A French Lunch With Old Friends

On this visit, I've ridden more than 20 kilometers on only two of the seven days I've been here.  But cycling lots of kilometers (or miles) wasn't the point of coming to Paris, though I didn't want to go without pedaling the pave (cobblestones) as well as the paths and paved streets.

Yesterday I didn't ride at all.  I did, however, visit two more old friends who had me to their house for one of those wonderful and inimitable French lunches.  In many ways, it was the best of all worlds:  the lunch was both civilized and leisurely, and they live in a house full of sunlight in a town that feels like the country even though it's only 15 kilometers from the center of Paris.

I met Michele about 15 years ago through my late friend Janine, who lived nearby.  Since then, she re-connected with Alec, whom she met when they met in Spain.  At the time, they've explained, they were living as hippies and hitchiking around Europe--much to the dismay of both of their parents.


Neither of their parents approved and each of them eventually married people their parents approved.  From the way I'm telling you this story, you've probably guessed that their unions didn't work out.  Well, Michele's didn't, anyway, and Alec's wife died.  So, nearly four decades after first meeting, they reunited and married four years ago.

Our lunch started around noon, when I arrived and lasted well into the afternoon.  I, of course, am on holiday, and they are retired, so we don't really know--or care--when the lunch ended. (Does it end when you stop eating or after you take a walk and come back for more cidre rose and coffee?) 

The food was uncomplicated but exquisitely prepared:  a starter of sliced sausage, followed by three different kinds of salad:  one of shredded red cabbage, another of carrots and onions, and still another of creamy cucumbers.

What followed was a rare steak and some wonderful roasted sliced potatoes.  Of course, it was accompanied by bread.  Alec had bought some before we met, but in following an old French custom, I brought a baguette which we ate.  (I also brought a box of fancy chocolates.) And, after all of that, chocolate and cafe creme eclairs, with espresso coffee.

Don't believe for a minute that the French--even Parisians--are not friendly. When I toured the countryside by bicycle, I experienced all sorts of kindness.  And here in the Paris region, people have treated me well. They simply don't make friends with people immediately, as Americans and other people often do.  They have to get to know you, or meet you through someone they know well. 

Somehow, though, I suspect that I might've befriended Michele even if I hadn't met her from Janine, just as I would've been friends with Isabelle if she hadn't been married to Jay.  

He did more bike riding than I did today!

It was also fun to spend some time with Michele's grandson, who was spending the day with him.  Now, you probably think a prototypical (or stereotypical) name for a French boy is Jean or Jacques or Yves.  But this three-year-old boy has a name only a French person--or someone who loves impressionist paintings--could have given him.  Are you ready for this?  Matisse.  At first, I thought it was a French pronunciation of Matthis or Matthew.  But I learned that he is indeed named for the Picasso's friend and rival.

Don't you just love this water pump in the local park?  It actually works!

I would love to see what he becomes when he "grows up."  Will he rebel against it and become an accountant or lawyer, or even a physicist?  Or will he live up to the connotations of his name?

Of course, that is not the only reason why I want to visit Michele and Alec again, or have them visit me, some time soon!

Another Long Lunch And Late Ride--And A Confession

Today I enjoyed another long lunch with another French friend I hadn't seen in a long time.  And I took another late bike ride.

I had seen Michele more recently than I'd seen Jay, but we agreed that it had been trope longue. Interestingly, my conversation with her--like my conversation with Jay--was not a sentimental repetition of temps perdus.  Rather, we picked up where we'd left off eight years ago, when she came to New York.

That is probably a good thing because, since we last met, the friend who brought us together--Janine--died.  Michele is nine years older than I am, as Janine was, so it's hard not to think of aging and mortality and other related topics.  That may be the reason why we didn't dwell on the past. 

She asked me the question she didn't ask when I told her, via e-mail, that I was coming to Paris.  I said, only half-jokingly, "Donald Trump sera le president."  She chuckled in the way one does when one could just as well sigh:  She knows that neither his election nor the prospect that it would drive someone like me out of my own country is out of the question.

Perhaps I shouldn't worry so much about The Donald going to Washington.  After all, he might make the White House look something like this:

I took that photo of the Versailles palace from about a kilometer up the road.  You can see all of that gold glitter from that far away. 

 

 

Yes, I rode there after Michele and I parted.  In this part of France, there's about half an hour more of light at the end of a summer day than there is In New York or other places at or near the 40th parallel.  All Paris museums are closed on Monday, as is the inside of the home of Le Roi Soleil. But the gardens around the palace were not and, having ridden there during two of my bike tours, I knew the trip would be pleasant.

 

 

 

I also had another motivation for taking the ride.  To tell you about it, I have to make a confession:  I am really a big magpie in a human body.  Why else am I drawn to glittery, shiny things and looking at my reflection in them?

 

 

 

Anyway, the gardens are interesting.  They're so formal that even this bird is all  dressed up. 

 

 

 

Maybe he's going to a party in Paris.

 

 

 

 

Can you beat that for a navigational aid?

  

 

 

 

With An Old Friend, Again. At Least We Didn't Have To Wait As Long This Time!

Yesterday I had a long work day.  The end of the semester is near, so some students are in, or nearing, Full Panic Mode.  Some are just naturally nervous, while others simply procrastinated or skipped classes (not realizing just how many classes they'd skipped!) and now want to "save" their semesters.

So, I got to ride only for a short time after work on a sunny day that's the warmest we've had so far this year.  But I'm not complaining:  I had dinner and drinks with someone special.

Michele, one of my French friends, was in town with Alec--her new husband. She married him in September, not long after my trip to Paris in August.  Although I saw her then, I didn't get to see him.  He is charming and funny, just like all of those Frenchmen you've always heard about. 

Like Michele, he is recently retired, a few years earlier than most Americans.  (Gotta love the French system, huh?)  They actually met, they explained, when they were 18 years old and in Spain.  After returning to France, they went to school, took jobs, married and had kids by other people, and did all of those other things one does for about half of one's life.  And they got divorced. After being out of touch for 35 years, Michele said, he called her one day out of the blue.  But they didn't start dating until a number of years later.  Now they are ready to spend their lives traveling and enjoying each other's company, they said.

And, needless to say, I enjoyed theirs.  We promised that we'd "reconnaitre bientot"--get together again, soon! 

It Wasn't Age After All!

 The other day, I mentioned that I didn't post during the last few days of my latest Paris trip because my full days ended with my getting back to my hotel in the wee hours of morning and collapsing onto the bed.  I intimated that, perhaps, age was catching up with me because I felt tired, if in good ways, after the sorts of activities--visiting museums and friends and, of course, walking and cycling--that also comprised previous trips.  

Well, now I know (or, at least, think I know) the real cause of my fatigue.  You might think that I am in denial and want to continue calling this blog "Midlife Cycling."  I assure you that's not the case.  Also, I tend not to suffer from "jet lag" for very long, so that's not a reason why I have become an immobile object or, if I want to put a positive spin on it, Marlee's bed.

What seemed like a slight cold during my time with Alec and Michele on Thursday devolved into bouts of coughing and sneezing on the flight home and, now, my respiratory system turning into something the Department of Environmental Protection might condemn.

Oh well.  I've gone from lunches of confit de canard with Jay and Isabelle  and civet de cerf with Alec and Michele to slurping down gallons of water, juice, chicken broth, alone, wrapped in a blanket.  That means, of course, that I haven't ridden since I've come home to colder, blustier (Is that a word?) weather than I experienced in Paris.

So I am in my apartment with Marlee, my books and my bikes.  About the latter--here's what I rode after returning the bike I borrowed:

Turns out, Paris a Velo  (formerly known as Paris Velo, C'est Sympa) was open after all!  The proprietor, Victor, explained that the pandemic boosted demand for his bikes and, therefore, he's operated year-round ever since.  When I last rented one of his bikes four years ago (almost to the week!), he made a special trip into the shop for me and one other customer who'd made a reservation. That might be the reason why he remembered me, "d'une monde different."

The bike I rode was different, too:

in contrast to the more conventional hybrid/city bike I rode four years ago.  More about that later.

Bicycling: An Early Ex-Gay Therapy

By now, I'm sure you've heard that Michele Bachmann is not running for re-election.

I'm going to miss her.  After all, how many other people can make Sarah Palin seem--if only momentarily--sane and, at times, relatively coherent?

I mean, it's not just anybody about whom we can say that her assertion that gays can be "cured" is one of the less wacky things she says.  After all, she consulted the most impeccable authority on the subject:  her husband, who runs an "ex-gay clinic".  

Now, why am I mentioning that crazy couple on this blog?

Well, one reason is, of course, that this blog may be the only one in the world written by a onetime boy racer who became a lady rider.  But, in reading about so-called "conversion therapies" intended to make gay people straight, I learned that this sort of thing has been going on for even longer than I'd realized.  As you may know, people have tried to "cure" lesbians and gay men with electroshock treatments, lobotomies, cold baths, physical torture and even attempts to nudge benighted boys and girls to form loving non-sexual relationships with peers of the same gender.

And, for centuries, doctors, athletes and others have claimed that they could "cure" homosexuality through lots of intensive outdoor activity and vigorous exercise.  And, as you know, bicycling falls into both categories. 

So, as you've probably guessed, a physician who was once a respected authority in his field saw bicycling as a way of exorcising same-sex desires.

Graeme M. Hammond was a New York City-based neurologist and competitive fencer.  (He appeared, at age 54, in individual fencing events of the 1912 Olympics.)  Given that he was an athlete of one sort or another for nearly his entire life, it's not surprising that he would think that exercise is "good for what ails ya'."  Nor is it unusual to find that he believed homosexuality to be a neurological disorder, as nearly every physician and scientist who thought about the matter--including Dr. Harry Benjamin--believed the same thing. 

However, what's really interesting about Dr. Hammond's work is the reason why he proposed cycling as a "cure" for homosexuality:  He believed it to be a result of "nervous exhaustion." Cycling, he said, would help to "restore health and heterosexuality" and to cure other nervous conditions.

He also advocated bicycling and other exercise for women because--to his credit--he believed we are the "fighting sex."  The good doctor/fencer thought we would make better soldiers than men 'if only they could "acquire the physical strength and mental discipline" which, he believed, had been denied us through a culture that "mollycoddled" us and promoted "overindulgent lifestyles in regard to diet and exercise."

I like to think he was right about women.  Now, about cycling:  I'm all for just about anything that will get more people to ride bikes.  But now I know one place where I draw the line.  Plus, if you're reading this blog, you have some idea of just how effective cycling is at changing a person's sexual desires--or gender identity!

Fear Not: I'm Still Here!

 Dear Readers, I am still alive--but not well. That is why I've been posting less frequently.

My illness isn't life-threatening or disabling.  But it has drained, seemingly, all of my energy.  

As I recounted a few posts ago, I started to feel congested and tired near the end of my Paris trip.  My former religious self might've said that I was being punished for having too good a time.  Truth is, the only possible connection I can see between my sojourn and my illness is the Munch exhibit I attended with Alec and Michele at the Musee d'Orsay.  It was one of the most crowded exhibits I've ever attended:  We, and other visitors were literally shoulder-to-shoulder.  It was all but impossible to move individually and independently.  

(That, by the way, was my only complaint about the exhibit, or any other I attended while in Paris:  I thought it was well-presented but I couldn't linger at some of the works, as I often do when I'm interested.)

I came home just in time for a long weekend. (Monday the 16th  was Martin Luther King Jr. day.) Surely, that would give me time, aided with copious quantities of chicken soup and orange juice, to recover my energies for the beginning of the semester on Tuesday.

My body--specifically, my respiratory system--didn't get the message. I felt as if I were being submerged even deeper into a sea of phlegm.  My routine has included going to classes, answering only the most urgent emails and curling up with Marlee.  

I figured--correctly--that whatever I was suffering wasn't COVID or the flu, as I was vaccinated as soon as the jabs became available.  Finally, I called my doctor who believed I had a respiratory infection and advised me to go to the nearest City MD center rather than to make a trip to his office.

His hunch was correct.  All I can do now is wait this thing out.  Then, I hope, I'll be back to my regular habits of cycling--and blogging.

The Attacks In Paris

 Allo.?

Isabelle. Je suis Justine.  Tu vas bien?

Oui.  Comment ca-va?

Bien.  J'ai vous vous reveillez?

Ah...oui.

Pardon.

No problem.  (She likes to use that phrase.) 

J'ai entendu les nouvelles de Paris.

Yes, it is terrible.  But we were not there.

Je suis tres hereuse pour ca.

Would you like to talk to Jay?
Il dort?

Oui, mais se reveillera.

I didn't want her to wake him.  At least I knew he was at home, in his bed.  But she brought him to the phone. 

Desole de te reveiller.

Don't worry.  Mais, besoin de redormir. 

That's OK.  J'ai voule etre sur que vous etes OK.

He thanked me for calling.  I assured him that all I wanted was to know that he and Isabelle were not casualties of the bombings, the shootings, that rocked Paris and its environs yesterday.  I knew that, chances were, they weren't there when those terrible events went down, but I just wanted to be sure.

Then I called Michele.  No answer.  Asleep, I hoped.  I left a message.  Just before I started writing this post, I found an e-mail from her.  All right.  I can breathe a little easier.  Can they?

None of us had gone to the Bataclan together.  But we'd walked those streets, ate in restaurants and sipped espressos in the cafes near it.  When I heard that death struck at Le Carillon, I stopped cold. 

It's just a block away from the Quai des Jemmapes, on the eastern bank of the Canal St. Martin.  Back in August, after a lovely morning ride, I enjoyed a picnic lunch of fresh foods and Badoit water I bought along the way.  As the sun softened the green tint of the canal and leaves that flickered in the breeze, it was hard to imagine anything terrible, let alone the blaze of guns or an explosion.

After my canal-side reverie, I retreated to Le Carillon for a cappuccino to cap off my lunch.  By that time, most locals had finished their lunch and were back at work or passing the rest of the day along the old, narrow streets.  I went to Le Carillon because it was the nearest café, but it was a place I would have chosen otherwise: It seemed like a real old cozy neighborhood watering hole Parisians themselves would habituate, not some place trying to look the part for hipsters who wanted an "authentic" experience. 

I sat at a wooden table on the sidewalk.  So did a few other people.  It's hard to imagine that sidewalk with bodies sprawled over it--even more difficult than it was, the first time I saw the Place de la Concorde, to visualize the blood of French monarchy and nobility spilled all over it.  But certainly not as difficult as it is for those who witnessed the darkness that descended upon the City of Light.

 

What I Could Have Done, And What I Did

After you read what you're about to read, you might decide that you won't ever read this blog again.  I understand.

Here goes:  I was in Paris on the last day of the Tour de France.  And I wasn't among the throngs that lined the Champs Elysees for the finish.

Why?, you ask. Well, for one thing I have a general aversion to being in crowds these days.  I have stood along the world's second-most famous thoroughfare (after Broadway in NYC) on two other occasions for the finish of the race.  I have also been on the side of the road, in other parts of France, where other stages of the Tour passed. I just don't get the same thrill about such things that I once did.

For another thing:  I hardly ever attend sporting events anymore.  It's not that I don't like sports:  I once wrote about them for a newspaper.  Rather, I am not crazy about the way many different sports, from baseball to basketball to bicycle racing, have devolved.  Too much is decided, I feel, by drugs and other kinds of technology, compared to events past.

Which brings me to my final point:  This Tour, like the past few, didn't have the storylines  of Tours past.  Even when everyone expected Eddy Mercx, Bernard Hinault or Miguel Indurain to win (as they usually did), they could generate more drama than any of the current riders.

Finally,  I just cannot bear to watch Chris Froome.  I don't have anything against him winning:  He's worked hard and, as far as anybody knows, hasn't used drugs.  But he is the most awkward-looking rider I've ever seen at the front of a major race.  As long as no one can prove he's cheated, I have no problem with his winning the Tour.  But that doesn't mean I have to watch him.

So, after filling myself up at the hotel's breakfast buffet, instead of going to the Tour, I got a (relatively) early start on a gorgeous morning and found myself pedaling streets that were all but deserted--even in places as popular with tourists (or heavily used by delivery drivers) as the Boulevard St. Michel, St. Germain des Pres and Trocadero.  I really felt--to borrow a cliche--that Paris belonged to me.

But, most important of all, I spent the afternoon and early evening with one of my friends, the man she married last year and a friend of theirs who was very friendly toward me.

As I mentioned in earlier posts, Michele and I had not seen each other in a number of years before I saw her last August, in this city.  She was just a few weeks away from marrying the man who is now her husband.  I saw her again in New York in May, with her husband Alec, near the end of their belated honeymoon trip.

An old Italian proverb says that a good meal can keep a person content for a week.  I tend to agree with that.  I'd say the same for a good bike ride or a few other things (some of which can't be mentioned on a PG-13 blog ;-) ).  And, as much as I love good food and writing, as well as cycling, i can't help but to think that nothing can keep me happy longer than a good time with an old friend.

Taxes Were The Least of It

Yesterday was Tax Day in the US.  Except for those who are getting big refunds, nobody was happy.

Some of us look for good news on the day.  Alas, not much was to be found.  Two items made the woes of owing (and, yes, I was one of the people who owed--thank you, Donald!) trivial in comparison.

One of those stories is happening here in the US.  "Retrogrouch" confirmed rumors that I'd heard for some time:  Rebecca Twigg, one of the greatest American female cyclists--actually, one of the greatest American cyclists--is homeless.  She doesn't even have a bicycle anymore.

Of course, it's tragic for anyone to live on the streets, with only ragged blankets, large garbage bags and, if he or she is lucky, a refrigerator box, to protect him or her from cold, wind and rain, along with the dirt and other hazards imposed by other humans.  And Rebecca is not the first elite athlete or other celebrity to end up with nothing of her own and nowhere home.  But her story is especially disturbing because, if you were around during the '80's and '90's, you recall her as someone who "had everything going for her".  Her Olympic medals and other victories brought her endorsement contracts; her looks generated modeling gigs and her intelligence (and hard work) got her into college at age 14.



From the moment she got on a bike as a toddler, she says, she knew she was "born to" ride.  And she exercised that birthright, if you will, to its fullest:  She was as fiercely competitive as she is talented.  Most of us envy people who find their "calling", if you will, before they can even call it that:  the painter who knew he would be creating his life on canvas at age 5; the teacher who knew she'd spend her life in the classroom when she was even younger than the kids she's teaching now; the doctor whose vocation was revealed to him not long after he learned how to read.  

I have known that painter and doctor, both of whom are gone now, and the teacher is a friend who just happens to be granddaughter of my friend Mildred.  Having such a clear vision of their lives at such an early age helped all of them:  They knew what they needed to do and focused on it. 

One difference between them and Rebecca, though, is that they found themselves in professions they could practice for their entire working lives (or, in the case of the painter, his entire life).  None of them (except for the teacher, if she decides to change careers) will ever have to experience something Rebecca, and many other professional athletes, had to endure:  a transition from a life of days structured around sport to the daily routines of a "normal" job or career.

In Rebecca's case, that career was in Information Technology.  She studied it (Computer Science) at Colman College after earning a bachelor's degree in Biology at the University of Washington.  There are people who love that kind of work; others, like Stuart--the Australian fellow with whom I rode in Cambodia--hated it.  I don't know whether Rebecca disliked the work per se or whether she simply couldn't abide being in an office and at a desk. In any case, in spite of her talent and hard work, she seemed to have difficulty in holding down jobs.  Or, perhaps, her trouble came because of her talent and hard work:  She may have simply felt that there was no "victory" at the end of it.

The prospect of not "winning" may also be a reason why she finds it so difficult to accept help.  Perhaps doing so would be an admission of defeat for her.  Also, bicycle racers tend to be rather solitary figures, and even in that world, racers like Rebecca are rather like monks:  Her best event, after all, was the 3000 meter individual pursuit race.

Anyway, I hope her story turns into something better.  I hope the same for la Cathedrale de Notre Dame in Paris.  At least the people in charge of it are already getting, and accepting help in rebuilding after the awful fire it incurred yesterday.  

My friend Michele and I exchanged e-mails about the news. Les francaises sont tres choques--The French are very shocked, she wrote.  To which I replied:  Tout le monde est choque.  La cathedrale est un tresor du monde--The whole world is shocked. The cathedral is a treasure of the world.



I mean, what building besides the Eiffel Tower and, perhaps, the Sacre Coeur de Montmartre, is more embematic of the City of Light?  I still recall, during my second day in Paris (more years ago than I'll admit), sitting in the square by the Notre Dame and listening to the bell on a warm June day.  I felt like I'd become, at that moment, part of a city that has become so much a part of me:  New York is the only city I know better.  

At least it seems that more of the cathedral can be saved than officials originally thought.  President Macron has vowed to rebuild it, and wealthy magnates as well as more anonymous citizens are already donating money.  However the work is done, the real restoration will not be on the structures themselves:  Rather, it will be a healing of the minds and spirits that have been so moved by its grandeur, the light coruscating through its stained-glass windows or the views from its towers--or simply by images of those towers, windows and the spire.  



Sir Kenneth Clark, often called the high priest of Art History, once said that he could not define "civilization" in abstract terms.  But, as he turned to the Notre Dame in his famous "Civilization" series, he declared, "I know I'm looking at it."

For me, a non-religious person, that's reason enough to care about the Notre Dame.   Taxes are just a pimple on the face of my life, which is part of the multitude which, I hope, have helped to contribute in whatever small ways to civilization or "the human project" or whatever you want to call it.