Proust au musée des lettres et manuscrits à Paris

Le bonheur est au 222 boulevard St-Germain jusqu'à fin août.
Dépêchez-vous!

Time flies

As we biked along the Sammamish River Trail yesterday, I was thinking about how amazing it really is - when you think about it - that it is possible to fly 5,004 miles (Paris - Seattle via the great northern route) in just ten hours. Last Sunday, just a week ago, I was trudging through the Buttes des Chaumont park with my cellphone in hand, trying to find the exact location of the birthday party for Hanna, who just turned two. Noel and I finally managed to bump into eachother, though it seemed to be due more to random luck than technology and reconnoitering skills.

I stopped to snap this photo on the way:




Here she is, the birthday girl:

Le Basilic

I hope to get to the story behind these photos soon. But work is calling and jet lag is slowing me down.

My friend Monique sold her apartment in Paris last year after accepting a generous severance package from her employer and deciding to trade the stress of being a high-powered executive for one of France's largest corporations for the stress of meeting a payroll and running a restaurant. It seems to be working for her! And I worked for her too, for a couple of days last week.

Cathleen Vella

Unfortunately, I learned this morning that Facebook is a very effective way to communicate bad news as well as good. My dear friend Cathleen Vella of Paris, France passed away just now. I got a facebook message from a mutual friend, Tizzy, informing me that Cathleen was dying and had just a few hours to live. I was frantically scouring facebook, looking for a way to get more information without bothering Cathleen's husband Pierre or her son Pascal. I noticed that Cathleen's status was "on line", which I found odd. We had exchanged messages a couple of weeks ago -- when are you coming to Paris, she asked. Soon, I replied. Not soon enough I am sorry to say.

Then, just now in fact, Pascal sent a message to all of Cathleen's facebook friends, announcing her death.

You will be missed, Cathleen Flaherty Vella. Your good humor and love of life never failed you, despite being tested over and over again. I was practically in despair yesterday because both of my computers were not working due to a software glitch. Sometimes we lose perspective about what really matters, and adjustments are in order.

Cathleen, how brave you were to get on my sailboat!

En grève contre BP

J'ai décidé d'arrêter de m'occuper de ce blog et d'écrire sur les fait divers tant que BP n'aura pas réussi à régler ce petit "pépin" qui fout la merde au niveau planétaire. Fuck you, BP, et vous les autres pratiquants du capitalisme sauvage et ravageur. Le capitalisme, j'ai entendu dire un jour à la radio, il n'a jamais était si moribond ni si agressif. Mais oui, c'est ça le drame.

La bonne nouvelle (voir article du Monde) à mi-teinte est que le cours de bourse du titre BP est tombé au plus bas! 36 centimes d'euro par action seulement... youpee! Mais derrière les chiffres il a (hélàs) des hommes, et parmi ceux-ci les actionnaires individuels de BP, sans parler des fonds de pension qui paient les retraites de beaucoup de gens modestes avec les rendements de leurs investissements dans les marchés des capitaux... quel merdier cette marée noire, quel merdier le capitalisme sauvage.

Et moi et moi et moi dans tout ça? Je fais grève!

SIFF 2010 - Mon Palmarès à Moi

I've seen four films in the SIFF line-up so far. One I've already indicated; the three others are Amer (Franco-Belge), Le père de mes enfants (Belgian) and, last night, Farsan, a delightful Swedish comedy. Farson would never make the Cannes line-up, simply because Cannes seems to have something against comedies. We went with a friend and the three of us laughed our heads off at all the delightful silliness. At the same time, Farsan has its genuinely touching moments. The guy who plays Aziz makes the film. He's a lovable but totally invasive parent who hasn't really moved on from his wife's death and who as a result is making things hard on his son and the son's wife. They are secretly adopting a child while she pretends to be pregnant. The film is in Swedish and was filmed in one of those lovely, sleepy towns that dot the Swedish landscape. Watching it, you long to move to Sweden and work in a bicycle repair shop for peanuts. Seeing Sweden as I remember it made the film special for me; my two movie companions had never been to Sweden and thoroughly enjoyed the movie anyway. One of them wanted to move there, right away.
Amer and Le père de mes enfants are more sober films. The French don't do Swedish comedies. They do comedies, but that's another matter. Both of these films are Belgian productions; both are in French. In the case of Amer, filmed in the south of France (near Eze, it looks like), the language is not that important because there is not much dialogue. The film is a hommage to the Italian giallo style of the 60s. I saw it with my friend D. Her first words when the lights went up were "that was the worst movie I have ever seen". I'm not so sure. There was something compelling about the way it was filmed. Three key moments in the life of one person - as a girl, an adolescent and a young woman. A giallo is a half thriller, half slasher film. This was more slasher than thriller, though the explicit violence came only in the final sequence. If you watch the film as reality, it doesn't work. But as the developing fantasy life of the main character viewed from inside her head, it works much better. The music is creepy and funny at the same time: Sergio Leone meets Mike Oldfield's Tubular Bells. The camera work and colors reminded me of a cross between David Lynch and Bunuel. On a visual and auditive level, the film works. That's the only way to see it.



Le père de mes enfants was filmed in and around Paris, except for a brief sequence in Italy. Paris was the character in the movie I most wanted to watch. Based on a true story, the film is both warm and sad. It mostly works, though at times it seemed about to veer off topic. The three daughters of the over-extended film producer are wonderful and relaxed. In the case of both Farsan and Le père de mes enfants, the lighting and actors are natural. Such a refreshing contrast with Hollywood big productions! The sixty-year-olds in Farsan look their age and it is wonderful to see. The actors in Le père de mes enfants are not overly-made-up or facelifted. Everyone just looks like a person. Vive le cinéma!

Le bonheur est sur les Champs (Elysées)

Anyone who has spent any time on the Champs-Elysées (la plus belle avenue du monde) will love this transformation.

Mom and me

After losing my expensive and really beautiful prescription sunglasses on Christmas Day, I have now lost the expensive and really beautiful Yves Saint Laurent glasses I bought in Paris two summers ago. The sunglasses are gone forever, having been accidently thrown out. Okay, they were inside a bag. As for the more recently lost pair, they are somewhere in my house. I just can't find them. So I have taken to wearing old glasses. The pair I was wearing last night is about 20 years old. I only wore them when I went to movies (I never drove when I lived in France and didn't even own a car). They are really hilarious. I actually love wearing them because it makes me feel like a secretary in a 60's sitcom. The photo was taken by my sister Carolyn; the occasion was the wedding reception of my cousin Suzi's daughter Tina; the place was the Rainier Golf and Country Club.

The copy and paste mentality

When I taught at the super-selective HEC (Ecole des Hautes Etudes Commerciales), a French grande école that trains many of France's future business elites and captains of industry, I often had my students keeps a journal in English so they would get writing practice. I told them they could write on any subject whatsoever, but sometimes suggested topics for open-ended essays.

I would collect the journals a couple of times during the term and read/grade them. To my surprise, one student had copied text from Time magazine word for word, passing it off as his own reflections about the problem of immigration in France (a topic I had given). I did not read Time magazine regularly, but just happened to have read this very article. I immediately recognized the words, not to mention the vast improvement in this student's written English. From upper intermediate to publishable in one fell swoop!

When I confronted the student, he denied having copied the text. So I showed him the original. He did not seem too embarrassed and eventually explained to me that he needed a good grade in my class to get an internship his dad had arranged for him in New York the following summer. The end justified the means, in his mind at least.

This happened in the mid-80's, before the ubiquity of the Internet. Today, it is so easy to copy and paste and the amount of material available for the taking is so vast that plagiarism has become a major problem. Le Monde has published an interesting article on the subject (this post's title links to it). Apparently, plagiarism detection software has been developed and a string of more than six identical words with an existing published document gets picked up and flagged.

This paragraph caught my attention:

Mais pour Hélène Maurel-Indart, si le plagiat prend de l'ampleur, ce n'est pas seulement à cause d'Internet. "Bien sûr, avec les ordinateurs, il y a la banalisation du geste copier-coller." Un clic suffit, plus besoin de recopier manuellement des pages d'ouvrage. "Mais il y a également l'augmentation du nombre d'entrées en master, avec des étudiants qui ne sont pas toujours capables de valoriser leurs informations."

But for Hélène Maurel-Indart, the Internet is not the only reason plagiarism is becoming more widespread. "Obviously, with computers copy-and-paste has become a banal gesture." It just takes one click; manually recopying the pages of the work is no longer necessary. "But there are also more students pursuing master's degrees, and some of them are not always able to valorize their information."

That is the crux of the problem, I think. With the Internet, one quickly realizes that one's thoughts on a given work or author or movement or moment in history or sociological phenomenon or whatever have probably been expressed by someone else already. Blissful ignorance of one's precursors is no longer an option. The challenge lies in acknowledging them and building on what they have already written. But what if what they have already written tallies with what you think? Just agreeing is so lame. Just going out and finding the words of others who agree or disagree is easy. The world of scholarship has not yet figured out how to deal with the copy-and-paste mindset. Judging from my experience at the University of Washington, higher education functions pretty much the same way it did 30 years ago. The anxiety of influence may have intensified, that's all.

Ten pounds lighter, ten years younger

They say the right haircut can make a gal look younger and lighter. It sure did the trick for Neko, who has just come back from the groomer. She'll thank me for it this summer.

Before


After

Just a really nice song

L'inconnu du métro

Merci à Philippe Colin et sa cellule de dégrisement sur France Inter, que j'écoute en différé grâce au podcast, de m'avoir fait découvrir l'incomparable Marie Dinkle et son blog, l'inconnu du métro. Le concept est très simple, comme le style d'écriture de Marie. Avec son ton juste et léger, elle nous montre qu'on peut aimer autrui sans passer pour quelqu'un de candide.

A propos de l’inconnu du métro
Vous vous demandez qui est cet inconnu assis en face de vous qui regarde par la fenêtre. Chaque fois que vous tentez de regarder dans sa direction vous croisez son regard. Gêné vous baissez les yeux. On ne dévisage pas les gens. Il se demande la même chose. Pourtant vous ne le reverrez jamais. C’est l’inconnu du métro.

Marie repère puis aborde l'inconnu du jour, mène sa petite enquête auprès de sa proie consentante, prend une photo de cette dernière et met le tout sur son blog (il suffit de cliquer sur le titre pour le visiter). Par example, ici c'est Mauricette. Pour connaître son histoire, et celle de tant d'autres inconnus, suivez le lien et consultez sur place. A déguster sans modération.



Il paraît que le blog sera bientôt traduit en anglais. Personnellement, je ne vois pas l'intérêt mais why not?

En tout cas, continuez Marie Dinkle. On vous aime beaucoup!

My career in advertising

The pay is pretty good.
I created the tagline for the Sanctuary advertising that will be visible with every film shown at this year's Seattle International Film Festival. It was the best ten minutes I ever spent. My friend D is one of the SIFF sponsors this year and, as a result, in addition to the free advertising, we get free passes. These are cool things you wear around your neck, and they get you in for free to any film you want to see, any time.

The festival starts in about two weeks, but there are press screenings going on now and we get to go to those too. Today I actually went to a movie at noon! It was a French film, Les Beaux Gosses. Bizarrely, the title was translated as French Kissers. Most unfortunate. Not a great film, but not bad either.

A cross between a tranche de vie and a series of vignettes.

No time to blog!

The best part? As I was leaving Pacific Place, I noticed that Anne Taylor was having a sale on dresses, so I walked in to have a look. Ten minutes later, I walked out with two for the price of one. I am not a shopper; I get no pleasure out of agonizing and lingering. These dresses are perfect; one will be just right for my cousin's daughter's wedding in three weeks. I just need to find the right shoes. Clementine will have them.

If you go to SIFF, look for my masterpiece.

Sanctuary: a unique place for life's special events.

It is just right with the artwork, which I can't post here for some reason. Go to SIFF and you'll see it.

Survival mode

I just wanted to reassure those who have been wondering that I have not fallen into a black hole. April is the cruellest month for me in terms of work. This year, as last year, it is proving a challenge to pursue school and get through a mountain of day-job work at the same time, not to mention.... all the other stuff. Had the Charlotte Gainsbourg show at the Crocodile been worth anywhere near the price of the ticket, I would have let y'all know. But alas, I should have listened to my instincts. Like her mother, Charlotte has no voice to speak of. And unfortunately, she does not have her late father's song-writing or musical ability. But the pre-dinner at Le Pichet was excellent, and so was the show at the Showbox the same night, where we had back-stage passes. Nice to have someplace to go when the place where you are disappoints!
Now it is back to the subsistence life: métro, boulot, dodo. Mostly boulot. Merde!

I have a photo I took in Iceland on my desk right now, just beneath my computer screen. It predates this week's eruption (both the taking of the photo and my decision to put it on my desk). Maybe I'll scan it and post it some day. I am sorry about all the stranded travelers but excited about the eruption. I love volcanic eruptions! When I lived on Rue des Ecoles in Paris I belonged to a gym just around the corner. There was a famous volcanologue who used to box there every morning at 7 am. A volcanologue! When I visited Iceland, I was struck by many things, not the least of which is this: the ground trembles ever so slightly, all the time. You realize pretty quickly that the place could blow at any moment. You begin to understand Bjork's music.

Cigarettes And Whiskey And Wild, Wild Women: Nicole Hardy does Anne Sexton

Instead of having talent, I have cultivated friendships with talented people. This is not as easy as you might think.

But I figure I might as well spend a minute today to mention one of my many talented friends and let you all know that she's going to be performing next Thursday, April 15, at 7:30 p.m. at Richard Hugo House in Seattle.

She (Nicole Hardy by name) has been selected to participate in a tribute to famous dead poets that is part of the larger celebration of National Poetry Month. You are excused if you didn't know that April, in addition to being the cruellest month, is National Poetry Month. But now that you know, don't you forget it. To take part, all you have to do is write or read a poem a day this month, and buy a ticket (they're cheap) to next Thursday's event, which I promise will be fabulous. Note: it is easier to read a poem a day than to write one. You can also fulfill the requirement by spending ten minutes a day doing rhyme-y conversation with a loved one. It's super easy and kind of fun. One person starts, making a statement that ends with a word that will serve as the one all subsquent statements have to rhyme with. For example, if I say "I say like sitting in the sun," you say something like "I can think of better ways to have fun", to which I might reply "It better not involve a gun".... Etc.

So back to NICOLE HARDY, poetess extraordinaire.

Next Thursday, April 15, at Hugo House, she (along with local poets Peter Pereira, Matt Gano and Jourdan Keith) will be doing readings of a famous dead poet, Anne Sexton. Her fellow poets will be doing Richard Brautigan, Audre Lorde and Frank O’Hara. If you have never heard of them, don't worry. Poetry begins in wonder. Actually, philosophy begins in wonder, according to Descartes, but never mind. Poetry is like philosophy, but couched in even more cryptic statements. And I mean that in a good way.

Here's how the upcoming event works:

For Dead Poets Society, each living poet will portray a dead poet from the canon and read his or her work; it will be part costume party, part poetry reading. As an extra wrinkle—since Hugo House’s mission is to support new work, all of the poets will write one original poem in the vein of, inspired by or in response to a work or the life of their selected writer.

Tickets for Dead Poets Society are $10 ($6 for Hugo House members, seniors and students) and are on sale now through brownpapertickets.com.


This is truly an opportunity to enjoy an evening of culture and fun for the price of an entrée at Circa in West Seattle, where Nicole works and also gathers some of the material for her fabulous poems.

Soyez nombreux!

Rue des Anciennes Arènes, Place du Cirque, Béziers

In 1999, I co-invested in a renovation project in the French city of Béziers. Béziers is located in Southeast France, in the département called L’Hérault (34), in the region known as Languedoc Roussillon.

Béziers is not too far from the larger and better known city of Montpellier. In fact, Béziers is something of a secret treasure. It is located just 10 kilometers from the Mediterranean and 50 kilometers from the mountains. The back country is simply spectacular and untamed, and features the station thermale Avène and roquefort cheese. More about Avène below.

The city of Béziers is known for bulls and wine. But there is more: the inner city neighborhood where I bought and renovated an apartment (as part of a larger and ongoing project) is where the Roman arenas (arènes) were located, built in 80 AD and able to seat nearly 15,000 spectators.

The vestiges of these arenas and surrounding neighborhood have now been almost completely rehabilitated and are open to the public for guided tours. So if you’ve never seen a vomitorium, consider visiting Béziers.

Béziers boasts 65 centuries of history, from the Roman era to the Crusades, not to mention the opulent 19th century, traces of which remain in the wide tree-lined avenues, the new Arena, fountains, public gardens, and imposing Haussmanian architecture. Better still, the weather is California-like. Best of all, Béziers is off the beaten tourist track. Even French tourists seem to stop at Montpellier or head straight to the Côte d'Azur without stopping.

Some people may be shocked to learn that bull fights are still staged in France, but they are, in Roman amphitheaters located in Fréjus, Arles, Nîmes, Béziers and other towns in the south. In Béziers, the annual 4-day feria, based on the Spanish corrida, takes place in August. Béziers even has its own accredited bullfighting school.

I’ve been thinking about Béziers lately because my investment has matured. It has been a rental unit since work was completed, with rent controlled at a moderate rate and the property managed by a special company set up for this purpose. A hassle-free investment, except for all the hassles. More about that another time. I've also been thinking it would be fun to look in on my investment this summer. We could fly into Paris, rent a car, and head south. Maybe go to Grenoble after that, where my friend Monique has just bought a resturant. Maybe traverse France and pay a visit to my sailboat in La Rochelle. Just thinking aloud here...

Not too far from Béziers, up in the hills, sits the Avène spa. Visits are covered by the French social security system, as the water is noted for its healing properties for sufferers of skin ailments such as eczema and psoriasis. Incidentally, Avène makes a wonderful, gentle line of skincare products, which unfortunately are impossible to get in the US (but sold in Canada!).

Here are some photos taken as the project was near completion. And yes, the sky really is that blue in Béziers.

1. These tiles, which date from the 18th century, were found when the project got underway. We decided to use them in the entryway to the apartment.

2. This is the view from the kitchen terrace, which overlooks a tiny interior courtyard.

3. Vestiges of the Arènes.

4. Béziers

5. Place du Cirque. My apartment is in the white building with the green shutters. The living room overlooks the square, Place du Cirque.

Spring into it

Roxy made some lovely cupcakes with orange/cream cheese frosting for Easter Sunday brunch. Notice how she color-coordinated the cupcake paper holders and her icing decorations.



















Carolyn had some left over paint that she used to decorate her hollow eggs. Don't they look perfect with the chamelias?

Noël en Espagne, Paco Rabanne

As the Easter hoohah heats up, many people the world over are wondering when the Catholic Church is going to assume accountability for the Sins of its Fathers. For decades, the Catholic Church has merely transferred priests who sexually abuse children, rather than doing the right thing. How many thousands and thousands and thousands of children have suffered in shame because the Catholic Church did not do the right thing?

Can you imagine the outcry if public school administrators just quietly transferred sex offenders out of sight rather than reporting them?
Why should a sex offender who dresses in priestly garb be spared having to answer to society for crimes against children?

And lest you think I am down on priests, let me take a moment to recommend an excellent book written by a friend of mine. Andrea Vogt's Common Courage recounts the life and death of Bill Wassmuth, a noted human rights activist and former priest who lived in the Pacific Northwest. Andrea is a superb writer and this is a moving defense of tolerance and social justice.

I would like to see the Catholic Church become a beacon of tolerance and take a firm stand against hypocrisy, especially when it comes from within its own ranks. More tolerance for activists who do good, like Bill Wassmuth, and less co-dependency and enablement for its own members who sexually abuse helpless children while advising women who are married to abusers to suck it up and pray. Perhaps a more publicly accepting attitude towards homosexuals while we're at it.

Isn't it time for the Catholic Church to change, just a little bit?

Three years and not counting

That's how I feel.
I am married to the best man in the whole world.
That sounds pretty lame, but consider this:

He makes a perfect marinara sauce.

Last week he did all the laundry and then cleaned the laundry room.

He always notices when I cut my hair or am wearing something new, and he always compliments me. I don't know if he is being sincere, but I don't care.

He is endlessly patient but not a pushover. I don't know how he manages this delicate balance.

He actually loves to read and talk about books.

He will watch as many Law & Order reruns as I want to see (they aren't reruns for me).

He opens doors for me, including car doors.

He helps little old ladies carry their groceries.

He's really, really cute.

He makes sure we always have great music to listen to.

He likes simple things, like walking with me and Neko.

He's very romantic.

He plays the rhyming game with me even though he knows he will lose because I am the champion.

He is cheerful most of the time but not so cheerful you want to smack him.

I could go on and on, but who's counting? Not me.

If you read only one book on the Knox case...

The local media (with the exception of Andrea Vogt's reporting for the Seattle PI, from Italy) has been just appallingly bad in its treatment of this case. Indeed, the US media has been nearly as bad. The local talking heads, in lieu of any real reporting, just read press releases handed to them by the PR firm hired to mislead the American public. Blame it on budget cuts if you will. But I say if you don't have the money to pay reporters on the ground then you should stick to covering local things and leave the complex international stuff to the pros. The fact that one of the three people convicted of murdering Meredith Kercher in Perugia, Italy, in November 2007 is from Seattle is irrelevant.

In her book on the case, Newsweek and Daily Beast reporter Barbie Nadeau corrects the hundreds of errors that have been committed by the local media, for anyone who is willing to take the time to read her short and well-written book.

I was going to write a brief review to go with this recommendation, but Tina Brown's introduction (in the Daily Beast) fills the bill quite nicely. An excerpt:

Barbie Latza Nadeau, who has been reporting from Italy for Newsweek since 1997, arrived in Perugia the day after Meredith’s battered body was discovered in the house she shared with three other girls. A resident of Rome, fluent in Italian, Nadeau (who also happened to have been married in Knox’s hometown of Seattle) was uniquely suited to grasp all the factual and cultural nuances of this confounding case.

And she pursued them zealously. Over the next two years, she attended almost every session of Knox’s murder trial, read the entire 10,000-page legal dossier in Italian, and invested countless coffees, dinners, and glasses of prosecco in cultivating cops, lawyers, judges, witnesses, jurors, friends, and families. Nadeau’s regular posts on The Daily Beast during the 11-month trial established her as an authoritative voice on the case—with appearances on CNN, CBS, NPR, the BBC, and NBC’s Dateline. But her pieces also got her blackballed by the Knox family because she declined to toe the line they force-fed to a U.S. media eager to get them on-camera: that Amanda was a total innocent railroaded by a rogue prosecutor in a corrupt justice system.

Daily Beast readers knew otherwise, thanks to Nadeau’s thorough and balanced reporting. But her objective dispatches also earned her the enmity of ferocious pro-Knox bloggers, who hurled insults and threats, hoping to discredit her professionally. Instead, her reputation has been enhanced by her diligent pursuit of a story that most of the U.S. media, including The New York Times, badly misread.

Barbie Latza Nadeau’s sensitive, clear-eyed, and compelling examination of a perplexing case is now a book—the second in our provocative Beast Book series—that brings to American readers the first full account of this baffling case. The book finally gets behind the impassive “angel face” (as the Italian tabs sneeringly called the defendant) to find the real Amanda Knox. Mining diaries, social-networking sites, exclusive interviews, and telling moments in the courtroom, Nadeau paints the first full portrait of a quirky young woman who is neither the “she-devil” presented to an Italian jury nor the blameless ingénue her parents believe her to be. What Nadeau shows is that Amanda Knox is, in fact, a 21st-century all-American girl—a serious student with plans and passions—but is also a thrill-seeking young woman who loves sex and enjoys drugs and who, in the wrong environment with the wrong people, develops a dark side that takes her over and tips her into the abyss.