You say der wassermelonensalat, I say.....

"A dog is "der Hund"; a woman is "die Frau"; a horse is "das Pferd"; now you put that dog in the genitive case, and is he the same dog he was before? No, sir; he is "des Hundes"; put him in the dative case and what is he? Why, he is "dem Hund." Now you snatch him into the accusative case and how is it with him? Why, he is "den Hunden." But suppose he happens to be twins and you have to pluralize him- what then? Why, they'll swat that twin dog around through the 4 cases until he'll think he's an entire international dog-show all in is own person. I don't like dogs, but I wouldn't treat a dog like that--I wouldn't even treat a borrowed dog that way. Well, it's just the same with a cat. They start her in at the nominative singular in good health and fair to look upon, and they sweat her through all the 4 cases and the 16 the's and when she limps out through the accusative plural you wouldn't recognize her for the same being. Yes, sir, once the German language gets hold of a cat, it's goodbye cat. That's about the amount of it. "

- Mark Twain's Notebook

The other day I decided to go out for breakfast with Arvedt. He was going to New York for a week, mostly to go to the Met and see Parsifal. You can do these things when you are an employee of the German state and have an obscene amount of holidays. Arvedt has about 3 months left of his posting in Vancouver... and approximately 4 months of leave to use up.
Anyway, we were enjoying a fruit salad, when Arvedt squinted his eyes, pointed to a piece of watermelon, and said (in his best Prussian school teacher voice) "What would you call this in German?" He does this periodically, to see if I am mastering the language of the master race. I loathe these sessions, because as Mark Twain has explained so elloquently, German is needlessly complex. It seems as though they have projected their notorious sexual fetishes upon every single word by giving them a gender.... Let me explain: like most languages, objects can be "masculine" or "feminine". But German ups the ante by adding a third case... words can also be "neuter". The word for child ,"das kind" , is a neuter word, and I thank the heavens for it. God knows the last thing the Germans need to do is sexualize children...

I often wonder, if words, like people, can have gender issues! Is there such a thing as a gender reassignment for words which do not feel comfortable in their curent gender? Do they pass through the neutered state while undergoing reclassification?

Anyway, here is my German lesson with Arvedt:

"What is this in German"
"Das Wassermelon" (how can a watermelon have a gender?)
"No, it is "die wassermelone" (apparently, a watermelon is female...)
"What if you made a salad out of watermelon?"
"Well, that would be die wassermelonesalat" (duh)
"No... it is der wassermeloneNsalat..... because salad is masculine, and in a compound word, you must use the gender of the second word. Also, you must pluralize wassermelone, because it is a salad made out of pieces of watermelon"

Okay, we're not playing this game again. Because I really don't care about the genders of melons.

I have a basket of berets that I do not wear

There is a woman in a black beret... She sits, writing with a fountain pen in a dark corner of a dark cafe, on the first day of spring. She wears black eyeliner. She drinks coffee in silence and peers out into the world, blinded by the light. I love her. It takes courage to wear black, much less a black beret, and pour out your thoughts on a sunny day in Vancouver. It is a sign of an inner life. I walk by in my new designer gym outfit. I want to mouth "I am so sorry" because I have a basket full of berets that I do not wear... I want her to know that we are kindred spirits.

There is a woman in a straw hat, waiting for the bus. She sits, smoothing her skirt. She is wearing white gloves and holding a hymn book. She is also blinded by the light, or so she thinks. I walk by with my latte, wearing shorts.. She purses her lips in disapproval. I want to say to her "I'm sorry". I like hymns too... I wear white gloves sometimes too. I have a whole basket of gloves I do not wear.. I want her to know that I am a nice person.

There is a man in a doorway in Paris. He is smoking a cigarette and looking at me with a frown. I smile and he closes the door. I am holding the Jewish newspaper. I bought it in a silent shop full of silent people in an old street. I read on the first page that a man was kidnapped and beaten to death. I am afraid. I hide the newspaper in my bag. I start to mouth the words "I'm sorry" but the words catch in my throat.

I have a basket of berets that I do not wear.

Exercise is not a substitute for a social life.

Today I came home from my singing lesson fully intending to go to yoga class, when I got a call from my friend Wade inviting me over for dinner. My gym bag was packed.... I was going to realign my chakras and sweat out the impurities accumulated over the generations. Then I thought that exercise is in no way a substitute for a social life....So I bought a charming bottle of Montepulciano and hopped on the bus. I mean, who wants to suffer through hours of trytopushmyarmthroughmyassna when one can sit in a deck chair with a perfectly mixed gin and tonic and homemade salsa? True, both activities stimulate a feeling of restfulness and psychic wellbeing, except that the latter doesn't cause one to sweat. When it comes to sport, I think that Winston Churchill said it best: "Sometimes I feel the urge to exercise, but then I lie down and the sensation passes."

The other day I was talking to my friend Randy... Randy is a voluptuous and extremely intelligent woman in her mid twenties with a cute boyfriend named Aristotle who buys tailored suits on trips to Shanghai. She decided that it would be wise to start work at 9 rather than 7 so that she could go jogging before work. When she told me this, I looked at her in absolute horror. She said she wanted to go jogging in the morning to give her energy throughout the day. I told her that working at the Passport Office was close enough to hell on earth as it was, and why did she need to add to her misery? Besides, jogging does not give you energy. Sleep does. And if she wanted to burn calories first thing, there was Aristotle. If I had two extra hours in the morning, I would give myself a refreshing cucumber astringent while listening to Debussy, or I would take myself out for breakfast. After, all, I find that there is nothing more luxurious or satisfying than wasting time in the morning. I try to fit in at least 3 sessions each week. Just think of it as pilates for the soul.


If after this regimen, you do feel the need to take exercise, I would suggest pretend you are a pioneer woman and make a dinner from scratch. Or, run to the corner store as if being pursued by the Mongol hordes. I find that nothing makes me run faster than fear. At the very least, be creative!

That being said, I will probably go to yoga tomorrow. As my instructor said, (after telling us that we must give of ourselves selflessly to achieve enlightenment) "who are we kidding? You're all here because you want a sixpack."

Consider The Strawberry - fallout

I just got an email from my kindred-spirit cousin Miriam. Miriam is an intern on the Food Network (bow down and worship..) What is more, she wears vintage clothes with great aplomb. I distinctly remember a fabulous ensemble with dark jeans, a red patent leather purse, and lots of gold lame (and hoop earrings). Miriam is fabulous, because we can talk about food and channel the personalities of our neurotic, but lovable Eastern European Jewish forebearers. She also appreciates the search for "reality" (and by this I am not talking about those reprehensible television programs that are a sign that we are in the midst of a steady decline. The Romans ate flamingo brains by the tonne, oblivious of the Visigoths at the gates. We watch shows like "Wife Swap") .... Here, for your reading pleasure, is an email from Miriam:

Benalah, You NEED to publish your blogs. My mother has been forwarding them to me and I can't get enough of them. I just read your thoughts on all things real and identify with every word. Recently in pastry class we were making the traditional strawberry shortcake ( pastry was not the highlight of my year as we used a lot of fake butter and whip topping instead of 35% cream and so on). Anyways, the strawberries looked outrageous... glorious nuggets of perfect red. I shouted this out to my pastry chef. She then said, "Yes Miriam they are beautiful but have you tasted them?"

I really miss you and can't wait until we can hug and shmooze. My life is fabulous and I am very busy. Just the way I like it. I have been interning at the Food Network, working with a food stylist there. Definitely an avenue I want to pursue. As well, I believe I will be working for George Brown College doing research for the Dean. Miriam on a computer...not so sure but the networking Ben the networking! As well, I have a wonderful boyfriend, Neil. Soooo cute. I am very lucky. So, when is Ben coming to Toronto? I want to hear more of your trip. Do you still have the same phone number? Are there any boys? I need to know these things. I love you so much Ben and really miss you.

All the best in the world,

Miriam

ps. Fresh ricotta cheese with a little brown sugar, marinated blueberries and strawberries in balsamic reduction, then you can reduce the balsamic juiciness from the berries again, over the cheese with shavings of white chocolate. Could you not die? Sometimes I make little butter tarts and stuff the ricotta filling in and spoon the marinated berry mixture over with a white chocolate spears on top.

pps you were the one who opened up my world to what real balsamic vinegar is. We need to talk olive oils next time.

_________

Consider the Strawberry

Strawberry - Fraise

"The Strawberry was valued in Roman Times for its theraputic properties. Ancient hunters ate it to sharpen their powers of perception. The alchemists of the Middle Agers considered it to be a panacea, and as late as the 18th century Fontenelle (who died at 100) attributed his longevity to his fondness for strawberries. He ate them every day when they were in season.... Strawberries should never be soaked, handled too much or exposed to heat, and should be eaten 1 hour after their preparation..."

-from the Larousse Gastronomique

Meeting interesting people in Vancouver is like shopping for candy in an organic food store: You probably won’t find anything. If the gods of sucralose and fraternity show their favour upon you and you DO manage to find something that looks remotely delectable, it will most likely be past its expiry date or full of ingredients with impeccable organic pedigrees that taste like crap. Don’t get me wrong, it will probably look fantastic.

Indeed, we are surrounded by things that look fantastic but have no taste. I have found that this maxim can be applied to a myriad of objects, from produce to people. Take the California strawberry for example … It is plump, it is red and shiny and looks inviting. You bite into it, expecting cascades of unctuous strawberry flavour, and you find it has the taste and texture of watermelon rind. Of course, you can buy these year round and eat them whenever you want. How convenient! How sad.

I do not eat of these strawberries. I wait until June and then I take a ferry to Granville Island and buy a flat of the local berries. And I eat little else for about a week. I like to make strawberries marinated in balsamic vinegar and cracked pepper. Or strawberries dipped in sugar, or chocolate. But mostly, I just eat them as is. They are misshapen. Some have mold or bugs on them, some are rotten. But the taste!

The wonderful thing about real strawberries is that each one tastes completely different.
One is tart, the other one is a little too sweet. The quest is to find the perfect berry that has the perfect balance of both. Sometimes this takes quite a long time, but can you think of a better way to spend an afternoon?

What we eat most of the time are cultivated strawberries. But the best strawberries are the tiny wild ones that you find in the forest. When I picked berries in the summer with my mother we would have pails and pails of blueberries, but I would find, at the most only five wild strawberries. These were hidden immediately (lest someone steal them from you) to be savoured in a secret moment, , or to be offered to another as the ultimate token of affection. They were never apparent to the naked eye, but had to be searched for painstakingly, because they liked to hide under the grass. Wild strawberries have never been successfully cultivated. They have tried to do so but have failed. The wild strawberry remains elusive, individual and rare. But taste one of them, and you no cultivated berry will ever fully satisfy you again.

So I implore you to eat not of the impostor strawberry, the one that has been grown in fake soil to satisfy an immediate hunger. The strawberry encased in plastic, uniform and pale.

It is better to look for something that rings true; perhaps more perishable, perhaps less to look at, but something that is real.

So let it be written, so let it be done!

I got a job! Hurrah!
I got a job as a singer! Hurrah!
With Vancouver Opera!
Next year, I will be traveling to hundreds of schools around BC singing the part of Prince Tamino in a condensed version of The Magic Flute!
I am so very excited. I couldn't tell anyone for a few days, I had to keep it "under wraps"... But of course, I told my parents. Here is an excerpt from my conversation with my father:

"Dad! I got a job!"
"You already have a job"
"I got a job as a singer! I'm going to be in the Vancouver opera Touring Ensemble next year!"
"Will you leave the Passport Office?"
"Probably"
"Oh no, you can't do that. That's a great job!"
"But I'm going to be living out a dream!"
"How much money will you make?"
"Oh, about the same as I make at the Passport Office."
"Is that gross, or net?"
"I don't know"
"Well, you should find out...Remember to keep all your expenses. We'll have to develop a tax strategy. By the way, why haven't I received your tax return."

(I have of course omitted the sections where dad tells me he's proud of me and that he loves me. They are not nearly as amusing. )

This sort of reminds me of the time my dad told his mother that he got a new job as a superintendent of schools:

"Ma! I got a new job!"
"So"
"I'm a superintendent!"
"How many buildings do you look after?"

Now please remember that my grandmother was a Polish-Jewish immigrant who smoked 3 packs of Du Marier king size a day... SO you should read the preceding conversation with this in mind.

Anyway, because I couldn't tell anyone about my news for a few days, I decided to rent the Ten Commandments to keep my mood up. I love this movie. It is tawdry, it is sensational, it has got everything, including one of the best lines in all of moviedom (Nefretiri: But Moses, I am Egypt). I remember watching it with my grandmother. She would cry. I remember watching it with my mother. She would laugh. I just ogle Yul Brynner. Incidentally, the setting for the Magic Flute is also in Egypt, and Tamino is a foreign prince. So maybe he is Moses? If you ask me my religion, I will tell you I am Jewish. But really, I believe in Cecil B De Mille.

And I am ready for my closeup!

In the words of Seti, so let it be written, so let it be done.

Just Offal

Note. The following entry is morose and self-pitying. I also wrote it when it had been raining for 10 day straight.

I hate Easter. It has nothing really to do with the supposed ressurection of Christ, although that kind of marked the beginning of the end for us Jews. I am just glad that the Christians don't physically harm us for killing their Lord any longer, as they used to. Progress! I content myself with the fact that Easter is named after a Western European pagan fertility festival. It would be like the Jews calling Passover "Spring Break" or "Frosh Week", or the Muslims calling Ramadan a crash diet. You get the idea. No, I hate this season because of a particular piece of music that never fails to put me in a funk. It is the Allegri Miserere. You have probably heard about it.. you know, the piece that was forbidden to be heard outside of St Peter's Basilica until the 14 year old Mozart copied it from memory after one hearing. It is traditionally sung at the Easter vigil before Good Friday. Therefore, it is associated with suffering. This is why it was featured in the movie version of E.M. Forrester's Maurice, which gives new meaning to the word "tortured". Consider it a Brokeback Mountain for the tweed-and-high-tea set. I remember watching this movie with my mother in grade 10, when she was developing material for the first ever Gay and Lesbian Literature course at the University of Winnipeg. I of course was not out (although I cannot imagine a more supportive environment... I mean, my mom encouraged me to grow a ponytail and take ballet. In response, I painted my room grey and started dressing like Perry Como) . I watched this movie in petrified silence, hoping to God that my face would not betray any sign of what I was really feeling... Of course, I went out immediately and bought this said piece of music... "Miserere meus domine.... Lord have mercy on me". Grade 10 was a particularly horrible year. I decided to join a show choir because I thought I was in love with a boy. I endured week after week of horrible rehearsals for things like "Disney dazzle" . The only thing that saved me was the Miserere. I would sit in my room and listen to it and read the Larousse Gastronomique...the Bible of French cooking.
One day I came across the entry for "heart":

Heart (coeur): A type of red offal from various animals, which must be bright red and firm when bought. Remove the hard fibres and any clots of blood, if necessary by soaking it in cold water. Heart is devoid of fatand inexpensive. It is considered to be an excellent dish despite its lack of gastronomic repute.

I was comforted, I was saved. The heart, after all, is not something that feels. It is something that is to be eaten. A heart is tough and must become bloodless. It is cheap and must be consumed. Yet, it is considered good. Remember that the mother in Oranges are not the only Fruit mistook a gastric ulcer for feelings of affection.

The heart is just offal.

Do you think I look Gay?

Halloween

Soula and Ben as Tokyo Rose, and Rudolf Nureyev, Respectively.
Below - Arvedt (my friend the German diplomat) as "Stalingrad".... Or was it the 1939 non-aggression pact?

When I was a child, I had very interesting Halloween outfits. One year I was Glinda, the good witch of the north. I had high heels and everything. It was grade 5. I remember walking down the hallway of Montrose elementary saying "one has to suffer to be beautiful." One year, I decided to be a ghost, and of course wore a sheet. My mom decided to up to up the ante and added washing instructions in permanent marker. Get it? Sheet? washing instructions? ( I think she was having a Magritte moment... Ceci n'est pas une phantome or something like that). I didn't either. For about 3 years running, I was a druid. Which reminds me of the time I was in grade seven and I got excited about my school's Spirit Week because I thought it would be a festival about comparative religions, complete with processions, ritual, and incense. How wrong I was. I think that my finest moment in elementary school was when I decided to take the label from the "Wandering Jew" plant and wear it for the day. I would go up to the teachers and say "do you know where I am supposed to go?"... Needless to say I thought it was hilarious. The teachers, not so much.

In other news, I just had a voice lesson. I was working on an aria from The Magic Flute where Prince Tamino sees a picture of a beautiful woman and instantly falls in love... I know. Anyway, here is a classic quote from my teacher, David: "Who are you when you sing this aria? You're a prince. You are not Ben Schnitzer. Those are two different people (but David, can't you see I'm of noble birth?). You have to sing it like a prince. You have to be in control. The conductor is not a prince! Fuck the conductor! If he's worth his salt he'll follow you. You have to sing it like you want to sing it."

"Next Year in Bamako" ossia "I don't want to hear, I don't want to know"

Well, gentle readers, I was supposed to be productive and clean my apartment today, but I am afraid I got off to a bad start and never did find my groove. Last night I went out to clubbing with Pablo, my new-age Mexican friend. Pablo is on a very restrictive diet right now because he has elevated levels of yeast in his system. He got his ears candled (after discovering that he was a number eleven in his numerology book and realizing that it was therefore important to cleanse before determining his life-path) and the woman who candled his ears said that he had a rash and had to give up everything but organic vegetables, herbal tea and brown rice. He even gave me his prized package of Serrano ham that he had shipped from Seattle, saying "ju know, it is so jummy, but I cannot eat it." He was solemn, almost like those mothers in war movies who pretend they are not hungry and give their children the last piece of bread. I was feeling mischievous so I proceeded to eat some chocolate in front of him. He reached out, and cried to the heavens like a man condemned, "ay, I want chocolate, ju are so mean." I told him he was being racist and he told me that I was being more racist. Only in Canada.

Anyway, since Pablo wasn't drinking alcohol ( is too much yist) , I was drinking for two, so I don't remember much other than a bizarre scene at a house party consisting of a room full of gay Mexican men watching a drunk Chilean girl named Felicia doing a mock striptease to Madonna's Sorry. As Pablo's roommate Edgar said "when you party with Mexicans, you never know what to expect!" Incidentally, the opening lyrics to that song are "I heard it all before, I heard it all before. I don't want to hear, I don't want to know".... I think that is an appropriate response to the current state of Madonna's music, and perhaps pop music in general. Maybe I should sing this song to my therapist? Sorry Doctor S, you know I love you. I mean, you know I, um, respect you?

After the excitement of the evening, I was glad that the clocks were being turned back so I could get an extra hour of sleep. After all, it is spring back, fall forward. Of course, I realized my mistake when I was woken up by landlord pounding on my door at noon demanding the rent. Ha ha. April fool's! No rent! Whoops. Note to dad: I am financially solvent and pay my bills online and am not a drunk. I merely play up the debauchery to make myself look more interesting and cutting edge as a writer. The fact of the matter is that I spent most of yesterday translating a Mozart aria and doing vocal exercises in mezza-voce (with closed vowels) that limit my reliance on the vocalis muscle and therefore allow me to sing more lyrically in my passagio. Oh, and I will send you my T4 slips this week. And thank-you for giving me 5 copies of The Wealthy Barber at various times during my adolescence and for helping me with math.

Speaking of dad, you should all know that I am gainfully employed in the public service of Canada because my dad went to high school with the head of a federal department (paging Justice Gomery!). One day in the elevator, my dad said "hey, my son needs a job" and his friend said, "sure thing, ear" (ear was my dad's nickname in highschool). But you know, my dad really did fulfill a mitzvah (Jewish good deed). After all, Maimonedes said that the highest level of charity is to find their son a stable job. Especially if that said son is going to choose something where the chances of supporting himself are questionable at best. Something like opera. Well, my dad, ever the practical one, said "you can do both! Just join the foreign service. Then you can get posted to Paris and sing on the side." I didn't have the heart to tell him that one's fist posting is usually to places like Mali. I can see it now... Ben Schnitzer, tenor, performs Puccini arias with Opera Bamako...

Well, I am off to bed. I just spent the last few hours in singing, among other things, the Apotheosis scene from Faust. It goes something like this: Marguerite gets knocked up, and wrought with guilt, kills her child. She is imprisoned, and invokes the angels to save her.
Then she dies. Some help. Anyway, the devil, Mephistopheles, pronounces her thus "judged", but then a chorus of unseen angels (that would be moi) cries that she has been saved and that Christ will come again and save us all. Does Gloria Steinem know about this?
Sometimes I think Pierre Boulez was right when he said that all opera houses should be blown up. I mean, really. Fortunately, the music is so sublimely beautiful that you forget about the plot. Unless of course, your set consists of a giant puppet and a noose (as ours does! Hooray for Conceptualism! The puppet represents children and control and the noose represents, like, death. And rope.).

I am looking particularly forward to staging this scene on Passover, as Vancouver Opera in their infinite wisdom has decided to schedule rehearsal for both nights. I also learned that in the spirit of sharing, the French decided to call Passover Paque Juif (Jewish Easter). Aww... a resurrection, just for me? Thanks! Except, its not really what I asked for. If the Jews ever needed another reason to continue leaving France, this would be it. So,

Next year in Bamako! Next year, may we all be free! Wait, they speak French there too.
But that is the result of colonialism, so it doesn't count.

Regardless, I am going straght to hell because of my evil writings! Unless of course I invoke the angels. But wait, does that mean I have to die? SO confusing.

Singing lesson

Today I had my first singing lesson in two months. In honour of this occasion, I have
made a collage of my impressions. I am reading Tai Pan by James Clavell and can't be disturbed, so you will have to just interpret my art.

You are your mother's son

Said Heather as we drove through the driving rain to chorus rehearsal. I nodded, gravely, in a way that spoke of a realization achieved through years of therapy and soul-searching. Why was it so difficult for me to realize this? After all, my mother has always been encouraging me to express my true self. Unfortunately, my true self has not always been the self that I thought I should (myself) have. And that is no one's fault in particular, but it is everyone's responsibility to ensure that this conflict doesn't happen to others, like me, who in some way may be different. And so, to all you parents and future parents and people who may never be parents but know parents or children, I have this to say. You will most likely know a child who may turn out to be different (and by different I mean GAY, just so there is no confusion out there). Perhaps they put on your wedding dress for fun, or make mourning stationary on foolscap, or mimic Julia Child. Perhaps they will do none of the above. But if they do, smile and nod and tell them you love them. They could get angry, and try to become the opposite of who they really are. But remember they are not angry at you. They are angry at a world that forces them to always pretend. You can choose to be a part of that world, or you can be brave, like my parents, and say no.

I know that I try to be brave. And yes, in that way, I am most certainly my mother's, and father's son!

Nothing to read.

First of all, let me apologize for my lack of skill when it comes to punctuation. You must know that I had an alternative education, and never did really learn about mundane things like grammar or sentence structure. Come to think of it, I don't think I learned long division either. However, I still have a watercolour of a weeping Statue of Liberty I created in grade 5 called Statue of Misery (I think it was in response to Free Trade or something), and I will never forget how thrilling it was to sing If I Had a Hammer at the Christmas concert (excuse me, winter conert) accompanied by glockenspiel and marimba. So, I asked my mother for help, as she is a professor of English, but she merely encouraged my "idiosyncrasy" as she is also an experimental poet and grammatical anarchist. I often wonder whether she equates the improper use of the semicolon with the coming of the Revolution, glorious and inevitable.

Today I had tea and scones with my dear friend and co-blogger Michael (his musings can be found at mildastonishment.blogspot.c0m). It is always tea AND scones with Michael. One is inconceivable without the other. My dear departed grandmother Inez thought the same thing, and I loved her for it. She was always scandalized (and rightly so) by the fact that we never had baked goods in the house. She would make do with saltines and strawberry jam, but it was a poor substitute, and we both knew it.

Anyway, back to Michael. I love getting together with Michael because he is every bit as pretentious and elitist as I am and we can indulge our proclivities to the full. Michael recently bought his boyfriend a calfskin evening wallet from Holt Renfrew. Everyone else I know would think this a horrible extravagance, but I thought it was perfectly reasonable. After all, one doesn't want the unsightly bump of a wallet to ruin the line of tuxedo pants when attending the opera. I also admire Michael because he has the gift of wearing the right colours. He has never made a faux-pas in this department. It is a rare gift, and I always tell him so. I am always amazed by his ability to look very put together, yet unstudied. This is the first lesson of style. Today Michael was wearing his brown houndstooth jacket from Harry Rosen (of course) , with a camel scarf, and a pale green sweater with light blue jeans. If Van Gogh's Sunflowers were an outfit, this would be it. Whenever I see clothes like this, I feel equal parts awe and envy, for while I love clothes, I am fickle and impulsive in my purchases. This is why I have 6 shell-pink shirts and lime green shoes that match my lime green jacket. You should note that I know these are not my colours, but I buy them anyway, and love them. To tell you the truth, my closet looks rather like an Easter basket rendered by Jackson Pollock, but I digress.

Michael is a writer, and he is in the process of moving out of his gorgeous, well apointed abode at a smart address in search of a room of his own. Or rather, rooms. As a writer, he reasoned, one's home must be workplace and sanctuary, therefore a bachelor apartment is out of the question as one must have a place to work, as well as a place to recover from it. For this reason, walls dividing spaces are a necessity and not an indulgence. I told him that I had once read that it is in a wall's very nature that it should crumble. He was impressed by my bon mot, and I told him (in between nibbles of warm cardamom-scented scone) that it was a quote from Confucius. I actually think I read it in a novel by John Le Carre. Regardless, I came across the quote in Berlin (where walls were once thought to be a necessity) so this redeems it. In any event, pedigree is less important if something is amusing.

Michael mentioned that he is thinking of starting a bookclub. But not just any bookclub. It would be called the Smart Boy's Bookclub, and we would get together and read Proust and eat brie, and be very smarmy. He asked me if I knew anyone else who would be interested in joinging, and I replied, quite honestly, that I did not. (Flashback to recent blind date: What do you do? I sing opera. Oh, is that like Phantom? Um... I don't feel so well. I think I have to leave). Michael seemed dejected. "Sometimes I think I should go out more often and meet interesting people in Vancouver. But then I wonder if I have already met all of them." I couldn't think of a reply. We drank our tea and stepped out into the grey, slighly misty Vancouver afternoon. The mountains were stunningly beautiful, and I felt for a moment that I was in a Group of Seven painting. And then I thought, who wants to stay inside and read Proust and cultivate a personality when you can look at the mountains and breathe the magnolia-scented air? Perhaps, I reasoned, a rich inner life is the consolation prize of those who cannot live in beautiful surroundings. Perhaps Michael and I are refugees from a place or time that was less beautiful, but more stimulating. Perhaps I am full of shit. But if I am, it is of the best quality.

While we were on the subject of books, I told Michael about a shop I had visited in Paris that sold only first editions. He said that the true lover of books should always seek these out, because they would be cherished. We then lamented the decline in the intrinsic value of books in western society (see post on Chapters, oh wait, there is none). I told him that we started to go to hell in a handbasket with the invention of the printing press. Not only did books become less precious, but the masses started to read.

Of course, we masses are grateful for places like Tanglewood Books, which was having a sale. So we perused. Michael mentioned that as he got older, he was beginning to enjoy reference books. My heart warmed, as I have always loved them. I think it was my way of being contrary. When I was a child, I used to go into my mother's study (remember she is a professor of English and grammatical creative) and ask for something to read. My mother's eyes would light up and she would unfurl the full panopoly of English literature, from Beowolf to Beckett. You like geography, she would say, why don't you read The Waves? You like history, why not Henry V? I was, at this point, about nine. I would exclaim "but mom, there's nothing to READ", and off I would go and devour a biography of Marie Antoinette, or my favourite, manuals on Etiquette. I still find them reaussuring, especially when one is confronted with tricky situations. For example, say you are in court mourning for an archduchess but are compelled to give a quiet supper before the theatre. How do you invite the guests? Simple. Use your informal mourning stationary (that is to say heavy vellum edged in black, sans monogram) and have your footman deliver them, but make sure he wears a plume of white or black in his hat. Colour would be an affront to the departed. I don't need to tell you that I tried to make my own mourning stationary after my grandmother died with india ink and foolscap. I thought it was appropriate to do so in order to invite Kathleen over to play Monopoly.

Even then, I knew that I was different. I tried to hide my liking for royalty and fine things, because even then, I knew it would mark me. However, in my eagerness to conceal, I revealed more than I thought. For example, I remember my mom's friend Anne asked me if I really did like the Royal Family. I replied, in horror, that of course I did not, and that my interest in them extended only to the Green Drawing Room at Windsor Castle as I found the amalgamation of the Baroque and Regency styles curiously effective.

Well, I will continue along this vein anon. I am off to rehearsal. We are preparing for Faust by Gounod. My favourite part is where we all turn our swords over to make the sign of the cross
so that the devil will go away, and sing with one accord C'est une croix qui de l'enfer nous garde (it is a cross which protects us from hell).

May my ancestors forgive me!

Slavery is Not Entertainment!

One of my favourite things to do in Vancouver is to go to Capers. Capers is sort of an organic theme park... a temple for the windbreaker-and-social-conscience set. Heaven knows I don't go there to buy the food. While grapes that were shipped to Canada on a catamaran so as not to disrupt the mating patterns of Oolichan is good in theory, I am reticent about paying 10 dollars for the privilege. No, I go to Capers merely for the purposes of observation, which seems to be my motivation for most things these days. At Capers, you can see so many things: Women in goretex with knitted brows, agonizing over which brand of organic amaranth cereal to feed young Tallulah or Rainforest; young urban professionals peppering the deli counter attendant with vital, probing questions like "did this cow go to therapy to deal with death related issues before it was killed?", or "I noticed that this Triple-Creme-l'Explorateur cheese from Normandy is made from animals who live in pens. Is there something you can do about this?".

My favourite thing to do at Capers is to look at the latest posting on the Customer Suggestions board. This really is a cornucopia of material for the satirist at heart. It is a place where all the naked-bike driving, green voting crazies-who-rolled-to-the-coast can vent frustration about their victuals, and about our world. "No more genetically modified turmeric!" proclaims one.
"I am offended by the price of organic goat butter"reads another. These are funny, and sometimes I laugh, but occasionally, I come across a really good one:

I would like to see more candida compliant dishes such as kamut, spelt pasta salads, Ezekiel wraps and amaranth quesadillas. Also stevia-sweetened treats would be great.

Thanks!

-Paloma

Dear Paloma

I agree wholeheartedly. I will continue to advocate for such cleanse-free and diet-restricted foods options from our regional merchandisers. -Sean

At least if you buy a cookie at Fauchon in Paris (or at the Maple Leaf bakery around the corner) there is the sense that you are doing something purely for your own gastronomic pleasure. When you buy a cookie at Capers, you are not only buying a cookie , you are purchasing a disproportionate amount of rhetoric... sort of a "think globally act locally" at the most microscopic level. It is as though they are trying to save the world, one cookie at a time. The combination of healthy organic ingredients doled out with a combination of Protestant missionary zeal and left-wing tree hugging myopia is what makes Vancouver unique. Needless to say, these cookies leave a bitter taste in the mouth, and not just beacuse they are made with brewers yeast and prune syrup.

Dear Paloma and Sean. Please get your heads out of your assholes and walk 8 blocks down to Hastings and Main. Ask the people standing there if they have heard of amaranth or kamut or stevia. Then give them all the money you were going to spend on cruelty free apricots, and don't ask any questions. Then, write a letter to the UN and ask why 1 billion people don't have running water. Or you can go to Capers in Lagos (or Kasheshewan) and write the following letter:

Dear Government/Large compaines-that-run-the-world:

Why don't we have clean running water? -Paloma

After I went to Capers, I attended a concert at the Vancouver Aquarium in honour of its 50th anniversary. The highlight of the concert was the premiere of a piece called Whales by local composer Leslie Uyeda, which was performed beside the beluga tank and incorporated whale sounds. Of course, as I was walking to the aquarium, I came across a man covered in balloon animals blowing in a loudspeaker. "How would you like to live in a bathtub? Slavery is not entertainment!" he yelled, with a megaphone, in my ear.

And then I started to think about Brigitte Bardot. Don't you think it is absurd that Brigitte Bardot is going ape-shit over seals in Canada while her own country is on the brink of rebellion due to social inequality and racial tension? Don't you think it is a bit bizarre that a man finds the fire in his soul to yell at people with megaphones about sea mammals (which are housed down the street so we can see them, and not think of whales as something distant that we don't need to think about) and not about the chronic lack of social housing?

Perhaps I don't get it. Perhaps buying organic grapes and getting offended by fish that live in tanks is the path to enligthenment and social change. I know that the earth is interconnected, and that we have to think about things like organic food, and animal rights. But, I also think that people often get involved in causes that don't get their hands dirty so they don't have to think about the issues outside their doorstep. Like the man who regularly shoots up drugs outside my apartment while I take out the garbage.

I think I should invite Brigitte Bardot and that protester for lunch. At Capers. We can fritter away the afternoon dining on organic figs and cruelty-free salmon, content in the fact that we are eating with a pure heart.

"In Terrace, it doesn't matter if you're rich or poor because you always have a million dollar view"

This is very true. Terrace is surrounded by mountains. This can be awe-inspiring or stifling, depending on how long you have been here. Today I went for a walk to Lakelse lake where the water was so clear you could see the reflections of the mountains in the water. What did I look at? Why my own reflection, of course. But then you always knew I was self absorbed. Today I went for a walk downtown and stumbled upon the Hidden Treasure Gift shop, "Your source for Christian gifts". Did you know that you can actually buy anointing oil? Or Jesusfish shaped popsicles? Fascinating. My favourite items (and yes, I bought some) were "Testamints - Reaching the world one piece at a time". Each mint has a little piece of scripture printed on it. Physically and spiritually refreshing! Right now I am sucking on a piece of John. Or is it Paul? (Ringo?) Today is also Welfare Wednesday, so it is a little bit busier downtown. Appropriately, the Skeena Mall loudspeakers are blaring La Boheme. Surreal.
This morning, I baked muffins using a dog-eared recipe from the Terrace Hospital Women's Auxiliary Cookbook. Stirring the batter as the sun came up over Terrace Mountain, I felt at peace, serene in the knowledge that I was creating something nourishing for my friends. Then I looked at the clock. 6:10 AM. Damn Jetlag. So then I made baking powder biscuits, and bacon and eggs. And then I just felt like an indentured servant. But we had a lovely breakfast, and to tell you the truth, if I had to decide between traveling through Europe or baking muffins while looking at the mountains, I don't know which I would choose (well, I could bake muffins in Switzerland, but I think you need a visa for that).

Here is a recipe for muffins that turned out quite nicely. Courtesy of the Terrace Hospital Women's auxiliary Cookbook (with a few "improvements" by yours truly):

1 egg
1/2 cup butter, melted
3/4 cup packed brown sugar
1 TCP vanilla
1 cup milk mixed with 1 tsp vinegar
2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
1 cup all purpose flour
1 cup bran
1 cup raisins, or blueberries.

Method:

Go on month-long European trip. Get severe jetlag as a result. Travel to remote Canadian town. Wake up at 4:45 with nothing to do. Decide it would be quaint to make muffins, even though you don't know where anything is in kitchen, much less light switch. Step on something warm. Realize it is cat. Oops.
Through perseverance and creativity, assemble ingredients and utensils needed to make muffins. Alternate between glancing out out of window to look at snow-capped mountains and apologizing to bruised cat:

Preheat oven to 375.

Whisk egg until frothy, add sugar, butter and vanilla. Stir to combine. Add soured milk and stir. Combine flour,
salt and baking powder. Add to wet ingredients in 1 addition and stir quickly. DO NOT OVERMIX. Add bran while you can still see white streaks (in the batter... not your mind). Finally, fold in blueberries or raisins. Fill buttered muffin tins 2/3 of the way and bake for 20 minutes. Please don't use those paper muffin cups. I hate them. Remove from oven, cool in pans for 10 minutes, and then continue cooling on rack, if they last that long.

Serve with cheddar cheese. Drink Red Rose tea. This is not the time for fancy caramel roibos or organic fair trade chai. Sit at old melmac table, listen to John Denver, watch sun rise and contemplate. Or not.
Serves 1-4 depending on appetites and how much of the batter you a) spilled on the floor, b) ate in the process.

Let's Learn Nisga'a!

No, you are not looking at a road sign in Klingon. These places are actual towns in Northern BC inhabited by the people of the Nisga'a Nation. Nisga'a, the language that they speak, is spoken by about 700 people. Incedentally, there are approximately 3500 graduate students on full scholarship trying to figure out how to pronounce it. What Nisga'a lacks in vowels, it makes up in character. Indeed, one has to be careful interspersing Nisga'a place names in normal conversation. See the following examples:

TJ: "Mom, I need the car. Darlene and I are going to Gitwinksihlkw"
Mom: "Well, I suppose that's okay. I mean you've been going out for a year. Just make sure you use protection."

Chanelle: "Laxgalt'sap!!!"
Bobby-Joe: "Chanelle, what did I tell you about enacting Alien 3 at the dinner table ."

See what I mean?

In Nisga'a language and culture, places are not named after people (as is common in European culture) , but rather the events that happened there. For example, in Nisga'a, Vetter Mountain is called T'ooyaksim wil at-aayiskwsim awa'am, mi ii sim k'ax nii-wiltkwhl lax ts'eets'ikgum', which means "place where the lava came from many years ago and killed our people". Interesting. So, if you were so inclined you could rename many things. For example, instead of saying
"I am going to the Crapper" (Mr. Crapper is the person who invented the modern flush toilet), you could say "I am going to the room-where-shit-periodically-hits-white-porcelain-bowl." If nothing else, this unconventional approach to the identification of every day things could lead to interesting conversation. Think of how exciting it would be to be at the forefront of language!

Northern BC Haiku

"These cookies are great!"
"Hey granny, what is in them?"
"-Melted rabbit fat!"

Mnum Mnum!

Journey to Cow Bay

Okay... First, I have to tell you that the Terrace Writer's Association is called "The Flaiming Pens", which of course fits in with my theory of a queer conspiracy in northern BC.... Of course, it should be remembered that the city of Terrace is one of the few municipalities that forbids a gay pride parade! Oh, and today the Skeena Mall loudspeakers are playing selections My Fair Lady (incedentally, a favourite musical among local white supremecists).
The other day, my friend and I decided to journey to Prince Rupert. The drive from Terrace to Prince Rupert is supposed to be one of the 10 most beautiful in the world, and I don't doubt it. The mountains were covered with snow, and the trees white with frost. We sat in silence and listened to selections from Wagner's ring cycle... truly the only music appropriate for such an epic landscape. Upon reaching "Rupert" as it is known to the locals, I noticed a large bovine shaped sign with the words "This Way to Cow Bay". I was intrigued. You should know that cows are my favourite animal and always have been. In fact, when I was 10, a freind of the family made me a rocking chair emblazoned with cow spots, and complete with a tail made of rope. In fact, I now have 3 garbage bags full of cow memorabilia sitting in a crawlspace in Winnipeg.

So, we headed down the road, and suddenly I noticed that everything was painted with cow spots. The signposts, the garbage cans, even the mailbox. But why? Well, apparently, in 1909 Prince Rupert did not have a dock, so when the local dairy farmer ordered some cows from down south, they had to swim to shore after being unloaded. The name stuck, and the locals had nothing else to do, so they painted everything Holstein.
We went to a place called the Cow Bay Café, ordered Cowpuccinos, and I had a "Cowpie" (actually a coconut chocolate cookie... but it was rather slimy and brown). Best of all, the café is covered with photos of cows that people have sent from around the world. Oh, and the mascot of the café is a holstein named "Mean Millie"!
See, she lives on! Even better, our server assumed that my friend Ellie and I were a couple, so I gave her a meaningful look and said "its our anniversary". Well, we got our coffee for free...they were SO touched. I don't feel bad at all. If people are going to make assumptions, the least I can do is lie to them and get free stuff! Mean Millie indeed.

"Something about the Mountain Air"

Ladies and Gentlemen, greetings from Terrace, BC. If you look on a map, you will find out that Terrace is halfway between Vancouver and the Yukon, both literally and figuratively. There are snow capped mountains, but you can still get organic produce at the supermarket. I am visiting a good friend of mine, and also because I had enough airmiles for a free flight, but only within BC. It is weird to think that 1 week ago I was in Berlin, drinking champagne at the intermission of the Berlin Philharmonic, but such are the wonders of jet travel. In order to get to Terrace you have to take a propeller driven Dash 8 that usually works, but is aparently tempremental. I arrived with all my limbs, and my sanity....

I thought it was funny that my friend lives on Queensway Road... did they rename it in my honour? Ha ha ha. Well, that's not so funny, but upon my arrival, she suggested we go for a walk at Fairy Island Park. Do you see a trend?
Then, she she suggested that we go for lunch, at this Greek restaurant called "The Golden Flame"... Okay... THEN, we passed the bike shop. It was called "OUTspoken". At this point, I was starting to wonder about a gay conspiracy in rural BC, but it gets better. On the way to the Golden Flame, we passed a bar called "Bear Country". I was beside myself with laughter. Here we are in this redneck town in the middle of nowhere, and everything has a queer name! Then we parked, and I look up to see a thrift store called "Closet Queen Consignment". I am not making this up. It was run by this little old lady, and I don't think she had any idea.... or did she? Maybe these places are really just fronts. Maybe I am in the centre of a thriving gay community, and I just don't know it... like the Provincetown of the north or something. I highly doubt it... I was at the Skeena mall, and they were blaring Phantom of the Opera from the loudspeakers... to keep people from loitering. If this really was a gay town, people would be camping out in designer snowsuits. I will get to the bottom of this (ha!) Tomorrow we are going to Prince Rupert... also known as "The City of Rainbows"....This is getting surreal!

Briefing for a Descent into Hell

Well, it is 3:38 in the morning and I am wide awake, which I suppose would be a good thing if I had to milk cows or undertake spy operations for CSIS or something. I don't know why this happened, the Jet lag. I mean, I did everything right! I stayed up until my bed time, I drank lots of fluids, but to no use. Alas. I have already watched infomercials about cellulite reduction pills (scary), a CD rom bible (double scary), as well as a program called "Its a New Day" (oh my God, where's the scotch) that consisted of Bible readings done by people with really white teeth. The glowing teeth of those who know they are truly saved. Ah, the glories of midnight North American TV. They'll fleece you and then prepare you for the coming of the Lord, all in about 37 minutes.

I am back in Vancouver. I hesitate to use the word home, because I do not feel that this is really my home. I have thought, and still think, that Vancouver is a little provincial outpost that happens to have really nice physical features. Like a beautiful woman with no brain. Like... like Charla. Who, might you ask, is Charla? Well, more about that later. But first I must tell you about my return trip.

I re-entered North America with a profound sense of loss. My final moments in the air where spent with my eyes squeezed shut, listening to the overture to the opera Hansel und Gretel (Wagner for kids) and clutching my plastic cup of cognac, trying to squeeze every last bit of European culture before I landed in Chicago. The music was sublime, the cognac smooth, the dulcet tones of the stewardess entreating us to travel with Lufthansa in perfectly modified "I-love-your-accent...where is it from?" English were soothing.
And then, THUD. America.

At Munich airport, I spent my last precious Euros on a chartreuse-green marzipan petit-four and double espresso, served on a silver tray. I sat in a quiet, subtly lit leather booth, looking at the snow, my mouth exploding with intense flavour. For about the same price in the bowels of Chicago-O'Hare, I bought a roastbeef sandwich the size of a dinner plate (with about as much flavour). They charged me extra for a slice of tomato, and I they asked for a tip, even though it was in a food court. So much for the land of the Free! I sat next to some middle aged pharmaceutical reps who, even though eating lunch with one another, constantly talked on their blackberries about "flooding the Chinese market", which to me sounded like the title of a Beijing opera. Gloom. On CNN, there was some story about an autistic kid who scored 2o points in 6 minutes at a basketball, and how it made George W Bush cry. Let me get this straight, Mr. President... You invaded Iraq, fucked it up so bad that there is now civil war. Citizens of your country die every day because of your idiotic foreign policy (not to mention the medieval state of your social programs), and THAT doesn't make you cry, but you cry about basketball? I mean, it warms the cockles of my heart when an autistic kid does good, but... Well, anything is possible. I mean, Hitler was a vegetarian. Something about the stench of death....I mean Auschwitz was fine, but bratwurst? That's murder.

Then I walked over to Starbucks, there being no double espresso on a silver tray available, and ordered a small coffee. A small coffee at starbucks is about 6 times the size of a large coffee in Europe. It also has 6 times less flavour. As I was drinking this swill, I thought of uses for Starbucks coffee, as it is clearly unfit for human consumption. Perhaps they could use it to antique marble busts.. you know like they did in the restoration of Windsor Castle after the fire. Or, perhaps they could send it to the Ukraine at Easter to dye eggs. I hear coffee enemas are popular too.

Of course, the latest thing that Starbucks that they're trying to push is "artistry". It is as if they are trying to convince us we are drinking a one-of-a-kind cup of gastrnomic patrimoine made with love and respect fot the ingredients (the recipe for which has been passed down through impoverished by cullinarily inspired grandmothers), when we are really drinking genetically modified crap with a shot of marketing and a dollop of globalization. As I paid for my coffee-enhanced-beverage-experience (the "small" coffee which would caffinate half of Innsbruck), I noticed a photo of a barista, earnestly drizzling chocolate on a latte, and there was this blurb about how he was "an artist" and how each latte to him was a work of art, and how he put his "artistry" in every cup. Artistry my ass! Please tell me what is esthetically or nutritionally sound about a "chocolate brownie frappucino" - 24 ounces of brownies, ice cream and espresso blended with ice and put in a cardboard cup emblazoned with a quote by Wynona Judd about her "journey" through life? (Incedentally, it has about 700 calories and 30 grams of fat, approximately the same as half a cup of butter. Oh, did I mention that obesity is a problem in the United States?) Artistry! If he is such an artist, why does Starbucks pay him 5 dollars an hour? Artistry! I have an idea. Why don't we put a skinny-half caf-no whip-grande-in-a-venti-cup latte in the Louvre right beside Delacroix's Liberty Leading the People and then ask bystanders which one they think is art, and which is garbage.

Which brings me to Charla.

As you can well imagne, my blood was boiling. Then I boarded my flight to Seattle and in the seat next to me was a very well turned out blonde woman who had no wrinkles, even when she smiled. She looked harmless enough, and we got to talking to one another, as people sometimes do when not plugged into their blackberries, ipods,cellphones or laptops. (or a combination of the above... or all of the above) . Her name was Charla. Innocently, I asked her what she did for a living. I was not prepared for the answer.

Charla, perky blonde friendly Charla, is a bonafide marketing rep who works at Starbucks HQ in Seattle. The Enemy. So close... I wanted to tell her how much I hated her company and all it stood for, but I held my tongue. I thought I could extract some choice information if I just pretended I was Barbara Frum (may her memory be for a blessing) on the Journal.. You know, poised, inquisitive, humane, great sweater. Here is a segment from our conversation:

"From the Forbidden City to Frobisher Bay, Starbucks is a company to be reckoned with. With its potent brew of coffee drinks and comeraderie, it offers the consumer something that is clearly irresistable. I am sitting here on United Airlines flight 3465 to Seattle with Charla, a marketing representitive with the company. Charla.... as someone on the inside, how do you account for Starbucks' powerful global presense?
"Um, like, well, I think people are REALLY passionate about, like, coffee education? You know?
Like, people go there to connect. We work ALL the time, and we need fuel. Coffee... its like.... like... a legal drug?"

-She was wildy gesticulating with manicured fingers, seemingly incapable of forming complete sentences. I couldn't decide whether it was enthusiasm, or stupidity. I decided on the latter.

"Indeed! I think what I want to know, indeed what I think all Canadians need to know, is if the ratification of Meech Lake accord will really bring an end to the constitutional crisis."

"huh"

Whoops... Okay, maybe a little bit less Barbara.

"Sorry. What I want to know is, what made you want to work for Starbucks?"

"Ohmigod. Well, each floor has, like 4 kitchens, and you can make yourself as many lattes as you want for free! I calculated it out, and it was like I gave myself a 2500 dollar raise!"

This woman spent 2500 a year on flavoured milk. Fuck

"I gained 10 pounds though. I am trying to lose it now. I drink lots of tea."

"It must be difficult being away from home so much. Do you travel for work a lot?"

"Tonnes. But you know, its great... Everywhere I go, there is like, a Starbucks, and it makes me feel at home. "

"Tell, me, what are the most exciting new markets that Starbucks is pursuing?"

"Ohmigod... India! There is so much going on. I mean, like a billion people! And they all drink milk... not like in China. But in China, Starbucks is, like HUGE. SO cool. And those asian babies are SO cute!"

My head was reeling, but there were only 20 minutes left in the flight so, I decided to stick it out, and be brave. I asked one more question. Before I could, Charla continued:

"You know, I think the best thing is that Starbucks is now supplying our troops in Iraq. I just feel great that we can give them something to make their lives a little easier"

You know, I never thought that I would long to be back in Germany, of all places, but at that moment, I really really did.

Postcard

My dear friend Michael put a photo of a postcard I sent him on his blog. Enjoy! Stay tuned tonight for the posting of all postings dealing with my return to Nordamerkia.

Munich

SO I was hungry, and asked the lady at the front desk where to go for dinner, and she said 'the Augustine Brewery'... it is only 15 minutes by foot... it is not touristy, and they have real Bavarian food. Well, they had real Bavarian SOMETHING. Trestle tables, hunting horns, This brewery has been in continual operation since 1328. Beer is big here. I was greeted by Klara, who was in her 40s, with an ample figure, and an even more ample decoletage, which was made even more prominent by her dirndle... She had frizzy 'red' hair, and wore rhinestones, and birkenstocks... with socks, and those big glasses that everyone wore in the 70s. I ordered bratwurst, with potato salad and sauerkraut, and was pleasantly supprised when a moderate portion appeared... But, bavarian food is very heavy. That is an understatement. It is stuff that could fell an ox. But it was delicious.. the bread alone is worthy of adoration. Rumor has it that german immigrants took bread with their own bread with them on the long journey... they didn't trust the bread in America. Anyway, blah blah blah, good food, you've heard all that before. So I was sitting there, eating my food, and wondering how I was getting so full so fast, when in walk two men. They are wearing lederhosen, and those funny hats with the feathers, and they are brandishing tubas. I almost lost it there, I mean COME ON! But then they came to my table, and serenaded me with, wait for it, 'This little light of mine' and 'devil in a blue dress'. What is more, they were accompanied heartily by the yelps of the rabid pomeranian at the next table.
Then I started to laugh hysterically, and then beer started to come out my nose, and then the Bavarians pointed and laughed at me. Then I danced with Klara. Then the tuba players played 'Proud Mary' and I ordered more beer, and thought, you know, the Germans really are crazy. THEN, the man at the bar started to sing. Except, he had survived throat cancer and had those special voice boxes where you have to press a button on your neck to talk. I think I should write a cantata for 2 tubas, pomeranian, and person-with-artificial-voicebox. You know, if I set the poetry of Margaret Atwood, I could apply for a Canada Council grant.

First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin

Friends, I am afraid this will be my last message from Europe, for now. I have decided I will return sooner than later. I am in Munich now overnight, and am yet undecided as to what to do. Perhaps I will stage a Putsch or dressup as a barmaid or visit Dachau. Munich has so much to offer! I must reiterate that Berlin is really quite fantastic. I don´t know where to begin, and it will probably take a few blogs to write down everything I have seen, but here´s a start. On Saturday morning, I decided to go to Synagogue, so I went to the Neue Synagogue, which was recently partially rebuilt. It used to be the largest religious building in Berlin, and was constructed as a tribute to the king who gave Jews full citizenship... They have only reconstructed part of it, and there is a small congregation that meets there... they are egalitarian orthodox, which means that they fallow a traditional service, but women can participate fully. The service was really great... Everyone was singing, and the cantor, apparently is the best in Germany. It was very weird to hear German in the context of a Jewish prayer service, though.. funnier still was hearing Hebrew with a German accent. Anyway, I started to talking to the woman next to me, and it turns out she is a lesbian naturopath, who is in the process of immigrating to VANCOUVER. I couldn´t believe it... Well, if there was ever a place for a Jewish lesbian German naturopath, Vancouver would be it. So, now I have a new friend in Berlin, and will gain a new friend in Vancouver in a few months! Then, I went to hear the Berlin Philharmonic perform Bach's St John Passion at the Philharmonie. The Philharmonie is completely unique. Basically, they constructed a space where that had the best accoustics possible, and sort of put a shell around it. The shape is very bizzare, but the sound is wonderful. I couldn't believe how good the concert was! Anyway, I am running out of time, but I just wanted to say that my roomates at the hostel and I decided to go to a disco club at 3 in the morning last night. You can do that on a Sunday in Berlin. Seriously, if you throw a stone, any time of day or night, it will hit a party. And GOOD parties at that. The club I went to last night was in the basement of a building that had been damaged during the war. They haven't really redevoloped it, but instead have turned it into a `canvas' of sorts for people who do graffiti art. They played everything from the Supremes to Vanilla Ice to Kraftwerk and Nina Hagen... Ecclectic, weird, and fun. Let me tell you, there is nothing quite like dancing to the song `I will survive' in Berlin. Amen to that! Stay tuned to stories about professional skateboarders, Prussian city planning, and the best pasta you will ever find, anywhere!

Berlin... what day is it again?

Well, it is 3 AM and I just got back to the hostel. Incedentally, this is the time when Berliners go out, as witnessed by the crowds of young people drinking beer at the Ostkreuz subway station. Berliners have no problem with drinking in public. At any hour of the day or night, you are likely to see Berliners from the ages of those you know are not allowed to drink yet, right up to those who you are sure cannot live without life support, drinking beer. No paper bags, no furtive swigging. Replace every starbucks cup in Vancouver with a beer bottle, and you get the idea. Actually, I think this is quite liberated. It just goes to show that the official religion of Berlin is hedonism, and has been since the time of Christopher Isherwood. Apparently, atheism, is a close second. Anyway, this evening I was sick of maps, so I decided to just leave my hostel and go for a walk with no guidebook or anything. You can do that at any time of day or night here. You will always find a place to get a beer, at the very least. You will probably find much more. So, I get on a tram, find this gay bar, and get to talking with the bartender. What does he do? He gives me 2 guidebooks and highlights maps showing where there are fun places to go. You just can't win. This is why I ended up at Ostkreuz at 2:30 AM, and spent time watching people drink. It was rather like those scenes in Das Boot, or Stalingrad where the soldiers get drunk the night before being shipped off.
A few hours earlier, I was in a completely different world (read West Berlin) where the subway stations are decorated with mosaics illustrating different composers in tastefull abstract forms (as opposed to East Berlin where you cannot read any of the signs because there is so much graffiti..) I attended a wonderful performance of Verdi's Un Ballo un Maschera. Anywhere else, the performance would be hailed as a once-in-a-lifetime event. I mean, the tenor even sounded GOOD! But Berliners are spoiled, and it got only a polite response. But let me tell you, it is great to see and hear good opera in a building actually designed for opera, as opposed to the barn-like acoustically vapid places they perform in in North America! Another thing about heavily subsidised theater is that they can hire armies of coatcheck people. There was literally a whole floor of coatcheck... and you don't have to pay. How civilized. Of course, at the Deutsche Oper, they also offer Veuve Cliquot by the glass at intermission. Of course I had some.. but I made the mistake of calling it 'sekt' which is the German word for sparkling wine.
The waiter was taken aback and pointed out in no uncertain terms that I was drinking CHAMPAGNE, and that if I wanted SEKT I could go downstares to the BASEMENT CANTEEN.Well I never. So, who was it that was telling me that Germany was a largely classless society? I also saw a man wearing a leather tuxedo. Only in Berlin...
This afternoon, I was having coffee and marzipan torte at a café in Friedrichstrasse, and observing people, of course. Everyone was sitting in silence, unsmiling, eating cake. The radio was playing these overwrought orchestrations of Bach, and I thought to myself, only in Germany. The Germans are not demonstrative, they do not usually talk with their hands, and they do not show much outward emotion. They do it all through their art, which is part of the reason Berlin has 3 opera companies, and why it has bequeathed some of the greatest achievement in art, literature and music to the world. This is my theory, anyway.
My day started with a jolt. I was on the subway, when a man in a blue tracksuit asked to see my ticket. Apparently, their their transit police are plainclothes, as to not arouse supicion. I thought I was going to be mugged! I didn't know I was supposed to validtate my ticket, and I almost got a fine, but I feigned ignorance.... So, if you are ever in Berlin, buy a 1 week ticket, but don't validtate it until you get caught. This way, you can make a ticket last for much longer, as it is only valid from the time you validate it, not the time you buy it.... well, I wouldn't reccommend it, really. Well, off to Bed.

Berlin day 3

Well, I decided to do something weird with my hair, because this is Berlin, and because next door there is this place called 'Hair Station' where they cut your hair for cheap, but you have to dry it and style it yourself. Incedentally, they are having a party tomorrow night.. complete with snacks and djs and hair cutting competitions.?! I was worried about telling my hairdresser what I wanted for fear he wouldn't understand, but he was from France, so we spoke French. Actually, he is from Brittany, so he was completely unintelligable, but my hair turned out really nicely. He lightened it just a tad, so now it matches my beard... Yes I have a beard! Anyway, from what I could understand, my hairdresser, Immanuel, lived and worked in Vegas illegally and hates the states. He also hates French politics, and thinks all Germans are incurable racists. He thinks the French are worse. He is engaged to, get this, a Lebanese catholic professional dancer who also translates the encyclicals of Pope Benedict into Arabic. If this is mind boggling to you, well it should be. But this is Berlin, and anything goes. On the weekends, they go snowboarding, go for brunch, dance to techno music on Sunday afternoons, and usualy go to the Staatsoper in the evening (Wagner is a favourite)...Afterward, Immanuel likes to go out to eat, and gaze into his girlfriend's eyes, but not talk, so that the music can just repeat in his head. Okay. I am apparently going to the party at Hairstation tomorrow.. that is if I don't go to Lucia di Lammermoor, Eugene Onegin or Un Ballo in Maschera....
After this, I decided to go to West Berlin and visit 'KaDeWe', Berlin's answer to Harrods. There is nothing quite like watching pencil thin blonde West Berlin matrons browse through the Chanel display... If you only have one more chance to eat in your life, go to the Food Emporium. I have never seen anything like it my life. The chocolate section alone is about an acre, and contains every kind of chocolate there is... well, only the good stuff. You can appreciate that I spent about 3 hours there. The salami counter (well more like Salami wing) was unbelievable. There were 6 kinds of Serrano ham. You cannot buy Serrano ham in Vancouver. There was also a champagne bar, a huge buffet, a caviar counter, a meat counter (where you could buy tongue and tripe and calf head, but also organic grain fed steak for like 159 EUROS a kilo). Also, a tea wing that I think was hermetically sealed to preserve the aroma!!!! They were cooking lobsters to order for old men and their mistresses when I left... to have a drink with Andre.. the crazy PhD student... Actually, I tried to call him first, but German payphones are the most annoying machines I have ever encountered. They are impossible to navigate, and it took me an hour to figure it out. They thank you for your call before you have finished dialling it! Of course, the instructions are in German or Turkish...
Andre grew up in East Berlin, and apparently KaDeWe was used as an example to show how bad capitalism was 'sure, they have nice things in KaDeWe, but they also have unemployment and inequality and homelessness.' Point taken.
Andre is doing his doctorate on the conditions of Mining Engineers in the Third Reich, and the extent to which their political affiliations affected their ability to get funding, and to what extent the government put pressure on them to join the Nazi party. He has been going through the state archives for about 2 years, and his research is mind boggling. As is the amount of Beer (and Jagermeister,and aquavit, and schnapps) he drinks, and I drink in his presence. I think you have to drink a lot to live here.... Did I already say that?

Party like its 1932.

Good morning. It is 11:30 AM and I just woke up.. I had quite the day yesterday. First I walked around the 'Mitte' which is the centre of East Berlin. It is very very funky, hip and trendy in a sort of urban industrial cyber kind of way. Actually, it reminds me a lot of the esthetic Vancouver is aspiring to. There are literally thousands of interesting shops, nightclubs and restaurants. But, they have managed to preserve the achitecture and feel of the city, so each building, while rather nondescript, is home to many hidden treasures.
I took a bus all the way from the very East to the very West, just to see the difference between the areas of the city. The suburbs of East Berlin might as well still be in Soviet times. It was very eery....concrete block buildings and not much else, and the streets had names like 'Michelangelostrasse' which is kind of ridiculous, considering the surroundings. West Berlin, in contrast, is very nice and built on a much more human scale... apparently the architects wanted to distance themselves from the monumentalism of the Nazi period. After this, I went to the Jewish museum, which is designed by Daniel Liebeskind. It was a fascinating place and I spent almost the entire day there. The museum deals with 2000 years of Jewish history in Germany, from Roman times to the Present day, and is a multimedia extravaganza. The architecture is very unique too, but the signs leave a lot to be desired, consequently I missed most of the monuments.... Perhaps the most interesting thing was an interview done with ordinary German people by German TV on the street in the 1950s. The interviewer would ask 'did you know that Jews were being killed' and they would always answer 'of course'... Well, one could infer a great deal from that. All the interviewees I have seen when interviewed by Western media deny ever knowing.
After that, I went on an orgy of ticket buying. Berlin is really the world's best place to see Classical music. In fact, I am going to 3 concerts at the Philharmonie in 2 days... Bach's St Matthew Passion and St John Passion, as well as the Cherubini Requiem (one of my favourite composers, and not often performed)... Tonight, I have the choice of seeing 3 operas. Aida, Macbeth or Xerxes (by Handel)... Berlin has 3 fully functioning opera companies. Amazing. Waning to avoid the hell that would be Karaoke at my youth hostel (It is stupid... people go to hostels and they hang out there, and they meet people from every country of the world, except the country they are visiting)....I decided to check out Berlin's famous nightlife... Berlin has something like 40,000 bars and clubs. First I went to a Gay bar. This is dfferent than a club, where thousands of people jostle in the darkness without speaking to one another. A gay BAR is a much more precious and rare thing... where people can sit and while the hours away and watch the Lesbians next door having a political meeting. It was very nice, and I then decided to go and check out a 'warm up' party for Brokeback Mountain, which is opening in Germany tomorrow, but on the way, I got very lost.
Apparently, this is the best way to meet Berliners, because they always offer to help you. I met a PhD student named André this way, and he had a theory about this: Germans cannot stand when things are out of order. Seeing someone who is lost is almost unbearable to them, and they feel the need to set things straight, because perhaps there is something wrong witht the map and they need to notify the proper authorities. He invited me for a beer, saying 'you are travelling alone in Berlin and not drinking beer? That is not right! So, we went to a bar and drank black beer, which is a Berlin specialty (Germany has over 30 kinds of Beer), and talked about a great many things, few of which I remember. He had a theory about why Germans are so punctual, which I found amusing. He has a Polish girlfriend, who was 10 minutes late once, and he was almost beside himself, because he had 10 unstructured minutes of his day, and of course he got to thinking:
Minute 1 - The state of the German economy
Minute 2 - The future of Germany within the context of a united Europe
Minute 3 - living under communism
Minute 4 - The fall of the Berlin wall
Minute 5 - World War 2
Minute 6 - The Holocaust
Minute 7 - Oh my God, I have a Polish Girlfriend... what will my parents do?
Minute 8 - Turkey joining the EU
Minute 9 - See minute 7
Minute 10 - See minute 7

He said that by the time he arrived, he was beside himself. Maybe he is just high strung, but it was very funny. One of his friends in university is Sudanese and a devout Muslim. I think we are going out for a beer on the weekend.... how crazy is that? Now I am going to the Checkpoint Charlie museum, and then to the Pergamon museum, arguably the best collection of Ancient Greek art in the world. Very cool. Berlin has possibly some of the most beautiful classical architecture in the world. Frederick the Great kind of went on a building rampage, which was a good thing. More soon.

Berlin, day 1

Well, I have just returned from a marathon 11 hour walking tour of Berlin. It was led by this British ex-diplomat who grew up in London during the blitz and then worked in Berlin when the wall came down, so you can imagine he had some very interesting things to say, the first of which was 'German is not a language, it is noise.' We started our tour at the Neue Synagogue, which is the largest synagogue in Europe, and is a museum now. It has been completey restored by the government in the last few years, and is quite beautiful. It is a museum now, as Berlin only has 14000 Jews, down from 162,000 before the war. The building was not burned down during kristalnacht (night of broken glass) because the chief of police in Berlin was not a Nazi and he told the rioters to disperse, which they did. Unfortunately it was bombed in the last few days of the war. It was quite eery to be walking down the same streets where Jews used to live, and where so much atrocity has happened. All through the old Jewish sections, there are hundreds of cobblestones with bronze plaques, each one listing the names and dates of people who perished in the concentration camps. Sometimes there are 10 in a single block. These markers are a constant reminder of what happened. It was quite shocking to see the amount of security around all remaining Jewish buildings, even those that have not been used since the war (such as the Jewish hospital and school). There are security cameras everywhere, metal barriers, and each building is guarded by a police guard with a machine gun. Even the cafe where I had tea had this kind of security. Berlin really is a city that is still coming to terms with the war and division of the city. There are commemoritve plaques and markers everywhere telling exactly what happenned, when and where. 70 to 80 percent of central Berlin was destroyed, and that which remains is still often badly damaged, especially in the East, where they did not have the money or the desire to rebuild... After the war, the allies estimated it would take 100 years to clear out all the rubble. It took 5, and the work was done by women, all by hand. The rebuilding that has taken place in the last 10 years is extraordinary. They have literally rebuilt the city from nothing, especially the centre of the city where the wall stood. For a city to build even a few of the buildings Berlin has in a decade would be remarkable. Berlin has built embassies, hotels, train stations, museums (there are 179 in the city), housing, etc. Most of the times these are prestegious projects, designed by world famous architects. The bathrooms at the historical museum (designed by IM Pei) are floor to ceiling marble. It is no wonder the city is broke. Often, they cover partially ruined buildings with fabric painted with what the building will look like once completed, and leave it like that until the money comes through.
One of the weirdest things today was standing on the Hitler bunker. There were 2. Once has been demolished, but one still exists, although it is flooded. You can still see the trap doors leading to it, which are located right in the middle of a housing development, right by a swing set.
I also went to the holocaust memorial, which is 3000 slabs of granite in all different shapes and sizes. They are supposed to represent a delapidated Jewish cemetary, and if you walk through it, you will probably get lost, which is the point.
Berlin and Germany are struggling right now. The city and the country are broke, and there is 17 percent unemployment in the city, and up to 30 percent unemployment in the Eastern part of the country. It was also interesting to know that only 35 percent of Berliners voted for Hitler, and that there were over 40 planned attempts on his life. Also, during the Weimar republic, Germany had the most liberal constitution in the world. Well... I am off to bed. More tomorrow.

Berlin... First Impressions

Well, I have been in Berlin for a total of only 2 hours so far, but I can safely say that I love it. First of all, my hostel is indescribably (sp?) nice... I just came from the all-you-can eat breakfast buffet where I had, among other things, insalata caprese, fresh pineapple, pasta salad with arugula, sun dried tomatoes and bocconcini, and possibly the best cup of coffee I have ever had, in a room that looked like a fashionable nightclub. Let me tell you.. this is a far cry from Paris... it was quite the trip sitting and watching the long limbed Germans and Scandinavians... confident, friendly, speaking perfect English, stylishly dressed, and content as only people raised on the milk of Western European socialism can be... What is more, when I got here, people actually asked if I needed help, or if I was lost, and I am about to go on a walking tour arranged by my hostel. In my 15 minute walk of the area, I found 2 organic markets, a turkish restaurant, a vietnamese night club called White Trash Takeout, a Russian deli, a comedy club, a jazz record shop, and about 5 kinds of public transportation. I am staying in the east part of Berlin, and they are still rebuilding after the war... There are cranes everywhere. Well, I know that this will be a fascinating place, and I will make sure to tell you all about it!

Au revoir Paris, not adieu.

Well, I am just about to leave on the overnight train for Berlin... my last day in Paris was ironically the first sunny day I have seen here.... Oh well. I had a perfectly lovely day, which I will go on to explain, but let's start with last night. I decided to check out the gay scene, so I went to what is called 'un thé dansant' in Montparnasse. It was like any other night at the club, but they really did serve tea, and cheese, and brownies. Nothing sustains a weary disco dancer like individually wrapped snack packs of emmenthal, or so the thinking goes. How bizarre. But, this was not like any other club. There was an amazing dj... and lights, and confetti, and go go dancers wearing plastic yellow berets and not much else. Picture one part the scenes at Babylon in Queer as Folk, one part Bastille day, and one part Cage aux Folles, and you've got it. Incedentally, I thought that it was the time to buy my first (and last) pack of smokes. While it was fun to stand there and smoke and flirt and what not, I have come to the conclusion that smoking is a disgusting habit, and it makes everything taste like shit. I had about half a pack left, and I thought, how do people really smoke 3 packs a day? I threw out the cigarettes, and I will probably never smoke again, but let me tell you, one must smoke in Paris at least once. Well, twice. Once while sitting at a café, and once while at a nightclub, and once while walking down the champs elysees. It is magnifique, and I am glad I did it. If nothing else, I have an appreciation of the frustration that smokers now feel about not being able to smoke and drink coffee in public.

I started off the day at a store that sells 18th century lithographs.. my favourite kind of art. I bought a few, as my souvenir of Paris, and promptly left them at the ticket counter at the Gare d'Est... this probably had something to do with the fact that I accidentally ordered a half litre of wine at lunch, when I meant to order a glass... (a delicious repast at a place appropriately named 'le depart'... good, honest simple French food: warm goat cheese on toast with a salad, beef braised with carrots, and tarte tatin... hot caramelized apple pie. The place was reccommended to me by the owner of the art store, who doesn't have a cell phone, and thought it was a good thing I didn't either). Fortunately, someone had turned them in and I was able to reclaim my precious cargo. But I was soused..Well, waste not, want not is what I say.

Then, I walked around in the sun, and thought that a good way to say goodbye to Paris was to buy perfume. Incedentally, there is this huge chain of perfume stores called Maisonnaud, and they pop up every block or so, even in the really sketchy parts of town. French people take perfume seriously, and you can smell only the faintest hint, un soupcon, un suggestion, as people walk by clutching their scarves. Very nice. I bought 'Envy' by Gucci... I think it is rather appropriate! I promise to be tasteful, and to tell people that I learned how to wear perfume tastefully while in Paris. As I was leaving, the woman asked how I was liking my time in France, and I said of course I was, and she said,
'but of course! What is not to like in France?' When one is half drunk and buying perfume on impulse, on a sunny afternoon in Paris, there really is no answer to this question.

Normal day

Friends, I broke down. I was so overwhelmed yesterday by all that is Paris, that I decided to go to a movie. An American movie, at that, not even dubbed. I saw Brokeback Mountain, for the third time... If anything, it was a good way to improve my French, although I couldn't really see the subtitles. Of course, in French, the movie is known as 'le Secret de Brokeback'....It now being March, Paris is swimming with tourists. I wondered where the Parisians go, but now I have discovered. They go to the movies on Saturday morning. They buy lattes at the adjacent Starbucks, and they watch Amecican movies. I know, depressing, isn't it. I almost thought I was at Tinseltown Mall in Vancouver, except of course the women were wearing fur coats and munching on croissants as they went into the latest Jim Carrey offering.
After this, I came back to my hostel for a nap and to read my new very heavy book about the French Revolution (which I am trying to read as fast as I can as not to carry it with me on my journey). Then, I went to a perfectly hideous rendition of the Mozart Requiem at l'Eglise St Eustache. I thought... wow! Full house, concert in a cathedral, can't go wrong. Well, you know it is a bad sign when members of the choir wave to their family in the audience as they walk in. Cathedral accoustics are very forgiving (lots of reverb) but there is no hiding bad tuning. Alas. #
Today admission to all the museums is free.... so you can imagine the lineups, but I am going to be breave and go to the Pompidou centre. Or, I will just go to a cafe and watch the people go by. Both sound equally appealing.

Hajj

Why am I calling this message 'Hajj'? Well, today I went to la Place Madeleine, home of all the greatest gourmet establishments in Paris. It was indeed a pilgrimage. But first, I visited the museum of erotic arts in Place Pigalle. I will leave this to your imagination... some things have to be seen, and not described. Place Pigalle is a veritable hive of carnal sin. It is interesting to know that a sex shop in Paris is often called a 'gadgeterie'.... ha! But now, back to the real subject of today's blog: I visited Fauchon, which has pride of place among foodie shops. Fauchon has those men in capes outside the door who hail cabs (what are they called again?) I went for High Tea. Yup... there are times to pinch pennies, and this wasn't one of them. The first thing one notices upon sitting down, is that they give you 4 kinds of sugar with which to sweeten your beverage of choice . White, light brown, dark brown, and a crystalized one that looks like frankincense, and is probably as dear (Oh, I chose the assam royale tea....while we're being pretentious, we might as well go whole hog)... Of course the tea arrives in a lovely limoges pot... but how long should it be steeped? The people of fauchon have thought of this, and provide you with a sterling silver hourglass so you know when the tealeaves are spent. You can then remove them to a bone china recieving dish. How convenient. As I was stirring my tea, gingerly, I might add, I noticed a man walk in wearing the most opulent fur coat I have seen. It was cut like a Sherlock Holmes Doublet. He was wearing wraparound shades and only stopped briefly for an espresso. I swear it was Yves St Laurent. Anyway, back to the food. You should know that the smoked salmon at Fauchon is organic, comes from Scotland, and is sliced to order with a silver knife by a man in a lab jacket. It also costs 160 Euros a kilo. But, dear reader, this is nothing. A poached langoustine at Fauchon will set you back easily 150 dollars. And then there are things like vintage champagne, and truffles.... easily the most costly foodstuff ever. Price listed for fresh truffles: 3800 euros a kilo. Well, I was not in the market for fresh truffles, but I was lucky enough to have a miniscule amount of this smoked salmon in a lovely sandwich. Real smoked salmon is not red, or orange, it is almost pale beige. And it is quite mild in flavour, and has a texture that is soft and unctuous. Heaven. Then come the desserts, pride of place of which are given to les macarrons de Paris. Definitely not Manaschewitz. These macaroons are delicately coloured, and flavoured in all sorts of ways... raspberry, chocolate, coffee, etc. Biting into one is like biting into a veritable pillow of flavour. You bite, and then there is air, and then there is the most intense taste....Cecile de Rothschild (member of the esteemed banking family and lover of Greta Garbo,also gastronomic goddess who never put salt and pepper on her table, as she employed the best chef in France) said that you can always judge a chef by his Macarons. Well, these were delicious. With this came the famous Madeleines which inspired Proust to such heights of literary glory. I viewed the ones I tasted as rather a sign of things to come, as I plan to eat them again often. They are buttery and rich, but light, as not to overwhelm the palette. They are tiny cakes baked in special shell shaped molds, and these were flavoured slightly with lemon. There were other desserts, too numerous to mention... but the most memorable was a chocolate anise mousse that tasted very naughty. Perhaps the best thing about this charming and infinitely enjoyable repast was that it came with a sprig of red currants on the branch. Red currants are very very rare in Canada. I have only tasted them once.. My grandmother grew them, and my brother and I ate our fill of them under a tree which my dad had planted. We all laughed a lot. Well, my grandmother is gone now, and these were a poignant reminder of the time I had spent with her. I removed the fruit with the tines of my silver fork as I had learned to do in the Larousse Gastronomique, and watched the women in sable coats saunter past... buying Beluga caviar as though they were merely purhasing a baguette.

After this, I attended Mass at Notre Dame, and then sat at a jazz bar overlooking the seine, drinking Chardonnay and planning for tomorrow. Until then!

update

Okay...I am sorry for the brevity of this message -- the keyboards here suck.... I will venture to find a good computer tomorrow.. in the meantime, here is a little update.... Today i went to Versailles. The best part of Versailles is that for a modest fee, you can ride around the manicured grounds on a little train that plays baroque music. Very amusing. I imagined I was Louis xiv and gave the royal wave to the sheep and japanese tourists... both very well represented in versailles, inceedentaly. I also said hi to the statues... Hey Charlamange, zup? Too bad you're illiterate and dead!The worst thing about Versailles (apart from the lineups and crowds of rabid British school chidren) is that it smells like pee. The hall of mirrors might as well be the men's room at a roller rink (hardwood floors and mirrors, check. screaming children, check. walls of gilded bronze? Well maybe in Dubai..) ... and let's not even talk about the Trianon (you know, the place Marie Antoinette used to go and dressup like a milkmaid to "get away from it all"). stinky! The most interesting thing that I learned about versailles, is that when it was built, the average life expectancy of a French person was 28. So, if I lived back then, right about now I would be sitting in a cafe and waiting for the end (hey..wait a minute...) But seriously..Versailles is, well, ghastly.....Perhaps the most overdone thing ever. No wonder they lost their heads. Afterward, I went to the Mcdonalds across the street. It was the least I could do to esscape the gilding and the mirrors and the grandiosity. But in reality, you could say I exchanged one stench for another! Let them eat fries!