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.

Getting to know me

Finally, my first paper is behind me, and no, I am not sitting on the smallest seat in the smallest room of the house. For anyone wondering about my sanity, that is a reference to Voltaire. The story goes that in reply to a letter critical of something he had written, he replied: Monsieur, Je suis chez moi, assis sur le plus petit siège dans la plus petite pièce. Votre lettre est devant moi. Bientot, elle sera derrière moi.

I don't know if this story is true. However, my first graduate school paper in more than a quarter of a century is behind me. Once I got into it, I didn't want to finish it off. What a vital mental exercise! Why do most of us stop writing papers as soon as we are allowed to? Yesterday, in preparation for my next paper, I went to Suzzallo Library at the University of Washington and came across all 40 volumes or so of Rousseau's collected letters. 40 volumes, people! Maybe more, I didn't count. But think about it... think about the sheer volume of thought he committed to paper. He also wrote books, lots of them. We fancy ourselves writers today because we unload our petty thoughts in blog entries and dash off rapid emails. Most of us have no idea what it means to write any more. Yet another reason to tip my hat to my hardworking and underpaid journalist friends. You know who you are. I admire you for what you do.

And now for something different, taken from a friend's blog. Thanks, friend. You know who you are.

It's one of those getting to know you questionnaires that imply the existence of a stable self and lots of amour-propre. These are the subjects of my next paper, which spans the century separating La Rochefoucauld (17th) from Rousseau (18th). But first, a little banality (or is it anality?):

1. What time did you get up this morning
6:20, to feed the cats before they ate us.

2. Diamonds or pearls?
Diamonds and Rust.

3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema?
In the Loop or was it Entre les Murs? Not sure.

4. What is your favorite TV show?
The ones I watch most regularly (while on the elliptical) are Keith Olberman and Rachel Maddow. I'm a news junkie. Not really, but I like saying it. I also like 30 Rock because it is just a bunch of usually hilarious non sequitirs.

5. What do you usually have for breakfast?
Breakfast 1 (6 am): Coffee and 2 squares of dark chocolate
Breakfast 2 (9 am): Yogurt and fruit or toast and egg.

6. What is your middle name?
Anne

7. What food do you dislike?
Cooked spinach (I like all other cooked greens, but cooked spinach makes my teeth feel weird).

8. What is your favorite CD at the moment?
Renaud, Tournée Rouge Sang.

9. What kind of car do you drive?
Mini Cooper S (the S says it all).

10. Favorite sandwich?
Admiral Sandwich.

11. What characteristic do you despise?
Self-pity

12. Favorite item of clothing?
My fitted gray hoodie

13. If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where would you go?
South Africa

14. Favorite brand of clothing?
Prairie Underground (see fitted gray hoodie)

15. Where would you like to retire to?
A little red house with white trim in rural Sweden.

16. What was your most memorable birthday?
Always the last one.

17. Favorite sport to watch?
Gotta go with baseball, though curling is a close second.


18. Furthest place you are sending this?
Cyberspace.


19. Person you expect to send it back first?
Superman.

20. When is your birthday?
July 10th (same as Marcel Proust).

21. Are you a morning person or a night person?
Both. It's the in-between that can be tough, requiring a nap.

22. What is your shoe size?
37 1/2 - 38.

23. Pets?
Our dog Neko and two cats, Pushkin and Munchkin. We also have about 5 fish in our outdoor pond, but I don't know their names.

24. Any new and exciting news you'd like to share with us?
My tulips are coming up!

25. As a child, what you thought you wanted to be when you were grown up?
First a wordsmith (there was a show on channel 9 of that name and I thought that was the job of the host), then a vet.

26. How are you today?
Not wanting to work on the annual report I have to translate.

27. What is your favorite candy?
Dark chocolate. As a kid, red licorice.

28. What is your favorite flower?
Tulip.

29. What is a day on the calendar you are looking forward to?
Tous les matins du monde.

31. What are you listening to right now?
The tinkling of Neko's collar tags.

32. What was the last thing you ate?
Yogurt with pistachios, golden raisins and a cut-up fig.

33. Do you wish on stars?
Huh?

34. If you were a crayon, what color would you be?
Aqua marine.

35. How is the weather right now?
Sunny and a bit windy.

36. Favorite way to exercise?
Fast walking with Neko/My stick routine.

37. Favorite soft drink?
Fuze Slenderize.

38. Favorite restaurant?
Le Pichet in Seattle.

39. Favorite color of nail polish?
I hate nail polish.

40. What was your favorite toy as a child?
I honestly have no idea.

41. Summer or winter?
Fall. So there.

42. Hugs or kisses?
Depends on who is doing the hugging or kissing.

43. Chocolate or Vanilla?
What a question! Chocolate, like any civilized person.

44. Coffee or tea?
Coffee.

45. Do you want your friends to email you back?
Whatever.

46. When was the last time you cried?
I don't remember.

47. What is under your bed?
A boogie man.

48. What did you do last night?
Went to dinner at Bob and Chris's house. Chris made a delicious pizza and brownies.

49. What are you afraid of?
The world going to hell in a handbasket.

50. Salty or sweet?
Sucré-salé.

51. How many keys on your key ring?
4 - three house keys and one car key.

52. How many years at your current job?
Twelve.

53. Favorite day of the week?
Montuwedthufrisatsunday.

54. How many cities have you lived in?
Seattle, Vancouver, Los Angeles, South Hadley, Shanghai, Paris, La Rochelle

55. Do you make friends easily?
Yes, so far.

56. How many people will you send this to?
To everyone who reads this.

57. How many will respond?
It's up to them.


By the way, my paper was on Françoise Sagan's Bonjour tristesse. Here she is in 1968.

Munchkin and Neko

Because of her disability, we decided not to get Munchkin fixed. We took her to the vet once, and it took her about six weeks to get over it. It took roughly half that time to get her into a cage so we could get her to the vet. She may be unable to run or jump, but when she wants to elude the human grasp she is talented and dangerously armed. To compensate for her equilibrium troubles, she has developed the most muscular claws I have ever seen on a cat. And she knows how to use them.

The end result is that Munchkin is often in heat, and the object of her desire is Neko. She follows Neko everywhere during this period, cooing and clinging. Neko is amazingly patient, and every once in awhile gives Munchkin a few playful bites that seem to scratch the itch.

Neko, because she lives among cats, does many catlike things. For example, she finds small and tight places to sleep in. She also licks her paw before using it to scratch behind her ear. Stuff like that. Just now, I found her in one of her favorite tight spots, inside the mail basket under the table near the front door. When she thinks I might be going out without her, she will jump up on this low table and position herself next to the basket where we keep the car keys. Don't leave home without me is the message.

So here's Neko, in one of her favorite spots. But she's not alone. Munchy is in heat:





I have also seen Munchy get inside Neko's basket of toys and lie there, waiting for Neko to choose her as the preferred thing to chew on.

Too dang busy to blog

I have been trying to finish a paper on Françoise Sagan - I am happy to report that, as of yesterday, I am very close to the end - while keeping up with the reading for this quarter's seminar and my day job. Not to mention the occasional French teaching gig. I'll try and remember to post a link to the La Repubblica article and related video by Italian journalist Riccardo Staglioni, who was in Seattle to do research for his piece on the world of Amanda Knox. He somehow managed to work around the spin Marriott blacklist and find me and Charles Mudede. In his excellent article, he referred to Anne Bremner as Cruella Deville and to Marriott as a spin doctor.

Bowled over

In my world, every day is Valentine's Day because my one and only constantly finds ways to bowl me over.

Yesterday was no exception. We got together with a group of intrepid neighbors and had ourselves a bowling extravaganza at West Seattle Bowl. It was interesting to see the various strategies that the non-bowlers (like me) adopted to avoid sheer and utter humiliation. It was also interesting to see that we have some true bowlers in our neighborhood. I think there is something to the notion that certain people excel at indoor sports like bowling, ping pong and pool. Often, these people suck at the usual sports, football, basketball and baseball.

My hubby excels at all sports and is ultra-competitive. He did pretty well against the indoor sports enthusiasts. What I noticed is that he used his superior strength, size and muscle mass, hurling the bowling ball rather than releasing it close to the ground and close to the line like the true bowlers. As a result, when he aimed correctly it was like a bomb exploding. Pins went flying. This kept him in the game against the true bowlers.

As for the rest of us, we ranged from occasional bowlers to total neophytes. One neighbor grew up in the Ukraine and had never bowled before. Another neighbor, from California, decided that her best option was to gently place the bowling ball on the ground and give it a little push. This worked out well at the beginning but not over time. As for me, well, let's just say that I am close to a neophyte. Bowling is not unheard of in France, but it is not a national sport by any means. I had bowled three or four times as a kid. Once I bowled at the Washington Athletic Club as part of a birthday outing. We lived near Roxbury Lanes, but I was not a regular patron. It was the kind of place that looked seedy and sagging, and it smelled like stale cigarette smoke, even from outside.

So I watched people's strategies and tried to emulate the pros. Easier said than done. The bowling ball was heavy, even though I chose the lightest one. I appreciated that fact that my hubby did not try and "help" me, though he gave me just one tip toward the end and it was just what I needed. He told me that instead of trying to correct for the curve of my ball (it kept going toward the right), I could just stand further to the left and closer to the line. I tried it and immediately improved from totally sucking to actually knocking over some pins and even getting one strike. If I had my own personal bowling ball, I'm sure I would improve my game. In other words, I believe I am just one properly sized and weighted bowling ball away from being awesome at bowling. I have heard that a bad carpenter blames his tools, but I don't think this applies to bowling or curling.

Sarah Palin is a f*cking retard

Apparently, it's okay to call someone a f*cking retard (or even a fucking retard) if you are in satire mode. So I'm going to go ahead and call Sarah Palin a f*cking retard, perhaps the biggest f*cking retard who has ever harbored political ambitions in this country. It is true that George W. Bush worked hard to pave the way for f*cking retards like Sarah Palin, by refraining from ever having an idea in that pointed little head of his, and by persisting in his fractured syntax in the face of criticism, protests and satire. It must have been tough, and I am proud of him for not giving in to this unacceptable pressure from some elements of the populace, demanding that he use proper English and that he actually make sense. Making sense is totally overrated.

Back to Sarah, the biggest f*cking retard on the political landscape today. With any luck, she'll run for prez in 2012. Having outlasted her fifteen minutes of shame through sheer shamelessness, she is here to stay. She will not go quietly into that good night. Don't expect Sarah to read the mood of the people and leave leadership in more capable hands. No way. She is a train wreck and she knows that America loves nothing more than to watch a train wreck. She is better than a train wreck. She is a train wreck in slow motion.

I watched her deliver her speech at the tea party last weekend. Her message was absolutely and utterly devoid of substance, which made it really appealing to her audience. The genius of Sarah, though she is a f*cking retard, is that she has tapped into the deep resentment that her audience feels toward anyone who is smart and who believes in some modicum of social justice. You can tell because she gets the biggest applause when she paints herself as a victim of the liberal media. Sarah is brave to stay on the scene even though the liberal media and everything else that is evil hate her and criticize her. Their criticisms only make her stronger and more determined. She is a slow moving train wreck and she will take down anything that is in her path.

So expect to see more of Sarah Palin, the f*cking retard. If you are hoping for change in that respect, I can tell you that this hope-y change-y attitude of yours is just not working for you. Don't be a f*cking retard. Read my hand. On it I have written my key ideas for America. Pay attention to f*cking retards like Sarah Palin and they will continue to entertain you.

I try not to get too worked up about things that don't matter and over which I have no control, or annoying things that happen due to my own actions (usually when trying to take a shortcut, literally or figuratively). I generally succeed. But on occasion, a passing setback can really get to me. Like yesterday. Warning! This is a pretty boring story.
This quarter, I go to the UW just once a week, for a three-hour seminar. I try to get to campus 30 minutes before class starts, so I can review my notes. I have found a perfect spot just outside the classroom: a table with two chairs, set off the main hallway. It is quiet; I can spread my stuff out; no one bothers me. Yesterday, I got to the campus gate at 2 pm. One of the two parking ticket booths at the 45th street entrance was closed. No big deal. There were about 4 cars ahead of me. It takes about 30 seconds to transact this business of paying for parking and getting a little piece of paper that you leave on the dashboard. You pay full price (15 bucks tout de même!) and get a refund when you leave.
After five minutes of sitting, I began to get that bad feeling (irritation rising) when there was no movement at all. The sports car that was in front of the booth when I arrived was still there; the guy in the booth was just standing there; a car had pulled up for a refund. After another five minutes, I thought about turning around and trying another entrance. But I was stuck, since several cars had gotten in line behind me. Finally, there was some movement. The sports car drove off. Only three cars in front of me. But the guy in the booth was talking to the driver of the car waiting for a refund. Then he left the booth and went to the closed booth, where he swiped the magnetic stripe of a credit card. Then he came back to the booth and picked up the phone. He was holding the receiver with a handerchief. Then he was gesticulating at the driver of the car waiting for a ticket to park. I looked at the clock in my car. It was 2:20. I had been sitting there for 18 minutes! This pantomime continued -- the phone, the gesticulating, running to the closed booth -- for several more minutes. I felt as if I were watching a foreign film in a language I don't speak, with no subtitles. Finally, at 2:26, it was my turn. I handed the guy my credit card and said I would be parking at Padelford. He blew his nose with the handerchief and then used that hand to give me back my card. Ewwwww! I decided not to ask him what the problem was.
At 2:26, the campus is full of jaywalkers, rushing to class because they are late. It is a time-honored tradition at the UW for pedestrians to assert their absolute right of way at all times. Bikes bow to them and cars bow to all. Cars have to stop (unwritten rule) whenever any pedestrian wanders into the street on campus, whether or not they are in a crosswalk. Once you stop for one pedestrian, other pedestrians come out of nowhere -- like zombies in a horror movie -- and cross in front of your car. And you just have to sit there. As a student at the UW a quarter of a century ago, I was one of those zombie pedestrians. So now I feel that divine retribution really does exist.
By the time I got to class, I was ten minutes late. Luckily, my classmates and prof were having trouble getting a dvd player to work and so hadn't started. I went from being 30 minutes early to being 10 minutes late. I was annoyed. I felt as if 40 minutes of my life had been stolen from me by the gods and their earthly zombies.

Sosies

Last week, having exhausted the challenge of getting people to post profile pictures of themselves as kids, Facebook got the masses involved in posting profile photos of celebs they are purported to look like. I only got involved on Sunday, since I don't get to Facebook very often. It is better that way. Really.

Some of the lookalikes were a huge stretch; I won't name names. But in some cases, the resemblance was immediately apparent. I don't usually participate in these things, but this time I did. As usual, I did more than the assignment strictly called for.

First of all, I have been told at different times that I look like 3 famous people. One is Liv Ullman. The second is Hayley Mills. And the third is a secret, at least for now. My closest friends know who she is. But I'm not sayin'.

I thought it would be fun to post a photo of each one as she was when the comparison was made and as she is now. Hayley Mills is about 63 and Liv Ulmann is now 70. Here they are, then and now. Neither has had work done, which makes both more interesting.

I used to hate it when people said I looked like Hayley Mills, but now I can see why they said it. If I had a scanned photo of me then, you would see why too. But I don't. So too bad!

As for Liv Ullman, there is a story behind it. I was at the Bon Marché liquor store, underage, trying to buy a bottle of scotch. Rumor had it that it was easier to get away with using fake ID there than at other state liquor stores. So there I was, fake ID in hand, heading for the check-out counter. The guy behind the counter would or could not take his eyes off me. It was too late to return the bottle to the shelf and flee. I stood in line like a lamb being taken to slaughter, waiting to be busted, humiliated.... When it was my turn to pay, the cashier said "Has anyone ever told you that you look just like Liv Ullman?" When I, relieved, said no, he showed me the back cover of Changes, Liv Ullman's then recently published memoir. I don't know if I could see any resemblance; I was blinded by the sense of relief that flooded over me. He didn't even ask me for ID. Makes sense: Liv Ullman was in her late 30's at the time.

Photos below: Hayley and Liv back then, followed by Hayley now and 2 of Liv Ullman now.

Evian's 2010 ad

My friends Noel and Lara, parents of Anna, born in July 2008, live in Paris. Lara is an actress, and you may have seen her in La Vie en Rose, the biopic about Edith Piaf that garnered Marion Cotillon an Oscar. Lara has a mid-sized role in the movie. Between films, she does some ad work. Here she is in the latest Evian ad. Good work, Lara!





And here's Noel, fixing drinks on a hot afternoon in Paris, August 2008:

Tintin mania: coming soon to a theater near you?

Spielberg apparently spent 25 years trying to obtain the rights to Tintin's adventures before succeeding. I can imagine the mixture of pride and apprehension in the French-speaking world at the idea that Spielberg and Peter Jackson have teamed up to do a trilogy, beginning with Le secret de la licorne, due out in late 2011. I read somewhere that Spielberg sees Tintin as an "Indiana Jones for kids", and that Le secret actually combines 4 different Tintin stories into one. Will they get it right?

Meanwhile, Serge Tisseron, a psychoanalyst and professor of psychology from Paris, was in Seattle yesterday to talk about his study of Tintin as revealing a secret de famille of Tintin's creator Hergé, who was Belgian (he died in 1983). It was fascinating and convincing. The lecture was sponsored by Alliance française and held in Balmer Hall at the UW. I found this a perfect way to spend a drizzly Saturday afternoon. Tisseron noted at the end that he was unable to publish his book in English because of the way Anglo-saxon publishers work. Basically, they won't pay to have a work translated. French authors or their publishers have to pay. Naturally, it is not in the interest of the latter to pay for a translation of their author's work, since they won't see a dime. And authors generally don't have the money to pay for translations. After the lecture, I talked to Tisseron about the possibilility of finding some grant money or an outside sponsor. I once translated a book for publication under this kind of arrangement. I got paid for the translaiton and the English publisher got to share the profits with the author. I told Tisseron I would love to translate his book for less than my going rate, rien que pour le plaisir de travailler sur Tintin. With Spielberg's film set for release in 2011, now is the time to get the translation done and the book published in English. I wonder if Spielberg would be interested in financing the translation?

Finding Mr. Good Enough

I just got wind of this book. Back in the late 80's, I met a woman who was a friend of my sister's. She was in her late 30's. She had an MBA and a successful career with IBM. She owned a beautiful condo and drove a Porshe. She complained about not being able to find Mr. Right or even snag a date with him. She then proceeded to rattle off her list of features Mr. Right had to have if he wanted to roll with her. It was so long, so picky, so unforgiving. I decided that in fact she did not really want to find Mr. Right. She just wanted to bitch about the lack of good men out there and, in so doing, obliquely tout her own virtues. Leslie, where are you now? How many items have you added to Mr. Right's TO BE list? Why is it that I feel certain you have not found Mr. Right? Leslie, if you're out there and still looking (or pretending to look), read this book. It could be a game changer.

I'm free!

Wow! The month of January has come and gone in a flash. My friend Nawal was here from Paris from Christmas to January 14, which may explain why the month went so quickly. Winter quarter started on January 6, the same day I was supposed to see my surgeon and the hospital for the pre-op visit. I ended up postponing the appointments until Friday, January 8, because just as I was leaving for the hospital I discovered that my wallet was not in its usual place. I knew it hadn't been stolen or lost, but I had no idea where I had last stashed it. After frantically looking for 15 minutes (this episode included me screaming so loud that I scared Neko), I called the hospital to say I would have to change my appointment. They were nice about it. Fifteen minutes later, I found the wallet in the pocket of a coat I don't usually wear. I had put it on to take Nawal to the doctor the day before. I didn't want to take my purse, etc. etc. etc. I hate it when this happens. Nothing good ever comes of these shortcuts.

The weekend before the operation, we went to Camp Waskowitz for Dahli's 50th birthday party. The food was unspeakably bad; I think the flakes used for the mashed potatos were taken from a box that had been in storage since the 60's. We built a huge bonfire. We saw elk in the field and took the flag down.

After my surgery, I was supposed to take it easy for two weeks. Normally, I am the kind of person who sees doctor's orders as rough guidelines. But this time, I decided to act like a responsible adult and do what the doctor ordered. I must confess it was wonderful to take it easy. I have already noted that I decided to forego the percocet. For one thing, I had some translation work to do (though my clients were very nice to me). I also decided not to miss my once-a-week seminar and so needed to do a lot of reading. But that's all I did. My wonderful, loving, sweet husband did everything else. He cooked and cleaned and fluffed up my pillows and fed the animals and most of all took the week off to hang out with me and watch Law & Order. It was very nice to have him around the house during the day.

By Friday of the first week, I felt healed enough to walk. I wanted to get back on the elliptical and resume my stick/weight workouts, but decided to wait until after my post-op visit. Sometimes, taking it easy is the best medicine. I took Dahli to Le Pichet for her annual birthday dinner the second week of my recovery. We both needed a good meal after the Camp Waskowitz fare. On Friday of that week, we went to see Steve Earle at the Moore with our neighbors. Thanks for the invite, neighbors. It just so happens that they wanted to have dinner at Le Pichet before the concert, so I got to have dinner there twice in one week. I had quail on Friday night. So tiny and delicate, so delicious. Steve Earle did an acoustic show, a total change from his last visit to Seattle. He did a few Townes Van Sant songs in addition to his own. The audience was much the same as last time (read my Steve Earle post from last year; it's here somewhere).

The weekend featured more walking and some shopping. I'd been watching a pair of grey boots at Clementine, waiting for them to go on sale. Got 'em. Love 'em. Then I bought ten soup bowls for 4.95 a piece, because Wonder Hub invited his Magnolia Baseball people over for Sunday lunch and we decided I would make a big soup before realizing that we only have about 4 soup bowls. I made that delicious bean and farro soup (I wrote about it in December), plus a roasted winter vegetable salad with arugula and bread from Bakery Nouveau. Karen brought a huge selection of cheeses so I put mine away. We'll be eating them until spring. At least I will.

On Monday, I was given the go-ahead to resume normal activities. The surgeon was amazed that I didn't take any percocet. He showed me some graphic photos of my innards. Now that this operation is behind me, I feel like I accomplished one of my major goals for 2010. I can move on! Yay! We celebrated by going to see Patti Smith at Benaroya. On my list of personal heros/role models/idols, she is very near the top. She did not disappoint. She was in town to talk about her book, Just Kids, in which Robert Mappelthorpe looms large. After reading from the book, she was interviewed by local self-styled rock guy Charles Cross. He did his best, but mainly served as a foil for Patti. She is quite funny. When he mentioned that she had been featured in Oprah's O Magazine as a style icon and seemed to expect a reaction from her (was he going for embarrassment?), she waited a moment, glared at him, and then said, when he glared back: "Well, that's not my fault!" To end the evening, she picked up her guitar, confessed that she wasn't a good guitarist (she isn't, but she is good enough), and then sang three or four songs. Banaroya is the perfect venue for acoustic music when the performer has a strong and unique voice. Patti delivered. She ended with an a cappella version of Because the Night, with her audience doing the chorus. It was magnificent. On the home front, we are listening to Patti Smith and The Who these days.

On Tuesday and Wednesday, as I prepared for my seminar, the work started flooding in. Bad timing, but sometimes you just have to bite the bullet. I got through my presentation yesterday, felt well prepared, and enjoyed the discussion. We are currently doing Molière. I had never read Molière, but had seen one of his plays performed by the Comédie française troupe. At the time, I did not really understand enough French to appreciate what I was seeing. It is nice to know that Molière can be studied at leisure. The Comédie française stages at least one play be Molière each year. In 2010, they are doing L'avare. It would be fun to plan a trip to Paris around that!

Law & Order? Just What the Doctor Ordered

I'm home this week recovering from minor abdominal surgery. My surgeon prescribed percocet but I am finding watching back-to-back-to-back episodes of Law & Order to be just as effective. Yesterday, I felt the addict's panic when the television suddenly started administering some other program THAT WAS NOT LAW & ORDER! I almost took a percocet but then images of Rush Limbaugh began dancing in my head. Then his red, angry, fat face appeared on the screen for real. It seems he would like nothing better than to fuel a race war.

I'm also reading Corneille's Le Cid and, more interestingly, some of the primary and secondary texts about La Querelle du Cid. Ah, to have lived in seventeenth century France! I would have had a salon, for sure. The only downer would be no Law & Order episodes. While researching (ha!) this post, which in fact means looking for an image to download, I discovered there are something like eleven seasons in the oeuvre. This means I have not yet skimmed the surface.

At the end of each episode, there is a disclaimer. It reminds viewers that the story and characters are fictional and not to be confused with real events or people. If you ask me, this disclaimer is totally unnecessary and I bet anyone who has watched seven or eight episodes in a day would agree with me.

The Year of the Yo-Yo

Can the world be divided into those who make resolutions and those who don't? Can it be further subdivided into those who keep and those who don't keep their resolutions? I have never consciously made a New Year's Resolution. Last year, I wrote somewhat tongue-in-cheekily that one of my resolutions was to be be more zen in 2009, by which I meant less apt to react emotionally and selfishly to events over which I have no control. I think I also meant less desirous of wanting to have control over events. I remember reading the book Stop-Time by Frank Conroy when I was a senior in college. In this moving memoir, the narrator talks about his life between the ages of eight and eighteen. So it is about growing up. His book is widely acclaimed among the mountains of memoirs published before, at the same time and since his was in 1967, in part because it reads like a well-crafted novel. In one episode, he talks about learning to use a yo-yo.

“The yo-yo represented my first organized attempt to control the outside world. I could see my progress in clearly defined stages, and because the intimacy of it, the almost spooky closeness I began to feel with the instrument in my hand, seemed to ensure that nothing irrelevant would interfere. (I was) finally free, in one small area at least, of the paralyzing sloppiness of life in general.”

Frank wants to learn the hardest trick, which is called The Universe. He wants to master The Universe. But it isn't until he lets go of his desire to dominate the yo-yo and let "the ghost" take over that he does. When I feel myself getting upset and spending energy and time on matters that fall outside The Universe of what I can master, I say this to myself: give up your desire to dominate the yo-yo. It's a little reminder about what matters and what doesn't.

There's always a fine balance between the satisfaction of making an effort and succeeding, on the one hand, and just letting things happen on the other. Between wanting to engineer The Universe and being astonished by what It delivers. Sometimes, being decisive and making things happen feels good; but so does letting things go and letting things happen. To make things happen or to let things happen, that is the question. Maybe the answer is both.

When I reflect back on 2009, I realize that it was a pretty good balance of making and letting. I didn't get to France in 2009; but I started work on a second master's degree. Although I don't see the two as mutually exclusive in the least, one reason I decided to stay put was that I wanted to be mentally ready for the reality of being a student again. The return has been both easy and difficult. Walking into a university classroom for the first time in almost 25 years (not counting teaching in France and China) was more daunting than it might sound. I mean, what is so hard about walking into a classroom and just taking your seat among the other students?

The first day, I looked around and immediately realized I was 30 years older than most of the students and about the same age as the professor. That was spring quarter. This fall, I was still three decades older than the students and 13 years older than the professor. I'm not saying I expected anyone to ask me what in the world I thought I was doing there with all these young people -- who belong there -- but I did feel a bit out of my element at first. I thought about all the "older students" I encountered years and years ago, both as a TA and a student at the UW, and tried to recover my thoughts about them. I do remember being somewhat fascinated by them and feeling that they seemed way more experienced and way smarter than the people my age. That annoyed me. I also remember being grudgingly impressed by their ability to be outspoken without appearing to worry about what others might think. I know I was awestruck more than once by the ease with which they begged to differ with the revered professorial authority figures I found to be so scary and all-knowing. I don't remember ever scrutinizing their wrinkles or their wardrobe. I don't remember finding them out of touch or old school. I don't remember whether they fit in or not. I don't remember thinking "Wow! He/she is older than my dad/mom!"

Now I realize that these older students probably did not give a damn about any of these things. But I think what impressed me most about them -- although I would not have been able to articulate it at the time -- was their ability to just be in the moment. Their desire not to dominate The Universe but rather to ponder it and to keep pondering even though they were old and wise.

I feel incredibly lucky at this time in my life to be a student again. It is incredibly difficult, after all these years of reading for pay and sheer pleasure, to read once again for meaning and insight. Incredibly difficult. It is time-consuming: you have to read things more than once and take notes and think about what you are reading. You have to remember what you have read. You have to write about what you have read. My work as a translator involves focusing on and transforming a particular text from one language to another and then forgetting about it. This makes the whole business of being a student more challenging. But it is so interesting to be ignorant. Socrates said that awareness of one's own ignorance is the essence of wisdom. Maybe I am finally wise.

The Resolution Starts Now

I just read an article in Slate about the decade's ten best movies. Decade? Ten best movies? Should I even try and come up with my ten favorite movies since 2000? As I was reading the list, I was thinking yeah, I remember that movie. Yeah, that was good, or WTF? That movie sucked, or I never heard of that movie. What makes for a memorable movie?

The truth is, I'm not sure I can remember the last ten movies I have seen, let alone come up with a ten best list for the year or the decade. No kidding. Sometimes, I remember that I saw a movie two weeks ago but I can't remember what it was. I have to rack my brains. It's a little scary, but I try and not let these huge lapses bother me too much. When I start forgetting my name and leaving coffee pots on a burning stove to melt down and cause a fire, then I'll start to worry. I'm not saying these things have never happened. But if they have, I have forgotten.

Maybe I should try and come up with a list of the ten most memorable things I did in 2009, or the ten things I did that I remember the most vividly. I'm going to work on that and report back.

In the meantime, a few photos from last night's Moroccan dinner. It was fabulous. My flight got in at 1:40 (35 minutes early) and I hit the ground running, as they say. Nawal and I had a brief conference about what needed to be done between now and 8 pm(everything) and who would do what. Since there were now 15 of us, we thought a little more lamb was needed for the tagine. That's how we discovered at about 3:30 pm that the butcher at The Swinery had forgotten our order. After screaming and cursing for about ten seconds, I went up to Metropolitan Market and found a superb, supremely expensive gigot d'agneau . The rest was easy. I even bought flowers to go with the Salvadorean fair-trade hand-made tablecloth I found in San Francisco, and a bunch of bright red cotton "buffet napkins" that were on sale for a ridiculously low price. I had to look about five times to believe it. Metropolitan selling homewares for Costco prices?

Nawal got the tagine going while we set up two long tables in our entryway/library. I only had the one tablecloth, however. So I did what anyone would do. I asked myself what Martha Stewart or Rachel Ray would do. Since I know nothing about either one, except for their names, this was a tough challenge. But the answer came to me when I walked into my office and saw an unused roll of wrapping paper. I would like to be able to report that I took used wrapping paper and recycled it, but that would be a lie. Anyway, Walt wrapped one of the tables with it. The rest was easy. Candles and colorful dishes for all the goodies. Almonds, olives, dates, walnuts, cornichons... plus Moroccan lentils,green peppers and tomatos, rice and corn salad, and a festive salad for the season (arugula, shaved fennel, pomagranate seeds and avocado). As appetizers, we served an assortment of cheeses and a venison pâté. Dessert was the dates and walnuts, plus clementines, chocolates and some cardamom cookies that one of the guests had made.

I had about fifteen minutes to spare for my shower. After the shower, I discovered that my make-up bag must have fallen out of my carry-on luggage that I stowed under the seat in front of me as a courtesy to my fellow passengers. I had nothing but some old lip-liner, some even older mascara and some tinted moisturizer. The upside is that it took me no time to get ready for the party!
The champagne, wine and beer flowed freely. Happy New Year!
Top to bottom: Most of us around the tables
The wrapped table, with flowers
Walt pours the champagne in anticipation of midnight
Nawal in her Moroccan robe and me
Azy, crazy on chapmagne
No party is complete without Neko

The day before the last day of the year

I'm not a fan of all the Christmas holiday hoo-hah, and like New Year's Eve even less. It has something to do with being locked into things, forced to celebrate, give thanks, give and receive gifts. I prefer spontaneous feasts, laughter, gifts given for no reason.

But whatever. It is possible to have fun anyway, your way, my way. This year, we spent Christmas Eve with my siblings and cousins and their families. I have five siblings and four cousins and most of them have children, so when this gathering happens it always produces a houseful. Also gauranteed: my Aunt Janie's scalloped potatoes from Safeway. Neko loved it all, especially all the food dropping from plates to the floor and all the squealing over gifts during the white elephant exchange. She threw up about 3 am, and didn't stop until she had dislodged a walnut. It looked as if she had swallowed it whole.

My friend Nawal arrived on Christmas Eve around 11 pm. She is here to see her son, who lives with his father in Renton. It's complicated. Okay?

On Christmas Day, we had Jo's homemade cinnamon rolls on the beach at Seola. Gorgeous day. Crisp, clear, mountains standing at attention. Then a walk. Then it was time to roast a duck. We had dinner at home with Nawal and her son, Rachid. Nawal nagged Rachid and Rachid rolled his eyes. He's 17.

Now, here I am in San Francisco until New Year's Eve. San Francisco is a food lover's paradise and a walker's dreamscape. We just finished a thrift shopping spree -- I got a really cute pair of black boots for 30 bucks and a prada duffle bag at Salvation Army for 40 bucks! -- and lunch at home. Lunch was five different cheeses, including a bleu des causses and a st. nectaire, some really good bread, olives, Dahli's sun-dried tomatoes and wine. Now we're sitting around and watching Amadeus. Ah, Mozart! But it is time for a walk on the beach.

And then dinner.

Don't let me forget to tell you about Emmie's Spaghetti Shack, Le Zinc and the movie Sherlock.

Tomorrow night: Nawal is cooking a Moroccan feast and no one who was invited à l'improviste has refused. So it will be a fun full house! And best of all, I get to stay home on New Year's Eve and have a party. The last two years, we have gone with Sean and Caroline to Whidbey Island, but this year they are in France and Switzerland with Caroline's family.

Sunny!

Noël au balcon...


Skype magically brings the spirit of Alison to Seola Beach


Catherine, Patty and Nawal -- after a long journey from Paris -- enjoy the Christmas sunshine

The gift that keeps on giving

This year my Christmas present to everyone I know is the biggest donation I can afford to the folks at Rolling Dog Ranch in Montana. You have probably seen them on television. But did you realize what privileged and interesting lives in Seattle they gave up to care for disabled animals in need? Click on the title and you'll find out. Alayne Marker and Steve Smith, you rock!

Rolling Dog Ranch has its own youtube channel, where you can see some of the amazing creatures they have saved. There is one video showing two cats like Munchy.



As everyone knows, we have a disabled cat named Munchkin (aka Munchy) who probably suffers from cerebellum hypoplasia. Suffers from is not quite right, though, because she is not in pain. She just has trouble doing certain things. She brings us a lot of joy and shows us daily how attached she is to life. When we got her, she was slowly dying of starvation because her mother had stopped feeding her. We gave her milk at first, which was a huge mistake. She nearly died of dehydration because of that. Then we found substitute mother's milk and that saved her. We fed her from a little dropper. After a few days, she began to eat solids. Here she is, taking her first bite and her first steps.

Bean and farro soup, yeah!

This is a wonderfully soothing and filling winter soup that is a meal unto itself. I served it with a salad of wild greens anyway, and had fresh bread on hand along with cheddar cheese. Click on the title for a link to the recipe, which appeared in this week's NY Times.

The recipe calls for squash, but I decided to use a sweet potato instead. No complaints from the crowd were heard.

Also, in addition to the bouquet garni I added some turmeric and some cumin, just a smidgen for a little extra flavor.

The green cabbage could be replaced by savoy cabbage.

As for the beans, I used great northern white beans but pinto or kidney would work just as well.

What makes the soup is the addition of whole canned tomatoes simmered in garlic and rosemary. I used San Marzano tomatoes, which are considered by many chefs to be the best for making sauces. Many chefs are right! They are relatively expensive (4.99 for a 14-oz can), but worth every penny.






The farro is cooked separately and then added at the very end, giving the soup a little added heft.

If you live among carnivores, you could also add Italian sausage to this soup. But my carnivore was quite satisfied without it.

Martha Rose Shulman, who provided this recipe, is one of my favorite vegetarian cookbook authors. Many years ago, I asked a friend from Canada who was coming to stay with me in Paris to bring a couple of good vegetarian cookbooks along. I was tired of Moosewood and not finding anything to my liking in French. She introduced me to Shulman, who now edits the recipe column of the NY Times' Health section.


French vegetarian cookbooks, at least at the time, tended toward elaborate recipes that took ages to make. My favorite source of recipes in France was the fiches recettes in the back of every issue of Elle magazine. There were four recipes every week, presented on one page. Each individual recipe could be stored as a separate card (fiche). I must have collected hundreds of them over the years. Unfortunately, they mysteriously did not make into the container ship that brought my stuff across the ocean.

But that's okay because I just noticed two new recipes in the NY Times; one for provençal tomato and bean gratin and the other for strata with mushrooms and chard. Strata is like bread pudding, kind of.

Life on the farm

Munchkin's favorite morning ritual involves clawing her way to the couch, where I sit with my blanket and coffee, and snuggling in for a session of purring, drooling and kneading with her claws. They say that cats who are weaned too early do this their entire lives. Munchkin joined us when she was 6 to 8 weeks old, after her mother stopped feeding her. She is the most loving cat I have ever encountered; but nobody sees this except me, Walt, Pushkin and Neko, because Munchy heads for one of her many hiding places when other people come around.

When she wakes up, one of us carries her downstairs and feeds her. Pushkin follows on silent cat feet. If we sleep for too long after that, Munchkin manages with great difficulty to climb onto the sofa, from where she looks up and plaintively wails in the general direction of our loft.

During the day, she usually sleeps in a little igloo that I bought and put next to my desk.



Pushkin is our Protector. Squirrels constantly try and break into our house. But for Pushy we would be overrun. As for Neko, she just likes to hang.

Home fitness center

Neko, in the backseat on a recent Saturday, ready to roll. Photo credit: Walt Cougan.

It's that time of the year again. Most people love this time of year, or say they do. I am not one of them. The thing is, I like to get my semi-aerobic exercise in the great outdoors, preferably with my dog Neko. She never flakes out on me. In fact, her enthusiasm is downright touching. When I pick up her harness, the tags on it jingle ever so slightly. No matter where she is sleeping (she moves around during the day, like a living sun dial), she gets up to survey the scene. If she's upstairs, she refuses to come down unless I continue to jingle the harness while giving encouragement. She has me trained. After about 30 seconds of watching me make a fool of myself, she stretches and then descends the staircase with theatrical nonchalance. But then, as I start to put the harness on, she goes all wiggly and excited on me, and inevitably starts chewing on the harness I'm trying to clip in place. And rain or shine, Neko is ready to go. She keeps up a good pace and will walk as long as I will.

Then there's me, her co-owner. A reformed runner, who wishes she had never done that to herself but who is still absurdly proud to be able to say she ran only one marathon but in less than 3 hours and 40 minutes, she loves to walk but not when it is freezing cold. In Paris, this was not a problem. The architectural density made walking in winter possible; the lack of car and location in the center of the city of lights made it necessary. Seattle is different. Public transportation pretty much sucks; one needs a car to get anywhere; all walks within walking distance of our house expose me to the cruel elements.

But I promised Neko she would get her hour walk as long as the weather was not beyond horrible - meaning not too cold. So today she'll get her walk. But in the meantime, we had to take action. The combination of inclement weather and holiday force feeding can be devastating. I started doing my daily non-aerobic routine at home as soon as we moved to this wonderful house. I need floor space and the YMCA just doesn't cut it. The floor space at the Y is about 5 square feet in front of a mirror and, at certain times of the day, it is where everyone wants to stretch. A woman with a stick doing an hour-long routine is not appreciated. Actually, the other reason I started working out at home is that too many people asked me what I was doing and if I could teach them this intriguing fitness routine. No, the answer is no. I have devloped a highly idiosyncratic but really effective routine; but it is not aerobic.

To ensure a good aerobic element during the shitty days of winter, we decided to buy an elliptical machine and put it in the basement mother-in-law apartment. We found a really good one at a reasonable price that actually folds up. It is now installed in front of the flat-screen television we got for 300 bucks. That screaming deal left us with enough to buy a base for the iPod. All we need is a second black box from Comcast and I'll be able to watch TV5 Monde while I sweat on the elliptical machine. I was partial to the treadmill at the gym, but this elliptical is great.

But what about poor Neko? I can tell she understands what is going on. She hates the elliptical and gives it dirty looks. She lies on the sofa as I work out and sighs, like a long-suffering martyr. I feel bad, but not too bad. She will have her day in the sun, and many days just like it. She is about to go out for a walk. It isn't raining hard; the temperature has shot up since the weekend; I have no excuse. And Neko doesn't even know what that word means.

Click on the title for a link to a NYT blog about the benefits of walking with dogs as opposed to humans.

WEATHER UPDATE: We did not escape the rain. However, the infernal trio (rain, cold, wet) was avoided. It is actually quite warm. But very wet. The canine social scene was dead, though we did run into our old friend Deisel, an adorable black shi-tzu who is Neko's age, and Marcia, his owner.

Happy 80th Birthday, Jo Cougan

Jo Cougan, sitting at her usual table at Canlis, blows out her birthday candle

Happy 80th birthday to one of my favorite people on the planet, who just happens to be my mother-in-law.

Who loves Jo Cougan? Everybody!