Of mice and cheese

Two rather unrelated incidents from the last lap of my Paris sojourn, the four days I spent there after the mosaic project, and after my travels to Germany and Colmar, France.

As I mentioned previously, there was a delightful restaurant attached to the hotel where I stayed. (El Dorado, I do recommend it if you like funky places.) The restaurant was next door to the hotel, with a bar that also served as the breakfast room at the other end of the day.(Where the wait person apologized to me for being out of bread; they only had croissants and pains au chocolat that day, poor me.)

The restaurant had a lovely courtyard, which is what made the place, for me. A courtyard which I would never have discovered if my room (#26) didn't face it. I ate there my second night, and then again on my fourth, and final, night in Paris. The meals were delicious, but it isn't the food that I wanted to write about. But rather, a little mouse, who scurried from under one table to under another, noticed at first by just me. A few minutes later, others also noticed, as the mouse continued to scurry around the courtyard. No one seemed bothered, everyone seemed amused, and I heard a woman comment "mignon." Which means cute. I agreed, since I am a lover of mice. Have always had a hard time with putting poison in our cabinets in Maine, even after they have ravaged our clothes, food, etc. And more than once, Carolina and I have rescued infant mice, tinier than the fingernail on your thumb, and once even brought one home, where it survived several days.

Well, like I say, no one seemed the least bit perturbed about the resident mouse, which I don't expect would be the same here at home. It certainly didn't prevent me from going back two days later. Sure enough, same mouse(I assume) same reaction from patrons. I don't know what, if anything, this says about the difference between French and American cultures. I just thought it was amusing, and that the mouse was mignon.

Second incident: at the Paris airport, heading back home, during the usual shoes off, everything in the bucket, walk thru the dectector routine, a guard pulled me over for an additional inspection. I didn't think anything of it. He searched my carry-on. Then, asked if there was anything that I shouldn't be carrying, such as a knife, perhaps a cheese knife? I immediately remembered the two cheese knives I had purchased, and readily fessed up. But how had he known to ask about a cheese knife? Was that just a typical item people carried on by mistake? I pawed thru my stuff, unearthed the two knives, and presented them to him. One - cute little cheese knife (mignon) with the handle the shape of a slice of holey swiss cheese, and running along it, a little mouse. It was truly innocuous, though, with the blade of a butter knife,, not at all sharp. The other, however...the second knife was meaner looking, with a serrated blade, and, cut out into the metal of the blade, the letters f-r-o-m-a-g-e. Need I translate for anyone? It was rather obvious that this was a cheese knife, and I assume it would have shown up quite clearly on the x-ray. That explained the "perhaps a cheese knife?" question. But why had he not just directly asked or told me. Oh, these customs people. He must have been scoping me out and making sure my intentions were honorable. There's one place that it seems American culture and French do not differ, in the approach of their customs inspections. I will say, though, that he was quite cordial, and, best of all, that he let me keep the knife. Perhaps that is a difference between the two cultures.

Of braised cucumbers and other things of significance

I have yet to thumb through my notepad and my mind to see what other significant aspects of my trip I want to document. In the meantime, braised cucumbers are on my mind!

If you haven't seen the movie Julie and Julia, you should. I wouldn't say it was perfect, but it was certainly enjoyable. How, after all, can one not enjoy a Meryl Streep performance? Actually, though, now that I think of it, I hated The Devil Wears Prada, not even her performance could entertain me. But in this, she is, as usual, amazing. And I will confess to loving Mamma Mia, too, think of me what you will.

I imaagine there are hundreds, maybe more, blogging about the movie, and about Julie, the blogger whose story is the counterpoint to Julia's. So add me to the list. I came across a bunch of them while trying to find Julia's recipe for braised cucumbers, which I couldn't find. Guess I would have to buy, or at least browse through, her famous cookbook. Which I may well do, at Borders. I certainly give them enough business to not feel guilty about that.

I had cooked braised cucumbers a day or two before seeing the movie, just looking for a way to deal with an overabundance of overripe cukes. And basically used a recipe from the Victory Garden cookbook, from another old TV cooking show produced by the Boston Public TV station, as was Julia's. I tweaked it a little bit, because I can never make a recipe exactly as described. (I think this says something about me, but I am not sure what.) I must say it was delicious, hot the first day, and maybe even better cold, the next.

So, at the movie, I was thrilled when one of the 500 plus of Julia's recipes that Julie prepares that gets some attention in the film is the one for braised cucumbers. The other thing beside Meryl that thrilled me was that so much of the action takes place in Paris, where I had been a mere weeek before.

Julie cooks every one of Julia's recipes in the course of a year, the basis of her blog and one of the two parallel stories of the movie. I have never cooked any, because I have always thought that Julia's recipes must be quite complicated. (From the movie, I think that perception is correct. ) ANd, I am not a particularly good cook. But some, including the cucumbers, I think must be quite simple, unlike, for example, boning a duck. So I am now quite curious about how simple or difficult her recipes actually are.

It also seems like a significant co-incidence that I cooked braised cucumbers right before seeing the movie. I know that it signifies something, but haven't a clue what.

Julie blogged about food, about Julia, and about herself and life. So here I am, blogging about Julie blogging about Julia, along, I am sure, with a significant number of others. And, for what it's worth, I understand that Julie's favorite recipe of Julia's was, dadadadadada...braised cucumbers.

In addition to making me think about cucumbers, Paris, and life, the movie has made Loring and me revive our once common habit, also no doubt shared with a significant number of others, of mimicing Julia at every opportunity, and particularly while cooking. Our four young adults, two guests, two quasi-permanent, look at us aghast and askance.

So here's a hearty "Bon Apetit!" Julia-style, to all. (In France, they really do say it at every meal, but not quite in Julia-like tones.)

Mosaic Complete!

Just realized I ought at least to post a photo of the finished project and the volunteers. I have tons of photos, and have posted about a hundred of them so far, but on my facebook page. I will perhaps post a few more here as well. I believe everyone in the project is a part of this photo, including Giselle, our French professional mosaicist who was an absolute pleasure to work with. She taught us so much, but also gave us a lot of latitude in deciding how to plan the design and how to choose the colors, shapes of the pieces, etc. I think we all had a wonderful time with the project. I hope the fact that I described some of the volunteers as determined to spend time sightseeing, etc, did not give you the idea that they were not committed to the project. I feel that everyone was indeed quite committed, and that we worked very well together as a team, even as we tried to work out some of the differences of opinion about design and technique along the way. I know I learned a lot, not only about working with mosaics, but also about working with people, and I am sure everyone else in the group would agree.

Also wanted to mention that there are two volunteers whose bios have not yet made it into this account; Hasmik from Armenia, and Lucille, one of the two group leaders, who is French. Because I was working on three different computers along the way, I have their info in another place. I will transcribe it soon, I promise. Hasmik and Lucille, please don't think I am ignoring or forgetting you!

And, in theory, all of our work will also be immortalized on the webpage of one of our sponsoring organizations, Freres des Hommes, on whose behalf I conducted the interviews.


Actually, looking back at my title for this entry, I realize that the mosaic is not complete. It remains for it to be mounted on the wall, where it will hopefully be both noticed and admired.

It was so gratifying, at the very end of this trip, to go back and see the garden from my previous project realized in the neighboring 18th arrondissmont. That gives me addditional hope that this mural will eventually, and hopefully in the near future, be put in its place and appreciated. I also realize, and forgive me if I have already mentioned this, - that the motivation for me to take part in this mosaic project is partly due to my brief experience with mosaics from the
previous project, where I took discarded mosaics from the Paris Mosquee and reworked them into steppingstones for the garden.

Also, I am pleased to have planted the seed of an idea for Seyhmous and Naima, from Compagnie Resonances and the garden project, and Giselle, of the mosaic project, to possibly collaborate on a future volunteer project. Anything is possible.

Would I, Naima asked me last week, participate if they did another project? WOULD I?!

Mo-Za-Eek!

One more Paris vignette: incident on the metro

This one incident keeps coming to mind, I am not sure why, so I wanted to get it down in writing before it fades from memory.

I don't always romanticize the metro, as I once did. Sometimes it's just a hot, tiring way to take me home or wherever I am going. But sometimes...

It was late at night, I don't remember which night, and I was heading back to my hotel. There were lots of people on the platform, so I knew the train was coming soon. The metro is prompt and efficient, one never waits long, although the wait is longer, of course, late in the evening.

I had noticed the voices behind me as I came down the corrider to the platform. Two women, in heavily accented English. It sounded as if they were arguing. I was curious but didn't want to be obvious or rude. As I came onto the platform I noticed a family of four, parents, two kids. They were American, of rather few I'd seen, surprisingly, in all of my time in the city. The older, a boy of perhaps 14, had tears running down his face. His father,sitting on the bench next to him, had his arm around the son. I was, again, curious.

The women I'd heard behind me emerged onto the platform. One was tall, thin, dirty blonde hair, nondescript. She could have been one of the young adults from my volunteer project. The other woman one could not have missed, in any setting. She was a bit plump, wearing a very lowcut top out of which one nipple peeked, and a very short skirt. Her hair was black, her eyes heavily made up. Her lips were bright red and the lipstick bled beyond her mouth. She looked like a caricature of a prostitute. Each of them was carrying a well-worn plastic shopping bag filled to the brim, although I actually didn't notice that until a bit later.

As the train pulled in, the family went toward the car on the left, the women to the car to the right, and I had to decide which way to go, which story to follow. I chose the women, and so never found out, if I indeed could have, why the teenage boy was crying.

On the train, I tried my best not to stare at the women, and especially not the one woman's chest. It was hard. We were all holding the same pole. The bland woman answered her phone. In English, which sounded Eastern European to me, she spoke and said, I have to take my friend home, she has a lot of bags to carry, she needs my help. That was when I noticed that each one had a worn plastic bag, like a homeless person would carry. Neither of the bags looked heavy. There wasn't any luggage or anything else they were carrying.

When she ended the phone conversation, she commented quietly to her friend, he always has to know where I am.

My mind went through possibilities. Prostitutes and a pimp? Eastern Europeans lured west? The two women seemed such an utter contrast to one another. That, I think, was what captured my attention more than anything else, and the fact that whatever their situation was, it didn't seem it could be good.

They left the train before me. In the end, of course, I knew little more about them than about the American family, about the crying boy. Probably, his situation was much more mundane than that of the women, who were only several years older than him. And maybe I had entirely overimagined their problems.

I'm not sure why, out of all my experiences travelling, I cannot get either of their situations out of my mind.

And back to Karlsruhe...

I spent only a couple of days in Karlsruhe with Mari and Falk. But, as in Loche with Marie and her family, we seemed to compact an awful lot into a small amount of time.

Like Christian and Dorthe in Koln, Mari and Falk work during the day. And so I was left alone, in their apartment, to relax and linger and enjoy my circumstances. I hope they didn't feel badly, because I truly enjoyed both the time on my own in their city as well as the delightful times with them.

Only one sad thing - Mari debunked one of my favorite stories, which I guess I will now no longer be able to tell. So I will tell it here now, perhaps for the last time. Her dad, Raul, was our adoption lawyer in Peru, who arranged both Max's and Carolina's adoptions. I have known Mari for 21 years. On the morning Raul was supposed to bring Max, then 12 days old, to us, he was about an hour late. We had been hanging out the window of our 10th floor apt. waiting for him, when he finally arrived at about 10am. Baby in arms, he made some joke about being early, ie. only an hour late, rather than 2-3 hours late, which is typically Peruvian time. I have recounted that story dozens, maybe hundreds of times. Now, in Karlsruhe, as we are reminiscing and discussing different concepts of time in Peru and Germany, Mari insists that her dad is extremely punctual, unlike most Peruvians, and must have been delayed by something unforseen. Now that I think of it, none of our friends with Peruvian children has mentioned a similar story about Raul. Mari explains that she is always telling her dad, with his dry sense of humor (very true) that other people may not realize he is joking. Also now that I think of it, Falk also has a rather dry sense of humor, perhaps part of what has attracted Mari to him? I will have to take this up with Raul. In the meantime, recounting all of this to my family at home, Max remarks that he has also often used the story to excuse himself for being late. But that is truly a Peruvian characteristic, irregardless of Raul's promptness or tardiness.

Well, anyhow, Karlsruhe was delightful, with and without my hosts. I went to a museum at the local palace, itself an impressive place. Only problem, Mari had described the climb to the tower as a small one, and I made the mistake of believing her! Up and up I went. The view was delightful, though. In the museum itself was a wonderful exhibit of things Art Nouveau, with which I was entirely entranced. I spent most of my time there, and regretfully did not get to see much of the rest of the museum. What did particularly impress me, though, in my brief visits to the exhibits, was the interractive nature of some of them. In one place depicting ancient Turkish culture there was an area of kilim rugs and pillows, and metal trays and vessels, in which you could sit. Around you were the more precious items ensconsed in their glass cases. At another place depicting culture around the 1700's there were cardboard mock ups of costumes and wigs with holes for the faces that you could pose in. What I liked the best was that these were aimed at adults as well as children. In fact, the only people I saw sitting or posing for photos were adults.And if I had been with other people I'm sure I would have done the same.

In the gift shop were just a couple of postcards from the Nouveau exhibit. What also caught my eye was a bright picture of an item that I hadn't seen. The description said "mosaic." I asked a shop employee where it was, planning to re-enter the museum to find it. She asked a museum guard, who said something about another museum and the "blue path."

The next day, Mari and I attempted to find the elusive item, returning to the museum for Mari to enquire in German. They indeed sent us down the blue path (ceramic tiles in the pavement) to the museum of a famous ceramics company, Majolica, which is still there. We had a wonderful time there perusing the beautiful old pieces in the museum, and modern art pieces in the shop (very expensive but which I didn't actually much like). Best, though, were the individual tiles in various designs which one pulled open drawers in one room to see. Both Mari and I were extremely drawn to these, pulling open drawer after drawer, and both of us agreeing that they should manufacture replicas of these to sell, both as individual souveniers and to use in home designs as originally intended. The drawers themselves reminded me so much of drawers of ancient textiles in a small museum in Lima, perhaps the Herrera? I couldn't remember the name, and Mari didn't seem to recognize my description. There were also similar drawers full of items, treasures waiting to be discovered, in the Peabody Essex Museum right here at home in neighboring Salem, at an exhibit I recently attended.

The mosaic angel on the postcard, which we never found (neither museum seemed familar with it, interesting since it was one of the postcards at the Palace) led us to the Majolica Museum, for which I am grateful. And here I always thought Majolica ceramics were from Spain, why, I don't know. A question to answer at another time.

Adventures abroad

How strange to find, on the kitchen counter, pains au chocolat. Max now works for Panera, a bakery and sandwich chain. When he closes, which seems to be often, he brings home large quantities of whatever is left over. So, we now have a freezer full of bread, and a counter full of sandwiches and pastries. Pas mal!

I have adjusted back to real life pretty smoothly. (Liss=smooth!) Except that my left little finger now seem to be going for the q as often as the a! I just re-read my whole blog, well, at least this summer's entries, partly to remind myself what I have already written and what I still want to capture on paper. And I am glad to have documented so much, for myself as well as for anyone else who cares to read about my experiences.

I have just posted two albums of photos to Facebook. One is about the mosaic project itself, one more quirky pictures of various things, artistic in one way or another, that have caught my fancy along the way. I hope to post more of my 800 plus photos (I've been good and deleted about 150 so far) soon, if you are interested in the visual version of my adventures.


I would like, now or shortly, to describe at least a few more of my adventures abroad. Adventures Abroad, I suddenly realize, was the name of the company with whom I travelled to Europe the first time, when I was 17. The trip that led me to the avant-guard Living Theatre troupe, to Avignon, in an indirect way to going to live in Paris the year afterwards. I learned from my mother only recently that she and my father had sent me to Europe that summer because they thought I was so shy and withdrawn. Hmmm, guess it worked.

I want to return to Germany, in my thoughts anyway, for a bit. First, to relay a bit more about Koln/Cologne and my visit with Christian and Dorthe there. I went to some wonderful museums, which I will try to describe shortly. But first, to once again thank C and D for their wonderful hospitality. It's funny how some people immediately feel like friends when you meet them. Or, is it the fact of being outside your normal reality that contributes to fostering the relationship? I didn't really know Christian very well when he invited me to come visit. We'd met in Ukraine last year, and I was taken by his committment to Czernowitz and the cemetery project although he had no personal connection to either. We knew one another over perhaps five days there. I didn't know Dorthe, or even that there was a Dorthe, until shortly before I arrived in Koln. She bounded into their apt, full of cheer, although her mother was ailing and D. had just come from visiting her in the hospital. I spent the next three days enjoying myself on my own in their apt and the city, and the evenings with them in conversation discussing topics serious and light. Somewhere in the conversation the topic of fig flavored mustard arose. Dorthe's eyes lit up as she asked what time my train was departing the next day. I knew what she had in mind. Sure enough, at the train station, she met me with a package of three kinds of local mustard, fig, coconut curry, and chili. Of course, I will remember her and Christian as I savor them. But it is their friendship I will truly remember.

There are several wonderful museums in Koln, in addition to the remarkable and unmissable Dom Cathedral.Unmissabble for several reasons: one, because you shouldn't, two because you can't, it dominates the city, and three, because, if you come into the city by train it is right there, across from the train station. It is huge, gothic, filled with stupendous stained glass windows. One was, I believe, destroyed in the war. (as was much of the city.) A new, quite modern and brightly colored window was designed by a famous artist (I'll have to look up his name) to replace it. From what I gather, it has caused some controversy like most things new and different. Too be honest, I wasn't as impressed with the new window as I wanted to be. I also need to read more about how the cathedral was preserved from wartime damage.

There are two wonderful museums adjacent to the cathedral. One is the Ludvig, an art museum. The other is the Romanische-German. Both buildings are spectacular and highlight their collections well. The Romanishe contained, among other things, some incredibly preserved Roman mosaic floors, of which I of course took many pictures. As much as anything else, I enjoyed watching the skateboarders on the plaza in front of the museum through thelarge glass windows, sandwiched between Roman heads displayed on tall modern pillars.

The Ludvig was the private collection of a couple named, of course, Ludvig, and is features modern art, including pieces by Warhol, Lichtenstein, George Segal, many more, and a great design collection. I was taken by their cafe, and a view from under the stairs that included some stashed away cafe tables plus a work on the stairwell wall that featured some chairs. There was also a sectioned off area of many chairs, of all kinds. I couldn't decide whether it was an exhibit in the process of being put together or taken down, or one actually on display! You can see the photo in my Facebook album "But is it art?"



The last museum I visited in Koln was in the former Gestapo headquarters, now called the Documenation Center. It consisted of cells where prisoners had been housed, and tortured, and much more in the way of exhibits, mostly, though, just captioned in German. Most impressive, though, were the cell walls on which hundreds of prisoners had written thoughts, in poetry and prose, with pleas and wishes to loved ones, in pencil, lipstick, scratched into the walls, etc. It made me wonder if this was a phenomenon particular to this one prison. Or if others had existed but been demolished. Apparently when this one had been discovered the original plan had been to demolish it but someone had the idea to preserve it.