about one AM. Darien christened the piece Poulenc interminable.

Not everything is on the menu

noreply@blogger.com (John Duke) — Sun, 04 Jul 2010 07:33:00 +0000

Anniversary day for Darien and me. 29, I think.

We were woken early, to the last hurrahs of drunks in the street and the sound of cars being towed. We had to pack and get to the American Cathedral for a service. I'm not saying who, but someone confused it with the American Church, three quarters of a kilometer away. Fortunately, it was not me, which is all I really care about. We barely had enough time to ferry our luggage back over the Seine before rehearsal began. I went foraging for food for the two and left it in the room where they were practicing, not knowing if they would get a break to be able to eat it before the service. I wandered off to a cafe, where I ordered breakfast in poor French. This is a much tonier area of town than we had been in before, so the prices reflect it.

The service started at 11 AM. Antonia was featured in the first piece, and I didn't detect any unintended solos otherwise. Other than the grandeur of the building itself, I would be hard-pressed to say were not in the United States. The service was all in English and the visiting pastor was from Beverly Hills. I guess he was on mission work.

With a wink and a nod, we got on the bus -- we were there, but not there, and so our job was to remain quiet. We were on our way to Chartres. The first leg took about a half hour. We stopped at a massive Shell station to get the bus gas and us food -- prepackaged in plastic. I would preferred to hold off another hour until we arrived in Chartres. There are two buses. For some inexplicable reason, one of the choristers got on the bus, checked in, and then got off. She was very surprised that she was not on the bus when it left, but was also very fortunate to be able to hitch a ride on ours.

Chartres, with its leaping spires, makes a very dramatic view rising from the wheat plains. The town is almost too perfect in how tidy it is, in its parks and gardens, and in it well maintained roads and houses. We left the choristers at their hotel and walked to Le Parvis where we are staying. It is directly across from the cathedral. We are on the upper floor, up three flights. The hotel is only recently opened has been beautifully renovated. Our room is in the gabled roof with old massive timbers exposed in the ceiling and tile on the floor. I asked the proprietress and she said they have been open two years. They bought it for their son, who wanted to run a restaurant, but had not money.

We strolled around and ate French macaroons, which definitely aren't like what we would buy in a U.S. market. We walked around the cathedral and invited a couple of the choristers to dine with us. I had bread, salami, and cheese; Darien and Antonia ate a salad with seafood. I slipped Darien's anniversary gift to the young waitress and asked her to bring it to with with her meal. It was a painted Icelandic five kroner coin on gold chain. I think I acquitted myself on this one. They all ran off to rehearse and left me holding the bill and guarding the remnants of the table.

2 verre 10cl rose 4e
2 salade oceane 19e
1 plateau francais 9e50
2 expresso 3e40
1 cafe along creme 3e10

I wrote, sipped cafe creme, then went to the cathedral. It smelled musty, damp, old. The stones are pitted and the columns look n the verge of decay, but a decay that will last thousands of years. The entire front facade is practically obscured by scaffolding. The stained glass is mostly dark, with tiny mosaic pieces filtering the light.

As usual, the choir found numerous reasons to be critical of their performance, but the crowd loved it. One American wanted to know if the American ambassador had been informed of the presence of St. James on French soil. No? Well, she would take care of it for them. Antonia did some nice solo work, and even the natives were appreciative.

We sat outside at Le Parvis with some other choristers, drinking red wine and beer late into the night -- or what passes for late in Chartres. The front of the cathedral was illuminated with a light show and music, a mix of the elegant and the tacky. Darien bought another bottle for us to take to our room. Antonia had a sudden urge to sleep elsewhere on our anniversary, so she took herself off to the choristers' hotel to bunk with a couple of women. My five kroner investment paid off.

What He Didn't Say

noreply@blogger.com (Rose) — Sat, 03 Jul 2010 21:07:00 +0000

... about Days 1 and 2 ...

Yes, the IcelandAir experience was wonderful. We particularly liked the headrest covers on the airplane: suede-like, designed by 66 Degrees North. I really wanted to "borrow" one.

My first glimpse of Iceland this time was better than in 2006. Although nearing midnight, it was light and not as overcast. We changed planes in Rekjavik, which gave us time to admire the beautiful airport architecture and to eat some delicious skyr. We eagerly watched a young man who was eating pylsur (lamb hotdog) and fries washed down by two beers. That's what we wanted, but we allowed common sense to prevail--for the first and possibly last time on this trip.

John already described the epic walk to our hotel in Montmartre, and how the realization that we might have an Eiffel Tower view grew on us. We did have an Eiffel view. But we also realized that most places in Paris do too. Our hotel was very charming and quirky--think Tabard Inn on a budget. The WC and shower were not only down the hall, they were down on the next floor, but that wasn't an inconvenience. Not when our hotel had a lovely interior garden, and was attached to a most wonderful restaurant and bar! It was also in a neighborhood with many great, moderately priced places to eat, and just a block and a half from the Metro.

At the Saint Pierre de Montmartre whom should we meet but Peter! A larger than life-size statue of the Rock in bronze, seated. You could rub his toe for good luck, and many people obviously had as it was well polished. We were delighted to find that the inscription on the statue read, "Tu es Petrus, et super hanc petram..." a quote from one of the Durufle songs we are singing in concert! I wanted to take a picture, with my flash discreetly off, but Antonia wouldn't let me. So you'll just have to take my word for it.

It was an unusually hot day in Paris--blazing hot, I was dripping wet several times during the day, and it was not raining. Well, our room had many amenities, such as the aforementioned view, but it did not have AC. Our night's entertainment was as follows: John slept, Antonia and Darien used their fans, went to the window and leaned out to catch a breeze (many times), and Darien took a cold shower in the middle of the night. In the early morning a huge thunderstorm developed, it began pouring rain, and the temperature dropped from the mid 90's to the mid 70s.

So ended July 1 and 2.

Saving France

noreply@blogger.com (John Duke) — Sat, 03 Jul 2010 05:34:00 +0000

We took forever to get going this morning. We didn't leave the hotel room until noon. The restaurant downstairs was not open yet, so we walked across the street to the corner bar for coffees. We spoke to a woman with a small dog -- Pomeranian and Peking mix -- and took pictures, along with an old and very large German Shepherd who lives there in languid luxury. Antonia and Darien smile and engage everyone, which is both their strength and weakness. We have more interesting conversations, but it takes us longer to get where we are going.

I stopped to help a woman in our hotel whose doorknob fell off as she was leaving her room (it is that sort of hotel). Outside, I helped a young woman who was struggling to right a vehicle barrier in the street. My motto has become, "Saving France, one woman at a time."

The restaurant still wasn't open, so at my insistence we walked up the street to vendor selling crepes. He cracks an egg on the crepe while it is cooking, breaks the yolk, and smears it around on the crepe while it is on the griddle, adding cheese and other things at our whim while it cooks. He then folds it up before handing it over. My mushrooms drip as I eat; I try to keep it away from my clothes.

We headed off on the train to the Palais de Tokyo. Outside, in the median, is the largest farmer's market I have ever seen, filled with fresh fish, vegetables and fruits, breads and pastries, prepared foods, and other goods. It stretches the length of the block that he museum is on, which is quite far. Before we go inside, we wander around the wild gardens outside. They are maintained by different residents. Antonia says they are her favorite place in Paris, even before she discovered the chickens living there. We toured the museum, which is filled with contemporary art and mostly inscrutable. I chose a large work suspended from the ceiling made from camping tents, looking like a huge mask. Antonia chose an insect installation filled with sound. Darien chose a giant concrete block arch, held in place by a keystone and strap.

We walked across the Seine to the Musee du Quai Branly. It has only been open a few years and is filled to the brim with primitive art. We are all totally entranced -- with the art, with the building, with the lighting, with the displays, with the gardens. I took numerous pictures of faces, mostly masks but also bird people, devils, and grotesques that I'm going to have to edit and delete. I liked the Oceania exhibit and selected one of the male totems. There is a dead tree outside the cabin that I want to carve in homage. Darien chose a screen of some sort that I don't remember -- I hope she has a photo -- and Antonia enjoyed a multimedia exhibit of images and sounds.

We sat in the garden afterward with red wine and a light snack, then walk through the gardens.There was a charming water installation -- emulating sort of a right-sized aid project to help indigenous people create a tool -- including a water wheel and trough made with lots of recycled bicycle parts.

Walking over to the Seine, we find a tour boat. The only thing that kept me from sleeping on the tour was knowing I had spent eleven euros to take it. We walked over to the Trocadero, where thousands of people were cheering a World Cup match between Spain and Paraguay on a giant outdoor screen. We left before the riots started.

We metro'd home to El Dorado and ate in the restaurant downstairs. I had a salad with duck upon Antonia's recommendation; she had had it several years ago when she stayed here. The other two shared a salad and fish dish.

French women have some crazy shoes.

Dining with Eiffel

noreply@blogger.com (John Duke) — Fri, 02 Jul 2010 21:25:00 +0000

After lunch, we walked down Avenue Junot and then Rue Lepic in search of the cafe where the film Amelie was filmed. We got off track and never did find it. We stopped in a shop that had lots of odds and ends, including lots of baby dolls, some of which were just the heads with the top of the skulls shaved off. Jonathan gave Antonia strict instructions ("No French babies!"), so we passed up the opportunity to purchase any.

We arrived back at our hotel in mid-afternoon. Our room was available by then, on the fourth floor, with the bathroom on the third and no elevator. It is very warm for Paris -- about 93 degrees. The air was still and stifling. We all needed a shower very much, then we dozed. We woke and did some hand laundry. I poked my head out the window.

"Can we see the Eiffel Tower from here?"
"I don't think so."
"What is that?"
"I think it is a radio tower."
"I'm going to say it is the Eiffel Tower."

The name of our hotel is El Dorado -- very French, I know. We had to stop at the front desk to ask where we could purchase a three-hole converter for the electronic adapter that got left in Richmond. The clerk directed us to a large electronics store, but we have time to get there before dinner. We decided to go out. We needed a better dictionary.

Me (to the bookstore clerk): "Bonjour. Parlez-vous anglais?"
Bookstore clerk: "Non."
Liar.

Some rain cooled things off a bit. We went in search of coffee and sat outside a small cafe. The waiter was much more willing to work with our limited French. I ordered my coffee with hot milk, which I never do. I also put sugar in it. Our new friend the waiter told us we should go to the Catorama gallery up the street to look for the adapter. He wrote down the name for us, and we immediately found what we needed.

We had a scheduled dinner with the choir at the Eiffel Tower. We took the subway. While on the train, we saw three young men dressed in homemade gladiator costumes. They got on our car, but they were obscured enough I could not get a picture. They got off at the same stop and I followed them, but the crowd kept me away from them. We finally caught up with them, and made certain we got on the same car when we transferred. I still couldn't get a clear shot of them, but Darien took the initiative and worked her way through the crowd. Anything for three half-naked Frenchmen. I got my picture.

At dinner we sat with Cliff's mom, Betsy. Since the menu called for chicken, Antonia convinced the waiter to bring her and Darien something else. They ended up with a nice fish. The mashed potatoes were excellent, and the frozen dessert of some sort of shortcake was tasty as well.

Several of us decided to walk down the tower after dinner. At the bottom, in the large space under the tower, a number of people were running, shouting "cops!" At first I thought it might be some political street action, but it turned out that they were were after the illegal street vendors, of which there were many. Someone saw the police had guns drawn.

It was still stifling hot when we got back to El Dorado. We went downstairs for beers. The garden was closed, so we stood at the bar, which wasn't much cooler than our room, but our room didn't have beer. There was some confusion over how to pay and I started talking to the woman next to me. She was from Madagascar, which didn't seem too unusual, but what did turn my head was when she told me she worked for Icelandic Air. We spoke about Iceland and where to go and what to eat. Afterward we stood in the street with her and her friends, finishing our drinks. We gave them the programs for the choir's performances. She was enthusiastic and said she wanted to come to one of them. Maybe she was just drunk.

Cramming it in

noreply@blogger.com (John Duke) — Fri, 02 Jul 2010 08:22:00 +0000

We ran into Ann Rawls in the Paris baggage claim. She yelled out something about Speckled Bird across the room, which may be its first utterance on French soil. We almost shared a taxi, but decided to stick to the original plan and take the train in, then transfer to the metro.

We walked from the metro station to our hotel on Rue des Dames. We stopped and asked several times for directions to make sure we were heading in the right direction, which didn't stop us from getting lost. We had to double back. Darien started to get a migraine headache, so I shouldered her backpack and she wheeled mine. Later we found out that what should have been a one block walk turned into a mile trek.

The room wasn't ready for us, so we sat in the courtyard for breakfast -- bread and apricot jam, croissants, pastries, orange juice, and coffee with milk. We asked the waitress how to pronounce everything so we could order in the future. As we were ready to leave, a video crew showed up to interview a woman from an English band for a Web TV channel. I didn't recognize her.

We took the metro out to Sacre-Cour. An old Montmarte street leads up to the church, where impromptu games of confidence -- a variation of the three card Monte -- are played on top of turned over boxes and suck tourists in. I try to snap a quick photo, but one of the confederate muscles quickly places his hand over my lens. Further up the street, more confidence men try to place a string around our wrists and force us to buy them. Supposedly deaf people ask us for signatures as a prelude to asking for money, and beggars sit on the steps up to the church. It is a non-stop circus.

A mass was in progress, so we stayed for that. It was very warm inside; Antonia and Darien were well prepared with their hand fans. A choir of nuns in white frocks and black habits sang afterward. 10 euro each allowed us to climb to the top of the dome, where we had grand views of the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, Arc de triomphe, Notre Dame, and more. Antonia and Darien both conquered their fears of the narrow, winding staircases, although they made me walk in front on the way down.

Next to Sacre-Cour is Saint Pierre-de-Montmarte, built in 1147 on the site where Roman gods were worshiped. Montmarte was originally named for the god Mars, but this was later redacted to "martyrs" to de-paganize it.

Lunch was at the very pink (as in walls, tables, chairs) La Maison Rose. One of the tour books called it charming with lousy food, but we found the omelets acceptable. We had a rose wine, which I never do for lunch. With the Paris heat, I think I need a nap.