London Calling

Now get this
London calling, yes, I was there, too
An' you know what they said? Well, some of it was true!
London calling at the top of the dial
And after all this, won't you give me a smile?
London Calling
I never felt so much a' like, a' like, a' like...

The Clash, London Calling 1979

We went to London for Thanksgiving to meet Jeanne, who flew in from Florida, and to celebrate with Steph & Andy and Luke's five cousins -- all new citizens of the U.K.

"Lucky," Luke said, bemoaning his own misfortune. He was born in London and descends from a number of Brits, including my grandfather, Fred Burgess, but that's not going to help him on the citizenship front. London's calling, but he'll have to find his own path back one day. [Photo note: Despite Natty's protests, Jeanne and I took pictures of him in his school uniform.]

I went out one night with Paddie and our friend Simon to a Thai restaurant in Chelsea. At the end of dinner, I checked in with Jeff. They were still at Steph's, so I decided to walk back along Fulham Road.

I thought about my first trip to London, summer of 1983, when a college friend, Lisa B., and I were making our way to Poznan, Poland as part of a program at UF. We flew to London via People Express (I loved that airline), spent a few days visiting friends (one we barely knew, the other we'd just met), and then took a long train across Europe to Poland. We were on a very tight budget.

Our London friends introduced us to the Camden Palace, a hard-driving new-new nightclub where the beat ricocheted off the walls right along with the punk rockers. After a few hours I realized I hadn't seen Lisa B. for a while. She was outside crying. "I couldn't find Jesus in there," she said. Neither could I, but I hadn't been looking.

Twenty, twenty, twenty four hours to go

I wanna be sedated

Nothin' to do,

No where to go

I wanna be sedated

Ramones, I Wanna be Sedated, 1978

Later, in the early '90s, during the CME days, we'd go to a club, The Limelight, in an old church in Soho with the TV people from MGM, Warner Bros. etc. Back then, Jeff and I went to the theatre and had dinner at almost midnight, jostling for a place with the other late-nighters filling the city streets.

On this trip the only club we visited was where Josh plays rugby on Sunday mornings. And instead of the Camden Palace, we talked about the Crystal Palace where Ben's been invited to try out for a place on the football team.

We did dance and sing..- with Stephanie and Quentin at his music class one morning.

Let's dance

Put on your red shoes and dance the blues

Let's dance

To the song they're playin' on the radio

David Bowie, Let's Dance, 1983

We tromped around the theatre district in search of fun and found it...at Funland, of course. Who knew there's a multi-level facility right on Picadilly Circus with bowling alleys, pool tables and arcade games to boot? We even heard the Clash... at the 02 arena, speakers blaring, lights flashing, as Andy Murray and Rafa Nadal entered the court to play one of the best matches of the season, maybe of their careers --London calling, reverberating through the dome.

I walked through Chelsea that night and across much of Fulham. I'm not one to wallow in nostalgia, but a panorama of London past, complete with soundtrack, accompanied me along the dark street. Finally, in the distance I saw Jeff and Luke, heading back to the apartment we'd rented for the week. They didn't see me at first, and I watched them, happy, that in a moment, I'd return to my present.

If we took a holiday

Took some time to celebrate

Just one day out of life

It would be, it would be so nice

Madonna, Celebrate, 1983

The rest of the week went by in a rush of seeing friends, old and new, spending time with family, enjoying Thanksgiving together again, and this time with a turkey as well as the Thanksgiving Fish.

As for Luke, he'll find a way back to London. There's a part of him already there.

You can't return to a place you never left.

Deep in the heart

Deep in the heart of this place

Deep in the heart

Deep in the heart of this place

U2, Deep in the Heart, 1987

Not the 6th

When we lived in Paris, we lived on the Left Bank in the 6th arrondisement. Paris divides into 20 different sections, arrondisements, and we fell in love with ours. When we're back in Paris, we make our pilgrimage to the street where we lived. Of course, we had to take Charlie this summer.

We used to know an Englishman with a passion for a jazz club in Chelsea called the 606. In his mind, no food was as good, no club as exciting. He often muttered after tasting a bite of food or looking around a place, "It's not the 6." Jeff and I have, only half-mockingly adapted this phrase in comparing other places to our former abode.

A couple of weeks ago, we were in Paris and we didn't visit the 6th. We didn't even step foot on our preferred Left Bank. We'll correct this anomaly when we're back in December with JL, DR & GRLs....but it made me realize that we no longer own any part of Paris. [We never actually "owned" our apartment, but it surely belonged to us for a time.]

This is sad, but it gives us freedom to explore other parts of the city, something we didn't do as often as we might have done when we lived there. After all, they're not the 6th.

On our recent trip, we spent a fair amount of time in the 11th & 12th arrondisements. The Place de la Bastille, the grand square that's actually a noisy, chaotic traffic circle, is part of both districts. As the name suggests, this was the site of the prison fortress that protestors stormed in their violent search for firepower at the start of the French Revolution. Today a tall monument commemorating a later revolution, the July Revolution of 1830, presides over the occasional rallies and demonstrations and continuous barrage of traffic.

The bubble-wrapped, determinedly modern opera house, developed by President Mitterand to bring classical music to the masses, hulks behind the July Column.

Despite the noble intentions, the Place exudes something seedy along with the exhaust. (Definitely not the 6th.)

That didn't stop Luke and Roy from enjoying a tattered strip of carnival and arcade games all decked out for Christmas. Or the locals and tourists who swarm the Marche de la Bastille that occupies the Blvd. Richard Lenoir every Sunday.

Luke's photos capture the color and vibrancy of the market better than my words could.

Blvd. Richard Lenoir is built over the Canal St. Martin, a waterway forged through the city in the early 1800s, on order of Napoleon Bonaparte, to bring water to the masses. [Maslow would appreciate the shift in priorities for the masses from water to opera.] The canal totals 4.5 km in length, 2 km of which runs underground. You can take a boat ride down the canal that includes a plunge into the tunnel under the Place and the marche. We opted to walk along the wide, tree-lined boulevards built over the canal with Louise & Phil and girls who came to join us for the weekend.

Our route took us through a large swath of the 11th, past parks and playgrounds, until we reached the locks of the canal where we watched a boat emerge and rise up from the pressure and energy of the water rushing into the confined area.

Across the way in the 12th arrondisement, we witnessed a sensational rise of another kind at

the quarterfinals of an ATP tennis tournament. First we watched Roger Federer coolly dispatch his opponent, but the real show began when Paris' own Gael Monfils took the stage to battle Andy Murray. The crowd banged steel drums, chanted and even performed an awkward rendition of The Wave to show support for Monfils who responded with leaps, twirls, dynamic, and incidentally winning, tennis. His posse, a group of young men and women dressed for the club scene, led the charge. [Lucky Luke happened to be in the right place for autographs from both players.]

Roger Federer is already a tennis legend, but the tennis world has discovered an emerging superstar in Monfils. And we've discovered an entirely new Paris. Not the 6th, but that's not all bad.

Ode to Olive Oil

"I spent hours this weekend picking olives in my garden," my friend Michelle remarked the other day. She and her husband have a beautiful house on a hill overlooking Grasse, complete with the ubiquitous olive trees that populate this region.

(Note the ladder propped against one of the trees.)

November marks the start of olive season, so why not harvest your olives to make your own olive oil? Michelle proudly displayed her buckets of black and green olives mixed together. All olives start out green and turn black as they ripen but apparently you don't have to separate them for the purpose of making olive oil.

We met at Moulin de la Brague, the third largest olive mill in France, where the same family has been extracting oil from olives for over 150 years.

One of the mill workers weighed Michelle's olives, and then, to our surprise, threw them into a communal bin with lots of other olives.

Posted signs warned that inferior or damaged olives will not be accepted, but we didn't need to worry.

Michelle's olives passed the test, even if her outlay was a bit small by local standards. The olive growers milling about the moulin waiting for their lots to be weighed, their olives to be squashed, or their payments to be processed, had typically brought a few crates of olives.

While the olives were being washed, crushed (along with their pits), mixed and pressed, we wandered around looking at the old and new machinery and learning about the process of making olive oil -- an ancient art dating back thousands of years.

Homer called it "liquid gold" and the early Egyptians credited their goddess, Isis, with teaching them how to cultivate olive oil. Greek mythology claims that Athena won the city of Athens after bestowing an olive tree on the city's residents -- a gift deemed more worthy than those offered by Poseidon.

I was grateful to receive a gift of my own that day. Michelle's first efforts at olive harvesting resulted in four slim bottles of freshly pressed oil. And being a wonderful friend, she rewarded me with one of the bottles.

On my way home from Opio, I stopped at our favorite boulangerie for a fresh baguette, and at the Oasis des Fruits for tomatoes and avacados. Et voila! Lunch is served.

"Freshest I've ever tasted," Jeff effused between bites.

There's something about the taste of good olive oil that inspires us all. But instead of penning my own ode to olive oil, I'll share part of that written by the Chilean poet, Pablo Neruda (no relation to the Czech writer, although Pablo did choose his pen name, Neruda, to honor Jan).

Ode to Olive Oil

In
The dry
Olive Groves
Where
Alone
The blue sky with cicadas
And the hard earth
Exist
There
The prodigy
The perfect
Capsules
Of the olives
Filling
With their constellations, the foliage
Then later,
The bowls,
The miracle,
The olive oil.

The Matterhorn

We thought about canceling the trip to Zermatt -- seemed a bit far away for just one night. But Hannah & Ray, world travelers since the '60s, had never really been to Switzerland, and we'd been calling ourselves the Swissy Six, so we had to go.

Zermatt is a car-free town. Between our OFII appointment, Jeff's foot injury and my parent's arrival, I didn't contemplae that fact until I was winding up, down & around the mountains between Lake Como and Zermatt -- a harsh wintry landscape that challenged my newfound manual driving skills.

Suddenly I wondered how I'd transport my parents, two teenage boys, Jeff on crutches, a large dog and all our bags from Tasch -- the town 5 km away where we had to leave our car -- to Zermatt. We'd had a difficult enough time making it from our rooms at Tremezzo to the car...

When we got to Tasch, we targetted Taxi Christophe where Dad and I ventured into the office to see what we could arrange on the spot. "Don't worry,"said the smiling man behind the counter. "We take care of everything."

Perhaps I didn't look convinced. He added, "Would you like a welcome drink?" Ah, yes. Please. Mom, Dad and I enjoyed a quick shot of grappa, to fortify ourselves, then loaded our family, bags and dog into a van that took us down the small mountain road to the entrance of Zermatt where an electric taxi ferried us to the hotel. Only electric cars and horse-drawn carriages are allowed around Zermatt, and even they struggle with the steep dirt paths to the town's attractions and hotels.

After a bumpy ride to our hotel, I started to wonder whether Zermatt was worth the hassle. Until we saw our room at the Hotel Hemizeus with a glorious view of the Matterhorn, one of the most famous mountains in the world, the iconic symbol of Alpine Switzerland. Was it worthy of the fuss, or was the pomp designed to keep the taxis and electro-car companies in business?

"Not a particularly good-looking mountain," my father remarked. "Doesn't measure up to Everest or K-2 or Kangchenjunga." He's right. The Matterhorn is a mere 14,692 feet high when the other peaks stand at nearly twice that height. "It's kind of vulgar looking," Jeff chimed in. My mother looked at the mountain solemnly. "It's lonely," she pronounced. The Matterhorn stands alone, the unicorn of mountains, while most of its kind clump together in a panoramic range.

Still, there's something to the unique four-sided peak and solitary position straddling the Italian and Swiss border. "It's mysteriously majestic," Anthony decided.

At least the Matterhorn is unlikely to be mistaken for any other mountain... which is more than I can say for Mt. Everest. My family flew from Bangladesh to Nepal the winter of 1983 for a short holiday. At one point Hannah, never a shrinking violet, stood up to announce to her daughters, and everyone else on board, that she'd spotted Mt. Everest out the window on the right. We all -- daughters and miscellaneous strangers -- grabbed our cameras and clicked away. About ten minutes later the pilot announced that everyone should look to the left as we were about the fly over Mt. Everest. We daughters shrank into our seats. As we explained to Luke and Anthony, this was back in the day when film was expensive to buy and develop, and most people didn't take more than 24 or 36 photos on any given trip.

Quite a contrast to today when my mother took over 500 photos on this trip alone, including this one of the morning sun hitting the Matterhorn.

Despite its critics, the Matterhorn's in the running to be one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World. There's a contest going on that let's you cast up to seven votes to decide the new Wonders. The Matterhorn faces steep competition from the likes of the Amazon, the Grand Canyon and the Bay of Fundy. (The same organization recently came up with a list of the New 7 Wonders of the World which includes the Pyramids of Giza as an "honorary" Wonder. Apparently the Egyptians were not pleased that the Pyramids, the only surviving Ancient Wonder, were originally thrown in as just another contestant alongside upstarts like the Statue of Liberty, Eiffel Tower and Sydney Opera House. I think they have a point.)

Cast your votes at the website below!

http://www.new7wonders.com/community/en/new7wonders/new7wonders_of_nature/voting

Finally, speaking of wonders, natural or otherwise, not only did my mother, Hannah, take over 500 photos, but she made lots of new friends between the flights, the Italian man at the AutoGrill, the three elderly English ladies in Bellagio, the Cuban tourists at the perfume factory and the owner of the hotel in Zermat, featured with her here. "It's hard not to talk to people," my mother explains. As my dad, a man of fewer words, might say, Accha.

Lago di Como

I had planned quite the road trip for my parents' visit with Cousin Anthony -- two nights at Lake Como, two nights in Zermatt, and a night in Italian wine country on the way home. But the French Office for Integration & Immigration had other plans for Jeff and me... like a mandatory medical examination at their offices in Nice to complete our residency permit requirements, right in the middle of the week.

Still we decided to forge ahead with an abbreviated version of the trip as our road warrior behind the wheel didn't mind the intensive schedule. But during the heat of a frenzied ping-pong match, Jeff tore a ligament in his foot which left yours truly as the remaining member of the group with recent stick-shift driving experience.

We left late after our (successful!) OFII appointment and drove long hours through tunnels and around twisty bends to arrive at Lake Como in the dark of night. Our reward came the next morning when we stepped onto our balconies to see where we'd arrived.

The Grand Hotel Tremezzo, just across from Bellagio, delighted us from the lavish breakfasts complete with five types of honey (Anthony and Jeff tried them all) to evening drinks enjoyed in the salon while Dad played pool with the boys. We especially appreciated the delicate bowl brought for Charlie who, of course, came along for the ride.

We took a ferry to Bellago and spent the day climbing the old steps that connect the terraced layers of the town; shopping for silk purses and trinkets made from olive wood; and walking out to La Punta, the point that divides the lower parts of the lake. Sadly, Jeff's reliance on crutches meant that he couldn't make it any further than the row of cafes along the waterfront.

And so he enjoyed what one of the lake's most famous residents calls "that indolent but agreeable condition of doing nothing." And who would that famous resident be?

None other than Pliny the Younger, the lawyer & philosopher from Ancient Roman times who was born in Como. (You were expecting George Clooney?)

The Sweet (Soft?) Smoky Life

More than a dozen fires burn in the hills and valleys behind our house. No, it's not the striking students, truckers and union organizers. As Luke put it, "In Paris they're burning cars, here they're burning leaves." For the past three weeks, the acrid smell of burning leaves, weeds, and other garden refuse has overwhelmed the jasmine, mimosa and thyme.

It's not so bad up on our hill, but in the valleys, the smoke is smothering. October 1st marked the start of the season when people are allowed to set bonfires to burn what they want to dispose of but don't want to pay the steep costs to have hauled away. So we've had smoke, but not the fires aroused elsewhere in France by the proposed law to change the national retirement age from 60 to 62.

We've felt small ripple effects -- a few petrol stations out of gasoline and packs of gendarmes outside of Luke's school -- but for the most part things are calm compared to the riots in Paris, Marseilles (where they're blocking access to the port's oil terminals) and Lyon. The French people I've asked about the strikes express an initial sense of shame for the chaos caused by the strike participants. But then they mention the tax breaks for the super-rich and the corporations who do business here but pay little tax. And they talk about traditions and how most people they know value leisure time over money. They'd choose an extra week's holiday over an extra week's pay.

One columnist said the strikers fight for a "birthright of privileges." From where I sit, those privileges include long walks along the coast or in the forest, Sunday lunches that start at 11 and run into the evening, and leisurely games of boules. La douce vie, indeed. But the word douce means both sweet and soft in English. I've talked to Americans, Brits, Italians and Germans, all ex-pats, and most scorn the "soft" French who don't want to work an extra 2 years for the good of their country.

I don't have much sympathy for the high school students joining the protests (let's see -- go to school or run wild in the streets?), but I have a soft spot for the French yearning to keep their beautiful lifestyle intact. After all, their douce vie is what lures us all here. Although I'll be glad when they stop burning cars -- and leaves.

Plus je connais les hommes, plus j'aime mon chien

That was the response of the tough looking, brook no-nonsense waitress when I asked whether it was all right for Charlie to come inside: the more I know humankind, the more I love my dog. She then promptly returned with a bowl of water for him before asking the rest of our group what we wanted to drink.

It's no secret -- the French love their dogs, as well as any other visiting canine, it seems.

Charlie has now been to many restaurants, indoor and out, and, as you can see from the photo to the right, the best part about restaurants is the taste of the delicious morsels of food that drop, intentionally or not, onto the floor.

I knew that Charlie would be welcomed in France, but I didn't anticipate the extent to which he'd be adored. As Jeff used to say about the days when we pushed Luke around in a baby stroller, walking with Charlie is like walking with a mini-celebrity. It helps that the French tend to have smaller dogs so that Les Goldens are a bit of a rarity. Luke is reading Steinbeck's Travels with Charley at the moment. It happens that Steinbeck's dog's formal name is Charles le Chien (a French poodle) who also shares in common with our Charlie, "a roar like a lion designed to conceal the fact that he couldn't bite his way out of a cornet de papier." But what we can really relate to is how much Steinbeck's Charley helped forge a bond between the author and the people he met on his cross-country trip through America. Similarly, our Charlie has been a wonderful conversation starter. The first words from a hesitant mother whose eager child is reaching for Charlie tend to be, "Est-il gentil?" Is he gentle (literally, kind)? Before I can reassure, Charlie is pressing up against the asker and wagging his tail enthusiastically.

Perhaps his finest hour came on the TGV from Cannes to Paris. Dogs are allowed on the train as long as they tuck under your chair. Well, Charlie didn't really fit under the chair but he was happy to lounge in the middle of our group. (It would have been trickier if we hadn't had the entire foursome to ourselves - we'll have to buy him a seat when just the three of us are traveling.) There were a number of French children who were both fascinated and frightened of him. Finally, one of the small boys darted a hand out to touch Charlie's nose. Charlie immediately stood up and started wagging which scared the boy away. But he came back, with his friends, and soon Charlie was in the middle of aisle surrounding by happy French children chattering away about le gros chien.

From the gardien with his petite, petite Fifi to the woman down the street with her miniature poodle, and the masses of students at Luke's school, everyone loves Charlie.

Plus ils aiment mon chien, plus j'aime les Francais!