It was the Breast of Times, it was the Wurst of Times

So, a short post to catch up on some things.

Saturday we met with Claire, who informed me that, alas, I could no longer exchange my 5-day museum pass for two 3-day passes (we were going to throw in a draft pick and cash to complete the deal) because the pass, which clearly says "NO EXCHANGES -- NO REFUNDS" is, in fact, only refundable/exchangeable for 48 hours after purchase, and only at the same place it was purchased. They were, apparently, supposed to tell me that when I bought it, but, "we forgot and it must be your fault."

Then, she helped us decode the wonderful information on movies in Pariscope, which suggested that for 9 euros you could see a movie, or for around 18.5 Euros you could by an unlimited pass good for a month of movies. Something about this failed the "sanity check" mode in my left brain; it turns out that it is, in fact, 18.5 Euros for a monthly pass. 18.5 Euros per month, billed monthly, FOR ONE YEAR. Not a bad deal, actually -- we will likely purchase the 3-movies for 20-Euros ticket instead.

On our way there I bought a tripod for the camera -- the photos inside the churches just aren't sharply focused enough --- I'm not able to stand perfectly still aiming overhead for 1 second or longer. Coming out of the FNAC, we grabbed a bite of lunch on the streets -- Kelli got her first "Double o'do" in Paris -- warmed, then then whole sandwich placed in a panini grill besides. Slathered with dijon mustard, she allowed as it was a whole lot better than many hot dogs she has had.

We had dinner last evening with Laura's Aunt Harriet -- a most interesting woman, and a lovely evening courtesy of Laura and Jason. That's her, in her kitchen, in the photo. She loves this (rented apartment) -- she is the very soul of patience. She waited for an apartment with this type of kitchen to come available, then moved in. She waited just over 20 years.

Harriet has lived in Paris since 1967 -- working as an instructor of higher mathematics at an American School in Paris. For those of you having trouble at home with the math, she's been an ex-pat in Paris for 38 years, which only makes her Brooklyn accent the more endearing. Wonderful dinner, wonderful conversation, and we got to see Jason and Laura's wedding video, professionally edited by "the brother in Chicago", Steven, who does that work for a living, and it showed. A delightful time was had by all -- even if we did discover, the hard way, that there is a Boulevard Vaugirard AND a Rue Vaugirard, and, rudely enough, they are in the same neighborhood, "all the better to screw with you, my pretty." We left early, arrived late, and came home even later -- so late that the busses no longer ran. On a whim, we tried a Metro stop, and it was open, but not on our line. We took it to the station that intersected with our line, arriving on the platform at 1:07 as the TV monitors said the final train was at 1:08.

At 1:16 the stationmaster came and chased us all off the platform, telling us that the 1:08 train had left the station at 1:06 -- something about "we have to make back the time for that damned train from Chartres that was an hour late", so we walked the rest of the way home. It was our first time walking the streets of Paris so late that they had even turned off the Eiffel Tower, but we still found our way home. It was mighty cold last evening -- according to AccuWeather, it "felt like" -12 C, which is about 10 degrees Fahrenheit.

To prepare for dinner with Harriet, we went to the wine store to find something interesting -- I selected a couple of wines and asked which might make a more welcome gift -- he said "Americans, English, or French?" -- I told him it was an American who had lived in Paris more than 35 years. "Hmm, those are pretty tough to pick for, but the Sirah from Cotes du Rhone that you picked out is a very interesting wine with a lot of character -- most French people have not heard of the vineyard, but it is an excellent choice." And, it turned out, it was, as we had roasted leg of lamb, with which the Syrah went superbly.

The wine store proprietor, by the way, Deborah, is "Renard" and I have his card here waiting for you. We seem to entertain him -- he would not let us out of the store after our serious $15 purchase without each of us getting a full glass of Laurent-Perrier Grand Siecle Champagne -- Laurent Perrier's best -- which was on sale for "the ridiculously cheap price of $80 a bottle -- well, ridiculously cheap for the best champagne of a great house, anyway." So we bought a $15 bottle of wine and tasted $20 worth of champagne. It was fabulouloulouloulous.

OK, here's the big announcement that none of you have been waiting for ----- if you are the praying sort, fire up. If you are the candle-lighting sort, do that -- whatever it is that you do to cause the world to tilt slightly in your favor on its axis. Our wonderful agent in New York has decided that Jason and I can't make the book proposal any better, and since she's stuck with us as the authors, she is sending it out to a half-dozen major publishing houses this week. Please, don't hope for us to get a bid. Hope for us to get several -- bidding wars make for better deals for authors (and, oddly enough, for agents, too). This is pins and needles time, and we need all the good karma we can rustle up -- and, look at what's in it for you! You get to spend $27.95 on a hardback book and NOT have to wait in line to have the author(s) autograph your copy without even deigning to look at you. That's right! If we get the deal, and you get the book, we will PERSONALLY come to your home, drink your wine or single malt Scotch (known over here as "Whiskey" -- as opposed to "Irish", "Bourbon", and "Rye"), steal your horses, kiss your women, eat your lunches and do what we were told in school to NEVER, EVER do! -- write in your books. You can say "we knew them when", and you even get to fill in the rest of the sentence. And, if we get a great deal, we will go back to Renard and buy a bottle of his bubbly.

In other news, since we dragged home after 2 AM, we slept in until nearly noon, went down to the Christmas market outside our building and found a treasure trove of old silver -- we purchased some items -- but, (here comes the punch line), the best part was, I BARGAINED for the price, and succeeded! Entirely in French, too! Fortunately, I brought along big britches on this trip.

After that, we went to a small museum for the afternoon -- the Fondation Henri Cartier-Bresson. Laura certainly knows who this man was, and what he did -- one of the most famous photographers of the 20th century. The gallery space was devoted to a showing of the works of Richard Brant, a German-born Englishman who began photography in 1929 and was one of the masters of the art of monochrome photos. At the end, we happened into a room where they were showing a BBC short (about 20 minutes) with Brant, which they repeated. We sat all the way through the second showing (this time with seats -- we stood in the back of the room for the first one), and saw his extraoridinary work with nudes from the early 1940's until the 1980's, much of it with camera lenses that, in order to allow him to get the ceilings of Victorian-era rooms into the photos, wound up distorting the photos in such a way that they came out looking almost like works by Picasso or Ingres. Quite a treat.

But wait, there's more!

After the second showing, the curator began pattering along in French, and someone asked about Cartier-Bresson, and, voila! he managed to find a German-produced documentary with Cartier-Bresson near the end of his life, about an hour in length, so even though there were almost no works of his displayed in the museum, we saw hundreds of images in this lengthy program.

Outside our building, the Rue Cler dead-ends into our street -- a "T" intersection, and our building is just about where the street would have been if it had been a regular intersection. As a result, there are two crosswalks outside our building, one on either side of Rue Cler.

There's only a stop light in front of the first one, however, so people who get stuck in the intersection after the light changes have the opportunity to not pay attention to the pedestrian lights, and to charge through the crosswalk when the light is green for pedestrians since they can't see a traffic light.

It's just like back home, where people routinely run yellow and red lights because they can.

I have seen my hero.

As we were making our way across the busy 4-lane Rue de la Motte-Picquet with the light green in our favor, a car from behind the crosswalk decided to just drive through the crosswalk, about a foot in front of this fellow.

He did something I've ached to do for years. It looked just like I've always imagined it would, too.

He reached out his left hand and slapped the windshield of the car right in front of the driver's eyes.

She stopped, and REALLY looked contrite, as he told her in a loud but not profane voice that she had a red light.

I don't know who you are, sir, but you are my hero. In fact, when a similar incident occurred the next day, only it was I who was about to get smacked, I just kept right on walking, while staring at the driver. She locked her brakes and stopped in time to allow the two elderly ladies coming from the opposite sidewalk to safely cross, and I merely wagged a finger at her one time.

It's a liberating feeling........

Came home, made some pasta sauce, boiled some new white fingerling potatoes, and baked a Mont d'Or du Vacherin, one of the great cheeses of our time.

The French revere this cheese, and it's not even French.

Made in Switzerland of cow's milk, it's a lot like a small, thick brie, only it's wrapped in birch bark, and then the entire thing is encased in a birchwood (thin strips) casing with a floor and cylindrical side. It has a top crust that is light tan, and they moosh down on the crust with a thumb at the store to decide which one is best to sell. They aren't cheap, but they are affordable at $15 a pound -- a half-pound of this cheese is a lot.

You can just break the crust and eat the cheese, crust and all, with a spoon -- it has the texture, when ripe and at room temp., of a heavy custard or very thick yoghurt.

But, there's a better way.

Now, we learned of this marvel on our last visit to Paris -- our last day, we were purchasing some Roquefort (artisan-made, the kind that's hard to find in California) and butter at a fine fromageur, and the fellow behind us in line said, in pretty darned good English, "you need to take home a Mont d'Or. Don't tell anyone what it is, but it's simply the best cheese in the world." He asked where we were from, we said San Francisco, and he said "my favorite city!. I live here, on the Ile-St. Louis about 5 days a month in my apartment, and the rest of the month in Frankfurt, but I've worked in San Francisco -- I'm an architect -- my last job there was designing the remodeling of Mayor Willie Brown's house." See, these things just happen to us.

So, this time, we bought the cheese and asked what's best to do with it. So, you wrap it, bottom and sides, in a collar of aluminum foil and place it in a 400 degree oven for 25 minutes, and it puffs up and the butterfat browns the top crust and it becomes the world's best fondue-in-wood. You spoon it, while still molten, over the boiled potatoes, and then you get the best bread you can find and spear chunks of it on forks and swirl and dip and swoon.

We split a single piece of tart tatin for dessert.

I could do this forever.