Joyeux Quatorze Juillet

Walter and I always wished that we could have managed to be in Paris, or anywhere in France, for Quatorze Juillet, or Bastille Day as we know it in English. We could afford once a year, and that in the spring, when prices and temperatures were kinder, but we'd always heard great things about the joy of the community celebration. 

We admired the way that dead soldiers were in the national consciousness.

We were moved by the ready understanding that loss and grief are part of life.

We were tickled by the way that the Eiffel Tower peeked in and out and around public life in Paris, enjoyed and mocked, ready to be bought by tourists who were not us.

So much pleasure in the reliable breakfast in the local café, where the waiter greeted us with "Bonjour madam, m'sieur, comme d'habitude?" [Good morning, folks, the usual?]

We adored the way people of all ages met in public for deep conversation. Probably these two were also 'comme d'habitude'.

I was tickled all to hell that the French national bird (unofficially) is the rooster, symbol of an agricultural nation where food matters.

We'd always heard that the local fire departments threw parties for their neighborhoods, with music, food, wine, and dancing. I'd have loved to have taken part in one of those, especially with Walter in his better days.

You can find the French flag, displayed sparingly and respectfully, not draped around people's asses and plooped on their heads. Le Petit Nicolas was the bearer of the security of the French middle class for many years.

Happy birthday, France. Happy birthday, nation of Méthode D, of making things work, of looking out for as many as possible, young and old, of endless discussion and veneration of mathematics, of belles lettres, of living well every day.

Peak of peeks

Recently my stats have shown me improbable peaks from many countries. Portugal! Azerbaijan! Turkmenistan! Romania! and glimpses from Russia, France, Great Britain (a name hated by my Scottish co-grandma, who prefers "United Kingdom", much as she quibbles with United, because at least there is no privileging of Britain), Germany, and, the Czech Republic. If perhaps not improbable, these are certainly unexpected. Not that I'm not delighted to see such visits, because I love the notion that this blog has a broad appeal to a narrow selection of people who live all over. Also an opportunity to use my favorite figure of speech, litotes.

Winter mountains, SoCal

Snow on the Rockies, from 35,000 ft

Snow on Mount Baldy, and how it got there

New snow on the San Gabriels

Bourne on the Fourth

flag in mourning

bedraggled flag

Oath:  an echo

 Allege obedience to the flagging

 Untied States. We’re America,

 toothless Republicans

 with bad-faith hands. Armageddon? Oh my god.

 Almost risible,

 this gibbering injustice. Free fall.

Thoughts on 45’s Statement that the Way to Slow the Escalation in the Number of Cases of COVID19 Is to Stop Testing

Street of the Market of White Coats, Paris

Toddlers playing at the pocket park near 

Sèvres-Babylone

“The sensorimotor stage is the earliest in Piaget's theory of cognitive development. He described this period as a time of tremendous growth and change. According to Piaget, developing object permanence is one of the most important accomplishments at the sensorimotor stage of development. Imagine a game of peek-a-boo, for example. ... Older infants who understand object permanence will realize that the person or object continues to exist even when unseen. Most infants develop this concept between 6 and 12 months.” 

From www.verywellmind.com

The Swiss scientist Piaget

has left us with nothing to say.

            Even if we don’t seek,

            even if we don’t peek,

Corona is still in full play.

The peek-a-boo game pleases babies,

but COVID is risky as rabies.

            If we can’t get tested,

            it can’t be arrested,

an outcome with no buts or maybes.

Good morning Romania!

Swimming through concrete or limestone needs no words.

Note my pink-laced shoe peeking into the shot as I work to get the entire word into the frame.

Bit of a cheat here:  this is actually ENTREE, but the tape has worn off the first two letters.

Good advice in any language.

Hello Romania! In the last two days someone in Romania--maybe even several someones--has looked through this blog. A lot. Many times! Hello, hello! Welcome! (Now I have used up my month's quota of exclamation points.) I do appreciate your visits. If you like, leave me a comment or two so I know who you are. It's always good to make friendly contact across time and space.

Rhymin' Simon

Golden Gate Bridge, not necessarily over troubled waters

Lately I've been craving the songs of Paul Simon. Thanks to the so very portable technology of the cell phone, I can listen as I walk the neighborhood. I knew the album name I allude to above, but I hadn't really paid attention to the man's craft. I'd never though to rhyme Scandinavia with behavior. I never would have come up with a situation where I had to pair radical priest with get me released. and I would have missed the wit of You're cool, you're hot / I'm not. Gives me something to think about other than who is and isn't wearing a mask.

Walter, Passing

Not Walter, but from the back there's a strong resemblance.

The gentleman in question, and his lady

Walter, passing. He does not have a bump on his head; that is a white-haired man crossing behind him.

Paris in the springtime is proverbial. Walter and I were able to travel to Paris several times, always in the springtime. In Europe, spring is closer to winter than it is here, and Walter always dressed accordingly, in sports coat or blazer, sweater vest, and a buttoned shirt, and often a hat. With his silver hair and distinguished head, he always fitted right in, passing effortlessly for French. He read French much better than he spoke it, particularly in the real-time haste of speech, and I spoke English with him. Waiters overhearing us often brought me a menu in English, which I always exchanged giving a sharp look. Walter always got a menu in French, which I generally had to translate, as his vocabulary did not extend to food.

 He passed for French so often that we got to expect it. Once we were having breakfast in a café during the World Cup play-offs. France had made it into the finals, and everyone was staring at the TV, peeling off reluctantly to get to work. One man after another stopped to murmur something into Walter’s ear, to gesture significantly at the screen, to look at him expectantly. He did not let them down. He shrugged, tilted his head, raised his eyebrows, looked up at them ruefully, made some sign with his hands. Every time, the man laughed, clapped Walter on the shoulder, and strode away, clearly feeling that he had been understood.

 Another time there was a major exhibition of Manet at the Orsay. The line snaked back and forth, filling the plaza. It was late morning, and it looked like we were in for a long wait. Suddenly I heard an announcement in French:   the galleries were so full that no one else would be admitted until after 1pm. I grabbed his arm and hissed, “Come with me! Now! Run!” Happily Walter trusted me enough to run with me first and get an explanation after. As we cleared the plaza, we heard the announcement repeated in German, then English. I had figured that much of the line would use the opportunity to get lunch, and I had noticed only one promising restaurant nearby as we’d walked from the Métro.

 The crowd surged but we had a head start. We got an excellent table against the wall, next to an older French couple, and had the Schadenfreude of seeing people turned away from the now-full restaurant. 

We ordered a good meal in the French style, and Walter got his usual pichet of house wine. Then we settled in to chat quietly and wait for our meals and to enjoy 90 minutes or so before strolling back to the Orsay. Apparently many Americans speak loudly, demand their food be brought quickly, and hustle away from the table. The couple next to us eyed us and we exchanged sociable nods. After we’d eaten, the husband struck up a conversation. That is to say, he started talking to Walter, and Walter gave his usual stellar performance. He looked at the other man intently, nodding now and then. He smiled wryly, shrugged, leaned forward. He gave every sign of participating. Certainly, he was a good listener, and the other man became animated, laughing, confiding his philosophy of life, his vulnerable moments, and who knows what all else. We wives watched this touching bonding. The woman said to me in French, “Your husband doesn’t understand French, does he?” “No, you’re right, he doesn’t,” I answered, “and your husband doesn’t know it, does he?” We laughed and enjoyed conversation of our own while watching the meeting of true minds across the tables. Walter was not malicious—far from it. He simply wanted not to disappoint his neighbor.

When Walter did venture French, he had a strong Brazilian accent, as he had started learning French during his schooling in Brazil. It seems that Parisians find the Brazilian accent adorable, and they always cooed over its manifestation. Another win for Walter.