Allons enfants de ma patrie.....

Yep, yesterday was Bastille Day. When I get back to the States, I'll post some kind of picture. Right now I'll just tell you that it was packed beyond belief, what with Johnny Hallyday playing and all. I missed Hallyday, somewhat to my disappointment. But I had to brave the crowds to see the fireworks. Seriously, there must have been close to a million people there. Folks were packed into places where I don't think they could see a thing. They didn't put the fireworks on the screens and they didn't even have that many screens. But I, canny regular that I am, I knew the one entrance to the basketball court, way at the back of the Champs de Mars. I was able to wedge myself into a spot where I could actually see most of the tower, from about the first platform up.

Oh, the fireworks were spectacular. I think they are the best I have ever seen there, but if you haven't seen them yourself, that won't mean much. Think the Y2K display, which was shown all over the world, with less splash but more sophistication. Very nice, very much worth braving the crowds.

Mirmande

We are just back from Mirmande, where we visited our friends Frank and Sharon Romero. Next month they will have a show at their local town exhibition space, Eglise Sainte Foy. Don't tell them, but I really like the show that is there now, featuring the painter Bernard Lefebvre. This is his web site: http://www.atelier515.fr/.

Velib

I have been trying to get excited about this Velib thing, the Paris rental bike system.

On paper it looks good. If you have a Navigo card, the rental is cheap: 1 euro a day, five for a week or, get this, 29 euros for the year. There are Velib stations everywhere. There are a fair number of dedicated bike routes.

Ah, then the reality. Many, many bikes are vandalized. The bikes that are left are often in dubious condition. Three speeds might really only be two. The brake might drag, just enough to truly suck. That kind of thing. You might rent a bike in one place and have no parking posts where you want to drop it off. Now multiply the "no post" scenario by a few; you could have quite a walk after your ride.

From what I have found, most of the available bikes are along commute routes. Imagine riding a bike along, say, Market Street in San Francisco, El Camino in Palo Alto, Lexington Avenue in Manhattan, Lincoln Boulevard in Santa Monica -- you get the idea. No matter how dedicated the bike route might be, how fun is that? When you go to places where it would be seriously wonderful to ride a bike for recreational reasons -- the Bois de Boulogne, the Champs de Mars -- well, look at that, hardly any bikes at all. I don't mean available bikes. I mean posts for the possibility of parking bikes. The system is just not set up for it.

The focus is really on supplementing the buses and the Metro, on bikes as plain old boring transportation. Bikes as recreation, as fitness equipment, nope, they really, honestly, don't care.

So, I don't know. The weather is good. I do need exercise and the Velib is cheaper than any gym. I'm working on liking the Velib. I'm just not quite there yet.

A good day in Paris

My French is lousy. My San Francisco French teacher, when she heard that I was learning French so I talk to folks here in Paris, just laughed. No way, she said, too many Parisians speak English.

She was so right. It has been four years now that we have had the apartment and my French is still rusty as all getout. The other day, when the upstairs neighbor's bathroom pipes burst, causing a waterfall in my apartment, I went up to talk to him about it. In French -- I looked up "leak" in my dictionary and everything -- but then it turned out that his English was fine, thanks. He's been translating for workmen and all ever since. It used to bother me. Now I think well, whatever.

As I say, the French is bad. After four years, I'm okay with that. I have learned that being okay with that is really the best strategy. Actual verbiage is not all it's cracked up to be.

So there was the waterfall. That was the other day. Today I had to get some information from the guys at BHV. I couldn't figure out how to unscrew a light bulb from a fixture that I bought there. That sort of thing is embarrassing in any language, but there it was. So in I marched. I really tried to explain in French, but then the sales guy took over and explained the whole thing, step by step, in English. So okay, I haven't tried it yet, but I will. We wound up with my thanking him, him apologizing for his English and me for my French. Off I went.

Then it was lunch time. I was at Lavinia, this truly great wine store on the Boulevard Madeleine. They have a terrific restaurant which sells wine at the store price -- if you buy the bottle. If you buy just a glass, hold onto your wallet. It doesn't take very complicated math to figure out that if you want more than one glass, you buy the bottle.

The guy next to me did just that. He was one course ahead of me, so when he paid and left, he left me the rest of his bottle. After all, it was what I had ordered a glass of anyway. I was pleased. That was nice. I could only drink another glass or so, though, which left a good glass or more sitting there, in that bottle. It was time to go. I had no choice, I think, but to pass on the bottle to the man sitting a couple of seats down from me -- the one who was in the middle of his cheese course and had just asked for the wine list. The last I saw of him, he was smiling and topping up his glass.

Countdown

Well it's real, now.

So one day, out of the blue, Erin's French boyfriend dumped her. There, it's out. They are back together, and from all reports, now that he has wised up and realized what a treasure she is, they are good to go, but for a brief moment he was the SOB that dumped my sister.

What's a Machiavellian sister to do? I'll tell you what I did; I downsized him. I put on my best sympathetic voice and said oh, that jerk, well I tell you what, you come to Paris with me. He may be French, but he doesn't own France. You get over here and get your share.

She said yes. I was amazed. We put a plan together. The boyfriend came back and immediately started kibitzing, but I restrained myself. I mean for me, this guy is on probation, definitely Red Alert. But, after all, he not actually joining us. And to be fair, go boyfriend; he could have pulled some faux-romantic controlling behavior, like asking her to wait until he could go. After all, it would be "so much more romantic." So okay, I'll improve his status to Orange Alert.

As I write, she has left her little California Central Valley outpost, so she is committed to the trip, even though she is sitting in Dallas/Fort Worth Airport waiting for her connecting flight.

I have to straighten up this apartment. Very soon, I have a plane to meet.

Mapplethorpe

Robert Mapplethorpe said it: "With photography, you zero in; you put a lot of energy into short moments, and then you go on to the next thing." 

He's right. That's just what it's like. I'm no Mapplethorpe, on all kinds of levels, but it is a great feeling.

Paris: Last Eiffel Tower for Three Months!

If I were you and I read that last post, I'd be wondering what the Eiffel Tower looks like, all blue and covered with EU stars. Well, it looks like this.

We leave in the morning. We had a wonderful stay and a spectacular Christmas lunch.

When I return in April I hope to have a sister in tow. She'll keep me from nattering about jet lag and the state of the geraniums, when I should be out seeing the city. I haven't left for San Francisco, much less landed there, and already, I can't wait to come back.

Paris at Christmas

Sorry for the quality of the photo. Right now I'm just not able to edit the way I'd like. I had to include it, though.

This was one of my many Michael Moore moments. You remember, in Sicko, where he kept carrying on about the French government doing the laundry for new mothers? Little did he know: that was just the start.

I headed down to the Eiffel Tower to take some pictures. Just for the six months that France is in charge of the EU, they have added the EU stars and light it in blue. And with the twinkle lights, oh, irresistible. So I got my photos and headed back home, which means a walk down the length of the Champs de Mars. I found this at the end of it, right across from the Ecole Militaire, where it doesn't actually compete with the carousels that charge money.

Can you believe this? Free carousels at Christmas? It gets better. The next night I went to the Hotel de Ville, sadly without the camera. The building itself is lit up with twinkle lights. There are two free carousels, one a double-decker.

They have a skating rink out there, too. It's only 5 euros to rent skates and then to skate, apparently as long as you want. It was packed. There were a bunch of Arab kids out there. They were pretty good. I think they had their own skates. These were tough kids, no question, and spent a fair amount of time trying to use their skates to carve divots in the ice. But then a Japanese girl, clearly a beginner, kind of lost her balance right in front of them and it was clear that they were blocking her access to the rail. That broke it up. They parted for her, like the Red Sea for Moses, and got back to skating around with the rest of the folks.

If you're in Paris at Christmas, you have to take at least one walk down the Champs-Elysees. It was actually not as full as usual. Again, there were a lot of Arabs out there, this time older men meeting at Starbucks for coffee and families, clearly excited about the lights.

I wandered from the Rond Point down toward the Arc de Triomphe. Just as I was was about to reach the Metro, I heard the sounds of a major, Sarkozy-sized, police escort. They do them big here, no question. So, okay, I had to look, especially as folks were kind of lined up along the sidewalk, as if for a parade. It was big, all right, but there was kind of a dip where the car should be. Weird. I waited. The escort got closer and then I could see: right in the middle of the escort was Santa Claus in a sidecar -- okay, be that way, a guy in a Santa suit -- waving at the crowd. They took him down the middle of the Champs-Elysees, around the Etoile, and back down the street, lights, sirens and Santa all going like mad, all along the way.

I love this city.

Paris: Simon Rattle at the Theatre des Champs-Elysees

We went to this great concert last night, one of those things that would be a major event in San Francisco, but here is just another pleasant night out. It might not even get reviewed.

It was at a theater on the Avenue Montaigne, which is where all the designer stores are, very fancy, and the weather was nice and everything was decorated for Christmas. So instead of turning right to go to the bus stop, we turned left to walk past the Plaza Athenee Hotel and that Harry Winston's that got robbed a week or so ago and caught the bus up there. On the way home we rode past the Eiffel Tower and scored. Since it was on the hour, we got to see the 10 minutes of twinkle lights.

That's the way life is here. Tickets start at 5 euros. The bus is about 1 euro, included if you have a pass. The walk was free. Housing is expensive, but if you can handle that, life is reasonably priced and very, very good.

For us, Mumbai was a year ago

During that long break in the blog I was traveling; I just didn't feel the need to write anything about it.

One of the things we did was spend two weeks in India.We hated India, mainly because of the dirt, the pollution, the indifference to suffering that we saw in the Indians and the corruption. That's a long enough list, don't you think? By the time we got to Mumbai, we were happy to sink into our room at the Taj -- one of the few good rooms on the whole trip -- and left basically only when our guide dragged us out.

Looking back, I think I actually preferred Mumbai to the cities in northern India, where we spent most of our time. Up north, folks were often utterly destitute. They did backbreaking work and really had no hope. In Mumbai they were poor, all right, but there were also many small entrepreneurs. Among those I include the professional beggars, with their staked-out territories
and various props.

So you can imagine my shock when, yesterday evening, I turned on CNN to see the view from my hotel window, except that there were police all over the street and a blown-up taxi. They were taking a guy down the steps of my hotel, using a luggage cart to transport him to a car. My wing of the hotel was in flames.

When I was in India I was a target, all right, but they wanted my money, not my life. I would never have expected this. If anything I would have laughed at the idea, suggesting that the Indians were too disorganized to pull it off. I am truly sorry to have been proven wrong -- and sorry for the many Indians who make their livings from tourism. For years to come, they will pay the price for the acts of a few terrorists.

Rome: Baroque Monday

Monday Susan took us on a walk through many of the churches in this very neighborhood. Did I mention that we are staying at the edge of the Spanish Steps area? If you want to find us on Google Earth, we are just across the street from the church of San Andrea della Fratte.

If you are looking at Baroque Rome, the architecture runs in a continuum from Borromini at the most introverted and hermetic end to Bernini at the most extroverted and politically savvy. Who is the more talented? Artistically, I'd say Borromini was the more talented architect, Bernini the more talented overall, since he could also sculpt up a storm. To me, they needed each other to be their best. Bernini needed Borromini's technical expertise. Borromini needed Bernini's rainmaker capabilities.

It's a shame they didn't get along. We got a glimpse of what might have been in a church that Borromini renovated. It has the geometric discipline that characterized Borromini's work, combined with a couple of angels sculpted by Bernini; they were moved into the church after the two men had died. Bernini's work always gives you a psychological lift, but to see those two angels soar through that tightly angled space was all the more effective for the contrast, the element of surprise.

Similarly, there are two churches near one another, San Carlo alla Quattro Fontane by Borromini and --uh, well, you know -- by Bernini. They are both in very tight spaces. Borromini went first and worked out the good solution, to shape the nave as an oval. Bernini tacitly acknowledged the master by doing an oval, too. After that, it all changes. Borromini's oval is happy with its fate. It feels womblike. You can simply settle in and follow the curves, which have a meditative effect in the way they lead the eye around the room forever, if you can stay that long. Bernini's oval wants to burst out. It wants to be bigger than it is. The point of his room is the church service, the social interactions that take place there. Would you want to stay after the service? No, probably not for long.

Rome: Baroque Sunday

I have put off writing much about what we have actually seen in Rome. That is partly because I was tired at the end of each day and partly because I had not yet digested a pretty rich visual meal. Fragments and asides were about all I could manage. I think it's time to get started, though. Our last day is about to end. Our last visit, last meal out, last errand, last gelato, over. Well, maybe not the last gelato. But after a week of great weather, it's raining. All there is left to do, really, is put off packing as long as possible. Time to blog.

We bookended the week with a couple of dives into the deep end of Baroque Rome. Sunday Robert saw his first Borromini church, St. Ivo. We wandered over to the Piazza Navona for a coffee and a long look at the Bernini fountain, now undergoing restoration. Then we wandered through a lovely courtyard, past huge, impatient tour groups, to St. Ivo, only to find that the priest was having a bit of a fit of passive aggression. He was extending his service beyond even the most pessimistic estimate, rather pointedly Letting the Tourists Wait. We were just two, though, so we sneaked into the back, coughing up a little when the collection plate came around, so Robert could peek discreetly into his guidebook and then around the church. St. Ivo is pretty small. It barely held the 100 or so people that were crammed into it. He could see everything he needed to see without moving from our little hiding place in the back. After about 15 minutes, with the priest still droning on, we were able to take off, leaving the big groups to pace the courtyard.

St. Ivo is in bad shape. Wherever that collection money goes, it's not into building maintenance. Borromini is all about the geometry. His work does not take well to decrepitude. It was sad to see the paint look so worn, even peeling in some places. Fortunately Robert was able to see beyond that to the proportions, the play of forms and the symbolism in the decoration.

Rome: actually, you do need a guide

I have been to Rome. Robert has been here a few times. I have degrees that largely focused on the art and architecture of Rome. Robert is a walking encyclopedia on its military history. We are both more familiar than our doctors would like with its food and wine. So why did we hire a guide for three and a half days?

Well, as it turns out, sometimes you need a local. Our particular local is Susan Sanders, who is a partner in a little business called The Institute of Design and Culture in Rome (http://www.idcrome.org/). To our general knowledge of events, she adds specific dates, names, gossip. She knows how to navigate the town to make very specific, clear points about how Rome got to be the way it is.

For example, Robert and I have seen Caravaggios from Munich to Malta. We know his life story, pretty well. Now Susan may not be able to tell you all about the Caravaggios in Valletta, but in Rome, stand back and listen up. We found out where the major commissions came from, how they were phased, whether we were looking at the first or second version of a painting -- and exactly why a second version was necessary -- who the clients were and what they thought of the product and pretty much anything we thought to ask about.

Another thing I like about her is that she is very specific about her area of expertise and the structure of her business. For example she knows food, but she also knows folks who know it better. So she subbed out our market tour to a cookbook writer and our wine tasting to a woman who does nothing else.

These tours are pricey, no question, but remember, we are staying in an apartment. My guess is that what we have saved by renting an apartment, rather than a hotel room, pretty much covers the IDC Rome bill. When you figure that our little crash course in Rome has saved us years of discovering all this on our own, well, you could make the argument that Susan has added years to our lives. Sort of. And what kind of price can you put on that?

Rome

After 24 solid hours of travel, we landed in Rome. Blessedly, our ride was waiting for us, since we had no clue where our apartment was. Prostitutes, yes, right outside the airport, right on the street. So much for those sweet little Singapore women who try to look like someone's dream date. Shabby buildings, yes, everywhere, some of them almost new. Very third world, which I could have sworn we left in India.

Rome is different. It seems to require a certain amount of street savvy just to get through an ordinary day. We paid for our apartment and our guide in USD, sent to addresses in the USA. Our guide tells us she tries to avoid dealing with her Italian bank. She just never knows what is going to happen. Yesterday I bought a t-shirt, clearly priced at 10 euros, but the guy wanted 12 euros. When I pointed out the discrepancy, he just laughed it off and took the 10. Street lights and lane markings are suggestions, which are generally more or less accepted. Our guide joked about cars stopping for short skirts and from what I have seen that is not a bad strategy but really, what stops the cars are nuns. The city is rife with earnest demonstrators, complete, I just loved this, with props, videos and chairs for anyone who wanted to stick around. Most people just laugh and keep on going.

The city seems to be a weird mix of charm, elegance and beauty at one end of the spectrum and dirt, danger and dishonesty at the other. It seems you just have to walk into every situation to see what you get. So far, it's mostly good.

Singapore: China that works

I had never had a Singapore Sling at the Raffles Long Bar. Chinese friends spoke of Singapore as the Valhalla of Chinese life. I had to see this place.

It's good. It's affluent and clean. Changi Airport is my favorite in the world. The city is genuinely tolerant and multicultural. It has attractive, well-maintained buildings separated by huge green spaces. I couldn't live there; housing is very expensive and I'd get island fever within a year. I could see, though, that a person could be quite happy there.

We were there for an afternoon -- Sling Time -- and a day. We used the day to take a tour of the island. We got to visit all the different ethnic towns, which are there for cultural celebrations and for tourists. Nobody really thinks of Chinatown as where the Chinese actually have to live, for example. We got a general sense of how the town was laid out. We made a stop at the orchid section of the Botanic Garden, which is completely manicured. Among the gardeners was one headscarf-wearing young woman, so I guess even the Muslims are relatively tolerant. In the evening we went to a zoo that features noctural animals. I love that stuff.

Usually when we see prostitutes, they are basically streetwalkers. In Singapore, they look like nice young ladies. It's just that they are leaving the hotel at 7:30 a.m. in evening clothes, or at the bar with a euphoric man who clearly doesn't know them and is three times their age. In Singapore, drugs mean death, ill-advised sex, well, whatever, I guess.

Our guide mentioned that the cultural life in Singapore is improving. They have a new performance hall. Singers and all who are building their presence in Asia now make Singapore a routine stop. Maybe I could last 18 months, if I had a nice apartment and a pass for the Botanic Garden. But that's it.

Hong Kong! That's China!

Oh, I hate that ad. Besides, Hong Kong is only sort of China.

They have pots of money in HK, while China is really only well off compared to how it used to be. HK residents can travel freely; the Chinese can travel, but not freely. They can have demonstrations, while Chinese dissidents are locked up. They can watch CNN everywhere; in China you only get it at the hotels. They can buy a Herald Tribune; in China, no, not even at the hotels. And the food? The pollution? Don't get me started.

When China took over Hong Kong, our friends there had escape plans. Now they are more or less turning Chinese. I was surprised at the depth and ferocity of their defense of the country. Really, it was along the lines of Democracy is Overrated, that kind of thing. The friends are doing okay, though I now think of them as Robert's friends. They don't have to live with the rules imposed on the mainland Chinese, so they don't consider them relevant. It's like, if they personally aren't drinking the melamine, it isn't there.

And our Chinese friends who do still have escape plans? They live in Shanghai.

China for a week

Well, Andreas, my apparently sole reader, it's great to hear from you. Great to be rid of that other guy, who knows who he is, who used to read every word, and wrote every time to tell me how dull it was. Yikes, buddy, just tune out already.

We are in Rome after a bit of a death march across Asia. It was pretty frustrating to be in Shanghai the day after the election and not be able to web surf. We got CNN, so we got the basic story, but I had gotten hooked on The Huffington Post and the rest. Funny thing, you can't read those in China. Wonder why. Another odd thing is that, at least in its Asia version, CNN seems to be pretty toothless, as does the BBC. Both channels are really News Lite. So I spent a week in a sort of news vacuum.

We just hunkered down for a couple of days in Shanghai, where Robert had his meeting. Shanghai is busy jettisoning its past for a fairly crass future. They are keeping a fringe of 19th century buildings along the Bund. Everything behind that is apparently being torn down to make room for very tall buildings. A similar thing is going on in the old French Concession, once the most charming section of the city. In general, there are a few old buildings, saved for restaurants, shopping and tourism. The rest is new and anonymous. The infrastructure to support all that building doesn't exist so, for example, traffic jams are more or less constant. My perception is that folks don't much like Shanghai any more.

At our next stop, Beijing, we spend just one full day. We took a walking tour of the hutongs, which I enjoyed. I have read lots of complaints about the tours and about the hutongs and Beijing, for that matter. I didn't love Beijing, but I was more favorably impressed than I expected to be. I am told that the preparations for the Olympics improved Beijing in many ways that will be permanent.

Beijing residents are fairly affluent. Our hotel was near a pedestrian shopping area. It was full of people, mostly Chinese, shopping and eating out, well-enough dressed, a little tubby. There was an English-language bookstore. The selection of books was light on current events -- none of Obama's books, for example -- but still, you could get a good basic grounding in Western civilization by reading what was available. Again, most of the shoppers were Chinese.

The hutongs are, as advertised, surely much quieter than they must have been. After all, people don't live their lives and conduct business on the street, as they once did. I think that's just a fact of life -- no need to slam the hutongs for that. The lady whose house we visited got paid for the visit, so I don't think she felt that we were invading her space -- since I had read this rant about the invasive tour groups, it was nice to see that. Our guide told us he doesn't even get those toothless BBC and CNN programs I found so annoying, which put my complaints into perspective.

In the afternoon we walked over to Tian'an Men Square to visit the Forbidden City. We were about the only non-Chinese in an area that was packed with Chinese. The actual sites were big, but pretty much stripped of character. I have little idea of how it would have felt to be in the Forbidden City when it was used by the Chinese emperors, much less idea than you get of how the French kings used Versailles, for example.

Okay, it's not a week. It's four days. More in the next post.

Anybody out there?

Well? Does anyone still bother with this blog? I sure don't.

We are about to take off again, though. This time we head to China, then Singapore, then Rome, then home to Paris.

If you have the slightest interest in hearing anything about it, please leave a comment. This is a test.

Too Much Travel!

We may be hitting tilt on the travel plans. Right now we're sitting here in lovely SF, but we're making plans for China, Singapore, Rome, Istanbul, France, Israel, Ireland and, well, more France. It's starting to feel like enough, already.

Photo Disaster

So, I was riding along in the car, on my way to the airport for the final leg of my journey, when the driver said, "There will be extra security today," because of the bombing in Madrid. Made sense to me; there had been extra security at Heathrow the last time I was there. So, when the check-in clerk looked at our carry-on luggage and said, "I don't think they'll let you take all that," I believed her, even though I had taken those same pieces on several flights in the last couple of months. Thus it was that I checked the bag that contained my camera.

I was a dupe, friends, a gullible fool, and I paid the price. The camera got through, and it even seems undamaged, but the photos? Well... The photo stick that was actually in the camera emerged unscathed. The other two, which contained no less than 1000 photos of who knows how many countries, including all my photos of the pyramids and the best parts of Petra? They are blank. They must have been zapped by some bleeping security device. And did I mention that everybody else I saw got through with plenty of carry-on luggage? I can't believe I listened to her.

I'm still in shock. The only record of all but the last couple of days of my trip are the photos that I providentially uploaded to the blog or to Picasa. Robert's photos seem okay, so there will be something to look at, but we deliberately try to take different pictures, so it's not like we're going to find duplicates or anything.

The lessons? Keep the memory sticks with you at all times; those puppies went through the regular scanners just fine. And, even though she does this stuff for a living, don't trust the check-in clerk.

Dubai

For some reason I didn't get any photos of the construction that is going on everywhere in Dubai. I liked the desert, but just couldn't get interested in indoor ski slope and all. We had lunch next to a huge aquarium at the Burj al-Arab and ran all over the Wild Wadi Water Park and all, but I really only liked the desert. So here it is.

Chiang Mai

We stayed at the Chedi. It's the best place right in town, no actual complaints, but I think there are better values around. Next time I think I'll try Yaang Come. It's half a block away and much lower key.

The hotel is near the Night Bazaar. To my mind, it's worth going to Chiang Mai just for that. There are stalls by the mile, selling every kind of cheap tat. Wonderful! You can also try some street food, I think of the more reliable variety. Toward the center of the chaos are a couple of buildings with permanent stalls. That's where I got a lovely cotton nightgown (no, sorry, no photos of me in that!) and some indigo and bark-dyed fabric pieces.

If I can find a place in some house or another for more furniture, I'm going back, and I intend to hit the antique shops. Well, probably they are repro shops, so maybe I'll ask Jimmy to take me to places where they are honest about that.

Jimmy? I'll tell you in a later post.

Bangkok

Well, Bangkok is a fine way to escape from China, but it's hardly serene. When you check into the Oriental, as we did, it's hard to leave the premises.

As the loyal reader knows, I was a sick puppy, so I went to see the hotel doctor. Ah, she fixed it, at least for a while. The things she prescribed made me sleepy, though, so I used that as an excuse to just stay in our great big split-level room and lounge. The occasional peek at the Chao Praya (I'm convinced it's Thai for "Big Muddy") was all the touring I wanted to do.

Robert inisisted that I move every once in a while. He rented a long boat and we were steered through some canals off the river. I recommend that; there are so few peaceful options for activities in Bangkok. We went to Jim Thompson and picked up a great red silk bedspread for the apartment. There were a couple of temples to see.

I actually volunteered for a morning cooking class. Across the river from the main hotel, the Oriental has a small complex of traditional-style buildings, one of which is used for cooking classes. We made some terrific food, much better than the stuff I've been getting in Berkeley Thai restaurants. It was good. Now I want a kaffir lime tree in the back yard.

Oriental, yes, for sure. Bangkok, I don't know, not when you can catch a puddle-jumper to Chiang Mai.

Hong Kong

Well, we had dinner with Don and Marguerite Hess at a terrific restaurant. We had lunch at Hutong, which was fabulous. The Mandarin Oriental has been renovated and looks stunning. And then there was the rest of Hong Kong.

Hong Kong is changing, not for the better. It is becoming more like the rest of China, which is to say more crowded, more polluted, more corrupt. They moved the mainland Star Ferry terminal to some bland-looking new docks, which I gather are more difficult for the pilots to use. Folks have protested like crazy, but no one listens. And why? Well, someone decided to do an infill project, so they could build a road and a couple of malls. No matter that the bay cannot shrink without some real environmental problems, including interference with the shipping lanes. No matter that much of the city's character comes from the mainland shoreline. There is money to be made, so every other consideration is ignored.

There is money to be made by maintaining and developing a city's character, and by making sure its major industries are supported, too, but maybe not so much of that money lines a few key pockets.

Well, we were there for only a few days. We don't need to go back.

Shanghai

Well, we're off on our wild, round-the-world adventure. It started off okay, actually, with Andy Roddick sitting just behind me and Jimmy Connors just behind him. They were going to Shanghai on business, too, the Tennis World Cup Masters Tournament. Yes, they are both nice guys, very polite to the flight attendants. Connors had a nice chat with Robert. I'm not surprised Roddick didn't do well, though, and it had nothing to do with him. The air in Shanghai is polluted beyond your wildest dreams. If I could hardly breathe, how could he or anyone play tennis?

We toured the plant of one of Robert's clients, DSG. They are making some sort of ultrathin, ultra-absorbant material that we will probably soon be seeing in every sort of diaper and fluid-absorbing medical supply. It was fascinating to see the manufacturing process and hear how DSG is using it. That night we went to dinner at a dumpling restaurant; the featured item was a sort of Shainghainese dim sum. It was terrific, much better than any other Shanghainese food I have tried. The next day the plant manager, David Lee, sent a car and English-speaking young woman to show me some of the major sights of Shanghai.

But first, I hit the spa. I will never do this in China again. The masseuse, who had worked on George Bush -- father and son -- well, I don't know, maybe she was getting revenge. I am only now beginning to recover from damage she did to the blood vessels at the base of my skull. Headaches, dizziness, owie.

So, after brain damage at the spa in the morning and lung damage all over town in the afternoon, I reconnected with Robert and his other clients for a truly grand feast at night. The tummy is fine, thanks, and I was pleased to see so many people whose company I enjoy.

With the main part of Robert's business over, we took a tour to Hangzhou. It is a lovely, for China, city on a lake, a very popular destination for Sunday outings. The day after that, we headed for Hong Kong.

Thierry visits San Francisco

Yes, here he is, Thierry Saint Germes, at Point Reyes. He's been spending all day, most days, at museums, studying their drawing collections and making a few drawings of his own. I took this on a day when I was able to get him outside for a while. I need to find out how he eats so much and stays so thin. Below is one of his drawings.

I'm Taking a Photo Workshop

I'm very excited about the photo workshop that I'm going to be taking. The National Geographic offers workshops taught by their photographers; they take place in a few locations, I think in the States, in Mexico and in Italy. The photo above is the one they use to advertise their workshop in Santa Fe, which is where I'm going.

I've been dreaming about taking one of their classes for years now, though I think it is good that I waited. Previously the workshops were open to folks with either a film or digital camera. My guess is that instruction was along the traditional lines of aesthetic quality, with technical training geared more toward the issues faced by folks using film. The new classes are for digital classes only and they promise to be intense.

We have been warned that classes will run from early morning until after dinner. My trusty Sony was going to be replaced, anyway, by a new camera; now it turns out that this is mandatory, because we must be able to shoot in RAW format, which the Sony doesn't do. Also each student must have his/her own laptop with photo editing software. This tells me we're going to learn a lot about photo editing.

With this news, Robert backed out. His 14-hour days are in the past, thank you. Also the cost of the additional equipment just made this too much of a time and money investment for him. I'm glad he worked that out now; it would be awful to gear up for the class and then drop out, or stay in and hate it. So, eew, I'm going to Santa Fe one week ahead of him, so I can take the class. Then he'll join me and we'll see some opera.

I have thoroughly enjoyed photographing our travels. My digital camera has made me feel comfortable taking many images; with film, I weighed the cost of each picture. Also it has allowed me to review my work on the same day that I take the photos which has, in turn, allowed me to improve my technique in all kinds of ways. I feel, though, that I have reached the end of what I can do on my own. I only wish I could take the class before our round-the-world trip, which I haven't told you about yet.

We Visit Vaux-le-Vicomte

Vaux-le-Vicomte is not quite as easy to get to as Versailles, but it is well worth the extra hassle. Not only are the building and grounds incredible, but it doesn't have anything like the crowds of Versailles.

To get there, you take the train from the Gare de Lyon to Melun. From there, on weekends in summer, you can catch a shuttle that runs every couple of hours between the station and the house. If you're like me, every couple of hours doesn't make it. You might want to rent a car or simply catch a cab at the station; the cost of the cab is about 15 euros each way.

We went on a weekday, which we loved. There weren't many other people there. It was easy to find a seat in the very decent cafeteria. We didn't have to wait for a golf cart, or for people to step out of the way for our photos. The taxis are convenient and they will call one to take you back to the station. It worked out very well.

My little camera can't convey to you the difference in scale between Vaux-le-Vicomte and Versailles. They are both pretty big, no question, more like luxury condos than a house. You have to go there to feel the difference. You can take in the whole of Vaux, all at one time, while you experience Versailles in sections. Inside, Vaux has the feel of a house, with owners and servants; Versailles has the furniture, the anterooms, etc. for the court life that Louis developed at such ruinous expense.

I realize there is nothing in my photos that will convince you. Go. Summer afternoons, on the second and last Saturdays of the month, they turn on the fountains. Also in the summer, on Fridays and Saturdays, they have candlelight evenings. They have golf carts anytime, which are definitely the way to see the gardens. And, unlike Versailles, you don't find yourself wishing you could take that golf cart inside, too.

How I Decided to Visit Vaux-le-Vicomte

Today we take the Wayback Machine to my college years, the early 1970's. I was at UC Santa Barbara, not quite Berkeley, in terms of political militancy, but we tried. At least some of us did. Others of us would show up for the occasional bank burning, but our hearts weren't in it. You see, we were art history majors.

Back then, male students at Santa Barbara wouldn't go near an upper-division art history class. The straight guys just wouldn't, even to pick up their girlfriends. The gay guys, I don't know. Maybe they were in theater or maybe they were all at Berkeley.

Anyway, to steer back in the general direction of the subject, for one quarter, twice a week, about fifty women, no men, would gather in a darkened room to watch and listen as Corey Walker showed us slides of 17th and 18th century French palaces, and give us all the court gossip. What a wonderful woman; she knew everything.

Vaux-le-Vicomte was the high point of the class. It had intrigue. As you surely know, Nicolas Fouquet was Louis XIV's Finance Minister. He had a rival, known as "le grand Colbert." Well, Fouquet decided he needed a really nice house, so he hired the best designers and contractors he could find and went to it. Colbert, surely a direct descendent of Iago, sat back and watched. Over time, within the hearing of the king, he'd ask questions, generally on the topic of how Fouquet managed to get the money to build such a place. Every once in a while he'd find a document, falsified, perhaps, but a document nonetheless. The king was thus primed for the housewarming.

On the big evening, the king went to the party and checked things out. The next morning Fouquet was arrested for embezzelment. He was more or less cleared, but Louis still kept him in jail until his death. Louis went on to hire Fouquet's entire crew to design and build Versailles.

So, as Professor Walker said, you have to go to Versailles, but you really should see Vaux-le-Vicomte. It's just as sumptuous, but the scale and the story are better. For an art history nut, that really does make all the difference.

I Got from Heathrow to SFO in One Piece. Amazing.

So, there I was in the hotel fitness center, firing up the elliptical machine, when I noticed some serious drama on the TV screen. You must know the story. A bunch of Brits had run off to al Qaeda training camps in Pakistan (tell me again, why is it that the US gives Pakistan all that money?) and had learned how to make bombs out of Gatorade and hair gel, I think, and were about to test out their new skills on nine or ten flights between Heathrow and the States. This includes, I gather, the United flight that connects London and Los Angeles, not on the day I was to fly and not my city any more, but still. They got far enough to have started filming the suicide notes when police swooped in and arrested some two dozen of them. At the same time, partly because a few guys escaped the net, they cancelled all the short-haul flights and pretty much took away the long-haul travellers' hand luggage.

Well, we were warned. That helped. Actually the TV, especially the BBC, helped a lot, as they made it pretty clear how we were to prepare for the security checks. The packing process was much easier than it would have been, had we been required to shift things around at the check-in desk. I think they went a bit overboard with their cautions -- the roads were not tied up and liquids were prohibited in carry-on, rather than checked, luggage (the maids almost got a very generous tip). By and large, though, they did well.

Robert was determined to be on the plane. I realized that if the plane flew, we'd have a terrible time trying to reschedule, plus there was the small matter of where we would stay, if we stayed (the hotel staff was happy to keep us, but not at the rate we had gotten through Expedia). So, we packed for the new regime. I put my wallet, passport and house keys into a little opaque shopping bag I had on hand. My purse and everything else went into my bags to be checked. We left the hotel about half an hour before we ordinarily would have.

As I say, the roads were clear -- everyone else was avoiding Heathrow completely. "Don't come to the airport unless it is absolutely necessary" was interpreted in the strictest possible way by many, so the airport wasn't even as crowded as I would have expected. The Red Carpet Room was fully stocked with goodies. People looked a little wary, but not too concerned.

About a third of our overbooked flight must have decided their trip was what was to be absolutely necessary and didn't fly. There may have been another kind of self-selection, too. When they checked us in, they took our boarding passes to check against a list or to create a list or something. I noticed that every pass I saw was gold, the "frequent flyer" color (normal ones are blue). It's an insight into how bad air travel has gotten, I guess; even terrorists are just one more thing, a little worse than cramped seats and bad food, but not enough to keep us away. First class was completely empty; the staff used it as a staging area and rec room, settling into those cushy flat beds themselves and watching all the movies. Somehow I don't buy the story that the first class passengers, every last one, spontaneously decided to stay home. I think it is more likely that Security wanted a buffer zone between the pilots and the passengers. Anyway, as I say, about a third of business and economy was empty, too. Once we got into the air and yes, past Lockerbie, everybody settled into a very civilized flight.

It was a mess, all right, but it was handled very efficiently. Now that I'm safely home, plowing through the mail, it doesn't have anything like the miserable feel of, say, being stuck in Munich, as I was after 9/11, delegating the euthanizing of my beloved and terribly ill 14-year-old dog because I had no clue when I could get home to be there myself. My compliments to the Heathrow staff (and eternal gratitude to Ian and Andreas). They were thorough without being officious. Their decisions were clearly communicated and, from what I could tell, the staff was consistent in carrying them out. Today may not be so good; today folks may be settling into the usual cranky business as usual. But yesterday, given the circumstances, was fine.

Finally: Visit to Le Corbusier's Villa Savoye

One of the great icons of modern architecture is the Villa Savoye, a summer home designed by Le Corbusier in the late '20's, now a French national monument. I saw it in the art history classes and saw it again in architecture school, always in those sad photos from the Henry Russell Hitchcock books -- the Germans left it in pretty decrepit shape after the war -- and always described in hushed, reverent tones. Machine For Living. Purity of Form. Visionary Clients. Great Architect.

Well, today my ever-indulgent husband and I went out to see it. From Paris it is actually not all that difficult to go there. A regular commuter train, the RER A line, takes you out to Poissy, which is a decent middle-class suburb with one of those ghastly ghost-town modern plazas at the station that I hope French urban planners have learned don't work. There you catch the 50 bus and in about ten minutes you're there. Altogether, door-to-door, it takes about an hour, one way.

The visit will probably take you considerably less than that. The house is a short walk from the bus stop ("Lycee Le Corbusier" coming, "Villa Savoye" going). It sits in a lovely wooded lawn, which serves to frame the house and keep at least one awful modern apartment building at bay.

I guess it's pretty cool, in a theoretical sort of way. Corbu had the Machine thing down, no question. That curve swooping between the pilotis (that's steel pipes, to you) and the house itself is just where I'd like to play around with my Lexus, and around and around and around. It's echoed by a curving stair inside that is a visual delight. The long, low horizontal windows chop off the tops, bottoms and sides of enough parts of the garden that even a complete aesthetic dolt can figure out that We're Framing Views Here. Those little pilotis raise the whole thing on stilts, I guess to reinforce the sculptural quality of the work. Oh, and the sink at the entry: machine, pure machine, even if the sink, to contemporary eyes, could use a little updating.

However, once the Machine aspect is out of the way, there is the whole Living thing. It appears to be less comfortable than, say the apartments that Gaudi designed at the Casa Mila at about the same time. The bathrooms and kitchen, for example, are positively primitive. I know Parisian women are famous for stepping out of broom closets looking ready for the runway. I know the French are famous for creating three-star meals armed only with a hot plate and a really good knife. But do they have to do it every time? And with no privacy -- there are windows everywhere and not a lot of doors. And did I say no space? I think there is actually more space outdoors, on the terraces, than inside. And no heating? There are a couple of afterthought-type radiators and a little bitty token fireplace. And no soft surfaces? Much of the furniture is built-in. You wouldn't want your kid to knock his head against those concrete tables, I'll tell you, and there's no way you could take a nap on that spiffy pony-hide chaise. No way, at least not for me.

So, to me, in the end, it's kind of an upscale version of that Walt Disney House of the Future. When I was little, it looked wondrous. By the time I was a teenager and they took it out, it just looked dated and shabby; the Playboy Pad actually seemed a whole lot more futuristic. It's a good museum piece, worth a visit if you're looking for something different or if, like me, you spent too much time looking at those slides to pass up a chance to see the real thing. It would be great if they could put the House of the Future next door.

Pigeon Mama Goes on Wild Paris Sex Spree

Wow. Sweet Mere Colombe seems to have become Shameless Hussy Colombe. Can't tell by appearances, that's for sure.

You remember a week or so a go, when I was gurgling about mysterious hatched eggs in my planter, with no babies in sight? And the sweet little dove in the adjacent planter that was sitting on a new batch of eggs? And then the little guys hatched and they were Just So Cute?

The little guys are not more than a couple of days old -- seem to be doing fine, by the way -- and they have been kicked out from under Mama by, yes, two new eggs. Unbelieveable. I can't believe I was so naive as to believe she was leaving them only to find food for the little guys. Hah! It was party party party and no babysitter at home, either. And all this time I've been enabling her, providing a safe haven and duping my own husband into thinking she was just visiting.

Who only knows what I have been doing to promote the Paris Pigeon Population Explosion. If the neighbors find out, they'll send me all their pigeon-poop-related cleaning bills, every last one. I can't deal with it. It's time to get out of town.

baby pigeons

Well, we're back from the Ile de Re and guess what, those eggs weren't hard boiled. They have hatched. All I've seen so far is a couple of broken eggs and some downy yellow feathers, but there is a little cheeping and clucking going on. It's all very domestic.

Robert has figured out that we have a permanent pigeon, but I don't think he's worked out the nest thing. I hope the barley I put out for them doesn't tip him off.

We leave Paris in a week. It will be fun to see how they grow during that time.

It's raining and much cooler now. I do still believe we're cooking ourselves, but not just yet.

to Ile de Re

We're going to the Ile de Re today. Our friends have not yet closed escrow on their place -- they are the sellers -- so it's sitting there waiting for us. Good thing, too. It's been so hot for so long that we have actually learned to sleep through the heat, the street lights, the street noise, everything.

Yesterday was about 90. It is predicted that today will get close to 100. We have a little dove, okay, pigeon, nesting in the geraniums. I think she must have hard-boiled those eggs by now, so she may be staying there just to get out of the sun. I left her a little bowl of water. It won't keep her hydrated for four days, but it's better than nothing.

Global warming and global dimming are real deals here; they don't debate it as they do in the States. I watched a weather guy in Ireland explain that the clouds on that day were dissipating vapor trails, so no one should expect any rain from them. Once you get the explanation, you can see it for yourself. We're cooking ourselves to death, kids, just like Maman on the balcony seems to have cooked those eggs.

Great Hairdresser in Paris

Well, I have found my Paris hairdresser.

The other day I made an appointment to see Carole, at Michel Cathou. At the appointed time I was there, but Carole was not. Now in France, as you may know, this can ruin a day -- no Carole, no haircut, and you can wait or you can walk out with the shaggy mop you walked in with. However, this was no ordinary corner of France; this was Michel Cathou.

I was all alone in the shop with a couple of guys even older than me, who were clearly worried. I had asked for a hairdresser who spoke English, and they did not. Fortunately my French is sufficent that they were able to explain the situation and to offer to do my hair themselves. And so they did. One washed, the other cut. Fast. I got one of the best haircuts of my life in 30 minutes flat. They were gracious, skilled, and boy were they efficient.

Michel Cathou is in the 8th, across from the street from the Crillon Hotel, between Metro stops Concorde and Madeleine. The street is relatively quiet for that part of town. It has a cafe and a pharmacy and is lined with those exquisite little shops that have stylish wearable clothes and jewelry for a fraction of designer prices. It has other shops that cost the earth, but that just makes the affordable stuff more fun. In other words, one could make this a destination for a pleasant morning or afternoon.

Michel Cathou
15, rue Boissy d'Anglas
01-47-42-15-77