DIY Facial Surgery

I'm not going to name any names.

Could these be the faces of those older white guys* who would vote for a rich right-wing racist demagogue?

Could they be the ones who are in danger of losing their jobs--or have already lost them, or never had them in the first place--and vote for the very candidates who destroy their jobs or send them overseas?

Could they--children or grandchildren or great-grandchildren of immigrants, all of them--vote for someone who wants to build a wall between this country and its neighbor, and wants to ban all adherents of the world's largest religion from entering the United Sates?

Could those folks--half of whom would have trouble coming up with $400 to meet an emergency expense--be the ones voting for someone who would make it easier for employers to get away with paying less than minimum wage to immigrants?

Could they--whose schools, hospitals and infrastructure are crumbling--vote for someone who'd slash funding for such things--just to make sure "freeloaders" from other countries can't have them?

Tell me:  Do they really, knowingly, go into the voting booth and cut off their noses to spite their faces?

*--Disclosure: Had it not been for my transition, I'd be an old (or old-ish) white guy!  

What Makes Her Think She Can't?

After eating a tasty, thoroughly unhealthy, Original Stromboli--one of those foods you live on when you're a twenty-year-old student precisely because it's so tasty and unhealthy, in addition to filling and cheap--I managed to ju-u-ust miss a train back to New York. 

It was nearly dark by that time, and riding back would have meant pedaling another 40 kilometers or so (I'd already done about 120).  I didn't mind the distance, but the last part of that route would have taken me through desolate industrial and post-industrial areas near Newark-Liberty Airport.  

I seriously wonder whether the lights on the streets in those areas are turned off after trucks make their last deliveries--or disappear into one of the potholes in those streets.  Seriously, those craters can make the Ho Chih Minh trail seem like a magic carpet.  I've cycled those streets in the dark.  If some of my Catholic school education had stuck, I might've been fingering a rosary strand (what we used to call "worry beads").

No, she's not me.  From San Diego Magazine

The time-table indicated that another train would arrive in bit more than half an hour.  I didn't want to wait that long, and I could've wandered around New Brunswick and discovered other old haunts that have been turned into sushi restaurants or ice cream parlors.  But I figured that doing so would cause me to miss another train.

So what to do?  Well, I knew that if I crossed the bridge over the Raritan and continued up Route 27--something I did many times in the old days--I probably could catch the next train a little further along the line.  

The next stop is Edison, a small station that the trains skip sometimes.  Besides, it wasn't very far:  I could make it in ten minutes without trying.  After that, there was Metuchen--"the Brainy Borough".  I knew I had plenty of time to get there and that, if I channeled the inner racer I never had, I could make it to Metro Park, the station after that.  Along the way, I'd burn off at least a little of the mozzerella cheese, cappicola, salami, peppers and onions stuffed into Italian bread dough (I told you it was unhealthy!)  I downed before missing the train in New Brunswick.

I played it safe, getting to Metuchen with about ten minutes to spare.  The train I boarded was nearly empty.  At the next station, a friendly black woman boarded and sat across from me.

She wanted to charge her smart phone.  I pointed to what looked like--turns out, what was--a port.  She admired my bike and asked where I'd been riding.

"You can actually ride a bike that far?" she wondered.

I assured her that it's not only possible, but that I've done even longer rides, and other people have done rides that were longer still.

"I couldn't make it around the block, let alone do what you did."

I explained that nobody rides that long on his or her first ride; you build yourself up to ever-increasing distances.  And, really, if you keep on riding, you don't even have to plan on building yourself up; it just happens as a matter of course.

She explained that she'd "have a hard time riding" because her legs were "shot" from years of playing racquetball.  I pointed out that if she has a bike with gears, she can shift to a lower gear and get as much exercise as she gets from racquetball or any other sport, without the stress on her knees.

"I don't know how you do it!" she marvelled.

I find it interesting that people who engage in all manner of athletic pursuits simply can't fathom the idea of riding a bike more than a few blocks.  Even long-distance runners I've talked to don't believe they can ride a bike as far, let alone further, than they run.

But the woman I met last night was even more astounding than any of them.  Not only was she a racquetball player, she is, from what she told me, an accomplished medical researcher.   I don't doubt it:  I mentioned that my sister-in-law is a microbiologist and she was familiar with, not only the kind of work she does, but the institute in which she conducts it.

I don't know about you, but I think that if I were involved in cutting-edge research and could play racquetball, I'd be pretty confident in my ability to do just about anything--including a bike ride!

We disembarked at Penn Station. ("Lead us not into Penn Station"?)  She was going to meet her boyfriend.  I wonder whether she told him about the crazy cyclist she met on the train, and whether he believed anyone would ride as much as I did. 

A Ride Along Another Canal: A Path To Memory

Today it was Vera's turn.

I took my green Miss Mercian mixte on a ride to, and along, the Delaware and Raritan Canal towpath.  I used to pedal along that path when I was a Rutgers student; last year I rode it for the first time since those days.

Today I rode it just a week after pedaling and walking by the  Canal St. Martin through what has become a district of young artists and animators--and interesting, quirky restaurants and cafes--to the city's "little Africa".  Years ago, I also pedaled a section of the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal towpath near Washington, DC.  Like the D&R towpath, its surface (at least on the section I rode) is dirt and clay, with pebbles in some areas. A section of the St. Martin has a path with a similar surface, while another part is cobblestoned.

Towpaths along canals were constructed so that horses or mules could tow barges from the shore. Even if their surfaces are not paved, they make nice bike lanes as well as hiking trails because they are usually table-flat, or close to it.  The engineering that went into building them--not to mention the canals themselves--has seldom been bettered.

It's interesting that one reason we like to ride along canals is that they seem peaceful.  Their still waters reflect and refract light in sometimes-painterly sorts of ways, whether the canal courses through Paris residences or old factories in New England--or winds through stands of trees and follows railroad tracks in central New Jersey.  One often sees couples riding or walking, or simply sitting, along canal banks:  Canals and their paths are often among the most romantic sites in their locales.  

I also find it interesting that some canal towpaths are seen as "natural" sites.  Along some parts of the Delaware and Raritan, as well as other canals, trees and other vegetation have reclaimed the land from the remains of abandoned factories and other structures.  Areas along canals have also been turned into, or become, sanctuaries for various animals and birds.  But as lovely as all of those animal habitats, and all of the flora and fauna, are, they are no more "natural" than the canal itself. 

In saying what I've just said, I do not mean to diminish the aesthetic or recreational value of such sites.  I just find it ironic that we now ride along canal towpaths like the Delaware and Raritan to get away from the sometimes-dreary, or even grim, industrial and post-industrial landscapes those canals helped to create, or were built to serve.  

In fact, the city of New Brunswick--the locale of Rutgers University, located at one end of the canal--is such a place.  I don't know whether the term "post-industrial" had been coined by the time I attended university there, but it certainly would have fit:  A number of large and small enterprises had gone out of business or simply left:  Johnson and Johnson was threatening to do the same.  In fact, even some Rutgers administrators, and New Jersey state officials, talked about abandoning the Old Queens campus and moving all of the university's facilities across the Raritan River to Piscataway, where Rutgers already had some of its research laboratories as well as a residential campus.

Instead, they decided to "revitalize" the city.  In essence, they made it just like the downtowns of so many other cities, with all of the same chain stores and restaurants. (I mean, what town worth its salt would do without Starbucks, right?)  So it doesn't look as run-down as much of the town did when I lived there, but it has all of the character of a Sunbelt suburb.

And, of course, my favorite places--except for one--are gone.  Those places include what remains, to this day, my favorite music store I have ever encountered:  Cheap Thrills, on George Street. The prices were indeed cheap, which allowed me and many other students to buy albums (vinyl!) of all of those esoteric bands and kinds of music we learned about from each other.  

(That shop, and a Pyramid Books, which I also loved, were part of the Hiram Market district, which was designated a historic district, then de-designated because, as one architect put it, the area didn't fit into Johnson and Johnson's "clean desk" mentality.)

The only "old favorite" of mine that remains is a restaurant called Stuff Yer Face.  Of course, the menu includes all sorts of things we couldn't have imagined in those days. It also has a bar with an enormous beer selection.  Back in my day, they didn't (couldn't?) sell alcohol, but we could bring it in.  Of course, most of us did!

I ordered an Original Stromboli, for old time's sake.  The young woman who took my order and the one who brought it to me were, no doubt, not even born the last or first time I ordered one.  It was every bit as good--and unhealthy--as the first one I ate in 1979 or thereabouts.  A bargain, frankly, at $6.75. 

At least there was that--and the canal towpath.  They made the ride more than worthwhile.

Happy To Ride Them Again

Today I luxuriated in riding another one of my own bikes.

Yesterday I took flight on Arielle, my Mercian Audax.  Today I spun the pedals on Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear bike.  

Tosca

For over a week, I rode a relatively heavy hybrid/city bike with a geometry more relaxed than on any bike I own.  I understand why rental centers choose such bikes:  They stand up better than road racing or touring bikes to the rigors of city streets--which, in Paris, often include cobblestones.  Also, they are more responsive than mountain bikes.

The bike I rode in Paris this year, like the one I rode there last year, has a dropped-bar ("ladies'") frame made of oversized aluminum tubes.  The bike I rented in Montreal in October was also aluminum, but with a "diamond" ("men's") frame configuration.  Long-accepted wisdom (or dogma, depending on how you look at it) says that diamond frames are inherently more responsive than those with dropped bars because they are more rigid. My experience confirms that notion, at least for me.  I notice such differences on steel bikes, but they don't seem as pronounced as on the aluminum bikes I rode.  I wonder whether oversized aluminum tubes exaggerate the differences between these frame designs.

The Paris Bike Tour machine I rode this year.

Now, of course, my Mercians are lighter than those rental bikes, even though I made no effort to save weight in building my bikes.  And, even 700 X 28 tires--which both Arielle and Tosca sport--are narrower and much lighter than the rubber on the rentals.  So it's no surprise that my bikes would feel livelier.

But perhaps the most differences of all have to do with fit and my personal preferences.  Mercian custom-built the frames of both Arielle and Tosca for me, to fit the idiosyncracies of my body and riding preferences.  No amount of fiddling with the saddle and handlebar positions on rental bikes will make them fit me as well as my Mercians. 

Also, no matter how the handlebars are adjusted, the rental bikes all left me in a more upright riding position than even my most upright bike, the Schwinn LeTour that's become my beater/commuter.  Moreover, even that bike has a narrower and less-cushy saddle than any of the rentals had--and my saddles, all of which are leather (Gyes on the LeTour and Brooks on my Mercians) are broken in.

The Paris Bike Tour 

Then again, my riding in Paris did not have speed or even long distances as an objective.  I stopped frequently, whether to look at interesting things, shop or eat.  I suppose most people who rent bikes or use Velib (Paris' bike share program) are riding in similar ways.  

The bike I rented from Velo Urbain in Montreal

Don't get me wrong:  The bikes I rented this year and last from Paris Bike Tour were pleasant to ride and well-suited to their intended purposes.  So was the bike I rented from Velo Urbain in Montreal.  I would rent those bikes, from those places, again.  Still, I'm very happy to be riding my own bikes--especially Arielle and Tosca.

For Love And Hunger

The other morning, before going out for a ride, I went to see my friend Mildred.

She had another visitor:

The cat has been a "regular", and Mildred feeds her.  I would, too.

Perhaps we should take our friend here:

What Do I Miss? Mes Chats et Mes Velos

In 1992, I did a bike tour from Paris to Chartres, and from there to the Loire Valley and Burgundy to Dijon, before heading back to Paris--and, from there, taking a train, boat and train to England to visit my aunt.  

As I was about to head to Blighty, I was away from home for nearly a month.  I spent time with one of my friends, who lived near Paris at that time.  She asked what I missed most about home.

"Ma chat":  my cat.

Charlie I:  The cat who brought me back home.

Now, it  wasn't as if I didn't have friends in New York or anywhere else in the US.  Ditto for family: An aunt, uncle and cousin were still in Brooklyn, and my parents and one of my brothers were still living on the (New) Jersey Shore.  But the previous year had been a very difficult--though, in many ways, fruitful--time for me.  I wrote a lot.  How could I not?:  I was in graduate school, studying poetry.  My marriage had officially ended that year (though, in reality, it was dead long before that), and from Memorial Day until Christmas of 1991, I lost five friends to AIDS-related illnesses and the brother of someone I dated was murdered in the hallway of the building in which I was living.

Max

I was tempted not to go back, even though I had only to take a couple more courses, complete my dissertation (a book of poems) and take my comprehensive exam (which wasn't as difficult as I expected) to complete my degree.  After experiencing the losses I've mentioned, I had a kind of crisis from that happened much earlier in my life.  In retrospect, I realize that dealing with it--in part, by taking the trip I've mentioned--led me, if as indirectly as the route that took me from and to Paris, to the transition I would start a decade later.  

Marlee

Anyway, aside from the pain of past experience, I wanted to leave the United States behind, or so I believed.  Oh--I should mention that an acquaintance of mine was killed during our first invasion of Iraq.  I really believed that the country in which I'd spent most of my life was not, and could not be, a force for good in this world (I still feel that way, often) and it looked like Daddy Bush would be re-elected.  Him!--after eight years of Reagan!  I simply did not want to be associated with such things.  

(Would that I could have seen the future!)

Anyway, it seemed as if the only answer to my friend's question was, indeed, "ma chat".  (I had one at the time.)  She was convinced there had to be something else waiting for me:  she pointed out the family, friends, studies and writing I've mentioned.  And, of course, there were my bikes, although the one I was riding during that trip was quite nice.

The funny thing is I felt almost exactly the same way a couple of days ago, as I was leaving Paris.  In so many ways, my home country, and even my home town, are less tenable than they were nearly a quarter-century ago.  We have had non-stop war for the past fifteen years, and Donald Trump makes Bush The Elder seem like Nelson Mandela.  The idea of leaving is even more tempting than it was then, though I know it will be more difficult than I realized it could be in those days.

Arielle

I am back, for now.  And what did I miss, aside from some people?  Well, Max and Marlee--yes, I have one more cat than I did in those days.  And, today, I realized, I missed my bikes.  After spending more than a week riding a rental--which, as rentals go, was actually pretty good--taking Arielle, my Mercian Audax, for a ride today, with its perfect weather, seemed heavenly.  

So I missed my cats, my bikes and....

So What Do Picasso's Handlebars Really Mean?

The Presidentiad is in full swing here in the US.  If you like to hear lies, double-talk, evasion, babble, euphemism and things that are just purely and simply ridiculous, you can be, in the immortal words of H.L. Mencken, "entertained as Solomon never was by his hooch dancers".

I couldn't help but to think that the Musee Picasso let some candidate's speech writer--or some candidate for some office somewhere--write the commentary for one of the exhibits:

The good folks at Musee Picasso very thoughtfully provided this translation:

When I read the French, the last two sentences caused me to titter, with my fingers covering my lips, in that very discreet Parisienne sort of way.  The English translation made me laugh out loud.  That, of course, gave me away as an American.

So, gee, maybe, just maybe, Picasso's goats were a stand-in for lust and sex.  Really, now?  My first art history professor--a gay man who devoted the last years of his professional life to explicating the homoeroticism in Caravaggio--would be shocked--shocked, I say!--to learn that.

Hmm...I thought--with all due respect to the man and his work--that everything about Picasso had to do with sex, whether in general or about his own lustfulness.  I mean, you don't even have to read two sentences in any biography of him to know that he was a horny guy.

Want proof?  Take a look:

Lest you think that is an isolated example, check this out:

Now you know what this is really about--and it wasn't about a charge at the end of a Tour de France stage!:

Do Places Change, Or Do Journeys Remain The Same?

I'm back in New York but still living on Paris time, at least for today.  That means I couldn't sleep when I got home, fell asleep after opening my suitcase (at least, that's what I think), feeling too tired to fall asleep (or not tired enough to stay awake?) , then falling asleep again by my kitchen table.

In between, I found myself thinking 

My fourth-favorite sculpture from my favorite sculptor.

about the trip, and other things.

Although some things in Paris change, if you go back to it, you'll find more similarities with the City of Light you remember from however-many-yearsh ago when you first visited, or lived or worked, there.  At least, that is how I felt last year--returning after being away for more than a decade--and this year, more than three decades after I first saw the French capital.

In contrast, New York--parts of it, anyway--can change more in a few years than Paris or other cities can change in decades, or even centuries.  I was reminded of that when the former neighbor I encountered in the Cluny recounted going back to our old block recently and noticing how it was "so different" from what we lived in.

In Paris, of course, there are buildings that stood for centuries before Europeans got lost on a trip to India and found themselves in the Americas.  (No, Columbus did not "discover" America!)  But there are also aspects of daily living that haven't changed much, if at all.  Although it's a major, fast-paced city, people still take time to enjoy meals and passing streams of humanity.  Those things happen to a greater degree in other parts of France (at least they did when I saw them about 15 years ago), but there are still lively street scenes that, I feel, are quickly disappearing in New York--and never existed in the first place in other parts of the United States.

And, let's face it, you are never going to see anything like this anywhere in the US:

New bikes might have technology.  But they--save for those made by custom and traditional builders like Mercian--or those, like Mariposa, who are inspired by them--don't have the heart and style of this:

Yes, it's a Peugeot, and many more like it were built.  But it has all sorts of details--which, like cornices on Victorian buildings or harmonies in Mozart sonatas--that are actually functional and not only aesthetic or merely stylistic. 

OK, so I wouldn't have seen a bike like that ridden to victory, or at all, down the Boulevard des Champs Elysees last Sunday.  And its rider wouldn't have dismounted under the Arc de Triomphe to ascend the winners' platform.  But its owner may well have ridden through this:

La Porte St. Denis is one of Paris's "other arcs" (the Porte St. Martin is the other)--and, in my opinion,  more interesting than that more famous one.   And a lot easier to ride.  I know:  I rode by and through la Porte St. Denis (in the above photo) the other day, and I've ridden round and round the other one!

And I went back, and came back.

How It Ends

When you've taken a trip, was there a sign that it was over--or about yto end?

For me, it came late yesterday, when I returned the bike I rented from Paris Bike Tour.  Stephen--who was so helpful when I rented from them last year--was there, and we talked for a while.  I was being selfish,really:  It was near closing time, and I'm sure he, and the other staff  members, wanted to eat, go home, or get some kind of relaxation.



Truth is, even though I enjoyed talking with him and the rest of the staff, I was prolonging my time with them as if I were in denial that my trip was about to end.  

Now Paris Bike Tours has the bike I rented.  I have memories, and soon I will be on my way to my own bikes--and Marley, Max and my other friends!

Anyway, I'll tell you more about this trip if you'd like.  I'd like that, a lot.

Backdrops

As much as I love Shakespeare, I have to tell you this:  The man never had an original idea in his life.  At least, not an original idea for a story.  Every one of The Bard's plays was written, in one version or another, by somebody else.  The reason we read, perform, watch and beat them to death today is that he imbued his characters with a depth never before seen in drama, at least in English:  Until his time, most dramas were "morality plays" or other kinds of vehicles to impart lessons or accepted wisdom.

Likewise, Alfred Hitchcock's most iconic scene is no more original than any murder story has been since Cain and Abel.  Even if you've never watched the whole movie, you know that scene:  Marion, played by Janet Leigh, is taking a shower when a female figure stabs her.


 


I am not saying the scene--or the film--does not deserve to be as famous as it is.  Rather, I am just pointing out that Hitchcock probably paid a visit to the Louvre, or at least looked at an art book or two, some time before he started making Psycho.

Please don't ask me how it took so long for me to come to such a realization.  But I might be the only visitor in the history of the world's most famous art museum to laugh while looking at Jacques Louis David's The Death of Marat.

Like Marion Bates, Marat was stabbed by a woman.  He met his fate in his bathtub, where he spent much of his time (and, in fact, did much of his writing) because of a skin condition.  It's extremely unlikely that Marat could have taken a shower, even if he had known they existed:  Even though the first indoor shower was invented two decades before he was murdered, it would be another six decades before modern indoor plumbing would make them workable. The originals were operated by hand pumps.

Anyway, for a time in my youth, Jacques Louis David was my favorite painter.  His combination of revolutionary fervor (He, as a deputy from the city of Paris, voted for the execution of the king.) and painting technique--dark backgrounds that made for vivid, dramatic colors and forms, a technique often called "chiaroscuro"--appealed to my sensibilities in those days, almost precisely because I could not see it as another side of the sentimentality I thought I was rejecting.

But one lesson I learned from Marat and David is that backgrounds or backdrops matter.  Why do you think I came to Paris again?  Why do you think my favorite muesums in Paris are the Rodin, Cognaq-Jay, Picasso and d'Orsay?  I mean, I love much of what Rodin, Picasso and the Impressionists did.  But there's nothing like going to the museums devoted to them (especially Rodin, in my opinion).  On the other hand, I can't say I was a fan of much of the work that's in the Cognaq-Jay.  But it's become a "new favorite" precisely because of the environment it creates and the way those works are presented.  Plus, it has some of the friendliest staff I've encountered in a museum.  (Oh, and it's free!)

Anyway...A great backdrop can make for a great ride.  That's why I can put up with the insanity of Paris traffic (Then again, I'm a New Yorker): What's not to like about riding among beautiful buildings and gardens?  

But cycling also transmutes, if not transforms, backgrounds.  A bleak, apocalyptic necropolis becomes bearable, and an interesting--and in its own way, even beautiful--image when it's the setting of a good bike ride, even if it is just from work to home, or vice versa. I used to pedal through such a setting every day when I was a student and worked in a factory; that ride might be what kept me (relatively) sane.

I have been able to ride through far more beautiful vistas.  Some were natural, whether in mountains or along seashores.   But for the past few days, I've rolled through some of the most beautiful urban scenes in the world.  It's made for some great riding--and a great trip!

From The Beach To The Cathedral

I took a ride to the beach:

It probably doesn't remind you of any beach you have visited. (I know:  I'm assuming you've been to a beach. Believe it or not, I've actually met people who haven't.)  That's because "Paris Plage" (Paris Beach) is actually on a stretch of the Left Bank.  Of course, nobody goes swimming in the Seine:  As far as I know, it's not allowed and no sane person would do such a thing.   Many Parisians go to actual beaches in places like Deauville and Dieppe on the English Channel, Lacanau (really nice--I've been there!) and La Rochelle on the Atlantic and, of course, any number of places along the Mediterranean.  But even the hardiest denizen of the City of Light can't get to them in a day by bike!

As you probably surmised, I didn't come to Paris to go to the beach.  In fact, I've never traveled anywhere specifically to go to the beach, and have no interest in doing such a thing.  (I must be one of the few people in this world who has had no wish to go to Hawai'i.)  I didn't even come for the biking, although that is worthwhile.  Rather, I'm here to see friends and "get kuhl-chyuh".  So, of course, I split most of yesterday between two museums.

As the old neighbor I met the other day learned, the Museum Pass isn't worth it.  At least, there aren't very many people for whom it's worthwhile.  First of all, nobody should go to more than two museums in one day--especially if one of the museums is a big one.  Hopping from one museum to another--one of the few things that makes a Museum Pass worthwhile--induces burnout in even the most avid art and artifact lover.  And, if anyone visiting a large museum like the Louvre for the first time should devote a whole day to it.  (Please, please don't be one of those people who goes in, takes a selfie with the Mona Lisa and leaves!)  If it's not your first visit to such a museum and you want to spend, say, a morning or an afternoon, choose an exhibit (a temporary one is a good idea) or theme or genre (like, say, 18th Century French paintings) and spend your time in those.

Also, if you're going to be in town for a few days and you want to do more than one museum (or activity) on  a given day, choose venues that are near each other.  Having to make mad dashes across town will burn you out almost as easily as trying to take in too much at once.

Another tip:  Check to see whether a museum you want to visit is open late on a particular night.  For example, I found out that the Musee d'Orsay is open until 9:45 pm (a.k.a. 21h45) on Thursdays--which worked very nicely for me yesterday.

Speaking of the d'Orsay:  I also learned that there's a combination ticket available for that museum and the nearby Musee Rodin.  That combo (jumelee) ticket allows its holder to visit each museum once at any time from three months after the ticket is purchased and costs a few euros less than purchasing each museum's tickets individually.

So...I spent yesterday morning and early afternoon at the Rodin.  Time there is some of the most rewarding and cathartic time I can spend off my bike.  

The very first time I went to the Muesum, more years ago than I care to admit, some of the sculptures--two in particular--affected me in such a basic way that I could not understand, let alone explain.  

On one hand (pun intended), the fingers resemble the arches of a Gothic catheral.  But the first time I saw "Cathedrale", I knew that it wasn't only about the structure or inner architecture of a big medieval chuch, any more than Mary Shelley's novel Frankenstein is about a monster created in a laboratory.   Rather, it's about the forces that arise within us, and what we create within as well.   Rodin's cathedral is not just; it is a space we find or create, as needed.

Then there is this.  

While actually part of the Porte d'Enfer (Gate of Hell) monument, Rodin actually made a copy of it as a stand-alone.  One of the reasons why it affected me as it did was that I could feel the tensions between--I was going to say between the man and woman, but I knew it wasn't really about them.  The man and woman are distinct individuals,but they are really the same person--which is the source of the tension.

If that isn't my story, I don't know what is.  Cycling is not an escape from it; rather, it integrates those tensions and turns them into motion.  At least, that is what cycling has always done for me, long before I understood it.

After spending the morning and early afternoon at the Rodin, I rode--over a distance only slightly more than that between the Picasso and Cognaq Jay--to the Orsay.   

What's This Bike Doing On the Place des Invalides?

The Retrogrouch has written an excellent series about the rise and fall of the US bicycle industry, and how the rise helped to make Shimano the largest component manufacturer.  In the third of his four installents, he discusses the rise and fall of Schwinn.  One commenter made a couple of interesting points, one of which is that the "Bike Boom" didn't happen in Europe because Europeans didn't have one or two generations that didn't ride bikes, and bikes made decades ago are still in use.

That commenter also couldn't understand why The Retrogrouch and others were describing Schwinn as the top Amerian bike.  That commenter had never seen. let alone ridden, one.  Come to think of it, the few Schwinns I've seen in Europe were ridden by Americans who brought them for tours or other rides.




Today I saw something that's even rarer than a Schwinn in Europe:  a Ross.  A Eurotour, no less. Isn't it funny that an American company would call something "Euro" when it has no connection with this continent--and it ends up here anyway.  It's like McDonald's selling "French Fries" to the French.



I didn't get a chance to take a photo of that bike, as I was dodging and weaving traffic near the Place des Invalides, where the bike was parked.  But it's the same model as the one in the image above.  I'd be curious to know how that bike got here.  These days, most airlines charge over 100 dollars to bring a bicycle aboard.  (For a long time, Air France and other airlines simply counted it as one of your checked bags--they allowed two--as long as it wasn't over the weight limit.)  Although there's nothing wrong with the Ross, I simply can't see spending that much to bring it along unless you're moving here and absolutely love its ride, or if it has sentimental valus for you.

Tomorrow I will tell you some more about my adventures here. 

Meeting Under The Unicorn

First off, I want to assure you that I have made up nothing in this blog.  Not even the third-place finish in a race.  Or the climbs in the Alps, Pyrenees, Sierra Nevada, Green Mountains, Adirondacks or Catskills.  Even the bad, crazy and silly things I've done are as I've recounted them.

Still, you might not believe the story I'm about to tell you.  I understand.   But I assure you that I couldn't make up anything like it.  

It took place in la Musee Nationale du Moyen-Age, a.k.a. the Cluny.  Even if you've never been there, you've seen this:

Most people think of it as "the unicorn tapestry".  Truth is, it's just one of six tapestries in the "La Dame a la Licorne" series.  The other five tapestries feature the lady, the unicorn and nearly all of the other elements of the one you've all seen.  But what this one--"Mon seul desir"--represents is the subject of debate.  Some have said that it is the mind, while others believe it is the heart or love.  I think the tapestry's creator intended it to be the power of the unicorn, whatever that might be.  

Now, what exactly is the power of the unicorn?  Some say it's something that happens when the woman touches his horn. (I won't disagree. But I want to keep this clean!) Well, perhaps it got me out of bed early so I could ride for an hour, with no destination or purpose, for about an hour before cycling to Cluny.

And the unicorn's magic (or whatever you want to call it) may have been the cause of what I experienced while in the museum.  

Many of the objects displayed there, at one time or another, adorned cathedrals.  A couple stood before one of the displays.  They were talking about how those objects were made and how cathedrals were built. 

I chimed in with a comment about how, in places like Chartres and Reims, literally everybody in the town contributed in some way or another to building the cathedral.  Of course, some were artists and craftspeople.  Others cut and set stones and glass, and did other things vital to building the structure.  And, of course, there were those who prepared food and did other things for the other workers. "Most of those people never lived to see the finished product," I pointed out.

That led us to talk about the things we were looking at--and, soon, things entirely unrelated.  Naturally, the conversation led to the inevitable traveler's question, "Where are you from?"

When I'm far from my home area, I say "New York"--which, of course, is true.  But unless someone's familiar with the city or its environs, I don't mention anything more specific.  It's not that I'm trying to impress anybody: Rather, it's just easier:  Almost everyone has heard of New York; only people who've lived in it have ever heard of Astoria,  Queens.

But that couple obviously knew the city.  So I told them I live in Astoria, Queens.  Each of them mentioned living in Brooklyn.  "No kidding!  I lived there for a long time."  That led me to confess that I'd grown up in Bensonhurst and Borough Park and later lived in Park Slope.  

Turns out, she lived there, and he in neighboring Windsor Terrace.  They mentioned The Park (Prospect), eating at the Silver Spoon and the Pintchick's store on the corner.  

"Bergen Street", I exclaimed.

Up to that point, I had the feeling that I somehow recognized them.  Especially her.  "Yes, I lived there during the '90's," she said.  "And we started dating then," he added.

The FBI has age-progression software that shows, for example, what a child who went missing years ago might look like today.  My mind's eye did the opposite of that:  I found myself imagining what they might have looked like five, ten, twenty years ago.  In her case, I didn't even have to look that far back:  She's hardly aged at all.

We asked each other's names.  She told me hers. "Really?"  

Her eyes, and his, fixed on me.  Then I asked whether her last name might be (N)."

"How did you know that?"

"We used to be neighbors.  In fact, I lived in the apartment next to yours."

For a few years, we exchanged pleasantries and sometimes got into conversations in the hallway of our building.  Our talks veered into all sorts of topics:  art, movies, politics, the not-for-profit agency for which she worked, my writing--and the class and workshop I was taking with Allen Ginsberg.  

But at that moment, she could not recall those things--or, more precisely, she could not connect me with them.  

"Well, I am Justine now," I confessed.  "But back then, you knew me as Nick."  

I could see flickerings of recognition.  Then I added  more dim, dark secrets:  I had a beard in those days--a red one, at that.  

"Wow.  Yes, now I remember.  The beard!"

Then she recalled, aloud, the poetry--Yes, I still write, I assured her--the studies, the teaching and even my cat.  "And you used to ride your bike everywhere," she recounted.

I nodded.  And, yes, I still ride, and I've been riding here in Paris.  She, her husband and their teenage daughter went for a ride the other day, she said.

Just when we were about to fall off each others' radar--which was much easier  in those days, just before everybody started to use cell phones, the internet and e-mail-- she had started dating him.  And I would meet, and move in with, the last partner I had in my life as Nick.

Now tell me:  What are the chances that two people who lived next to each other--in Brooklyn--would bump into each other twenty years later--in Paris, no less?