In other words, cold, cloudy, and raw is no way to greet visitors, Paris. I'm aware that it's November and you have that Northern charm, that gloomy romanticism that makes the city of Light sparkle all the brighter in contrast to the drab gray of the sky, but it's not very fun for those of us who have already adjusted to reasonable weather at all times. Especially when we have to stand outside all day and watch kids run back and forth kicking a ball around.
That's right, everybody! Paris!
Weather bitching aside, the trip was a delightful time, featuring a smattering of athletic achievement (our team went .500 and won 2 games, or two more games than our school has won in 14 years, or so the story goes), a couple rushed tours of Champs d'Elysses, and a couple meetings with friends. Naturally, a few stories came out of the weekend that are worth sharing.
Yo hablo español? I guess so.
Thursday night (we arrived Wednesday afternoon), I decided to celebrate our unsuccessful but initially relatively phenomenal day on the football pitch (we came away with one draw, our first point in a few years at least) by going to meet family friends in a suburb southwest of Paris. Our tournament was in a different suburb of Paris, to the west of the city. Naturally, to get from hotel to house, I had to go into the city and out of the city.
The first step was to take a bus, the ol' 258, out to the end of the RER. To get on the bus in Parisian suburbs, as in most places in the world, you have to buy a ticket. So, I entered the bus, ready to buy a ticket. Except for one problem: my bills were too big. No, not a typo.
This whole trip was funded by our lovely school. At least, funded for the coaches - the kids had to pay $700-some dollars. Perks included free airfare, free hotel with included breakfast, a coach's meal, a coach's pass to free food at the venue, and per diem. Per diem. The finest two words to survive from a dead language and arrive in our own eternal English.
For our purposes, the per diem was doled out in kind of a strange way (we had to keep receipts to prove that we used the money the way it was meant to be used, and not to stow away in our vault or blow on Parisian ladies of the street, unless they offered a proper receipt), but for the purposes of this blog, those details aren't necessary. What is necessary is the fact that I received 300 turkeys in the form of two 100 euro bills and two 50s. And before Thursday night, I had no occasion to spend those bills.
So we return to the bus. I get on the bus, the only person at the Bougival bus stop. The bus driver, a man of indiscriminate age and likely either North African or Arabic in lineage, nods a "Bonjour" to me, and possibly tells me how much money the ticket is. I have no interest in learning French and no aptitude in picking much up in the language: something about the delicacy and nuance of the accent, I think. So I, without any other options, plop my 50 on the ticket counter.
The bus driver looks at the 50 and looks at me. "I don't have change," he says, or maybe, "You douchebag, what the hell do you think you're trying here?" I couldn't quite pick up the intonation. Also, I had some explaining to do, and I was thinking about how to do it.
For whatever reason, I have an aversion to dropping English abroad when I can afford it. Maybe it's my b.s. contrarian nature, or my malcontent masochistic desire for sacrifice, or that I don't want to look like another helpless American, but I always lean towards representing myself as somebody from other places. It's an identity politics issue.
In this situation, it seemed obvious what I should have done. Russian had no chance of working. The crappy Hebrew I know had far less chance. That Italian I studied for three semesters had mostly sailed away, and wouldn't help here. Clearly, I had to go with English, and damn the stereotypes I'd heap upon myself.
"No tengo otro," I said instead. "Solo tengo este," again ruining this fine language. And yet...
"No tengo billetes pequenos," he said. Or I think he said.
"No lo se," I parried. "No lo se."
He thought about it for a moment. He gave me back my 50.
"Para mi, no es problema."
"A, vale, gracias," I answered. He repeated his expiation of culpability, his hands raised to emphasize the point. I thanked him again and proceeded to the back of the bus. The victory was not the saving of 1.6 euros (which also would have been comped with appropriate receipting), but of earning another story badge, another Spanish moment, and another giddy grin for no good reason.
How to enjoy French cuisine
France is famous for its food. Fine dining, elegant cafes, romance - that's what Paris is there for, yeah? Let's digress to allow Jonathan Richman his say on Paris:
Well if you've been to cities but you've had enoughGee, that was fun. Anyway, I didn't have time nor the desire to give most of Paris that chance. On my fourth trip to the city, I felt like only two things would fire up my interest in Paris: good time in the art museums, and having a companion, likely romantic but potentially otherwise, to share in the good times. I didn't really have either situation going on here, so I was left with the aforementioned fine cuisine.
Have you been to Paris, France?
And if you doubt that Paris was made for love
Give Paris one more chance
The home of Piaf and Chevalier
Must have done something right to get passion this way
If you don't think Paris was made for love
Give Paris one more chance
Well now I'm calling it arrogant, calling it cruel
(Give Paris one more chance)
And also trop civilisé et mon dieu, c'est trop cool
(Give Paris one more chance)
But if you don't think Paris was made for love
Maybe your heart needs a telegram from up above
If you don't think Paris was made for love
Well give Paris one more chance
Well now there's some things I don't like and some things I do
But give Paris one more chance
I can see why Paris would be ugly for you
But give Paris one more chance
The home of Piaf and Trenet too
Must have done something right
Must have something for you
If you don't think Paris was made for love
Give Paris one more chance
Now hear the boys singing Bee Gees songs under the skies
(Give Paris one more chance)
And on the steps of Montmartre they harmonise
(Give Paris one more chance)
Because if you don't think Paris was made for love
Maybe your heart needs a telegram from up above
If you don't think Paris was made for love
Give Paris one more chance
Let's wrap it up..
Well if you've been to cities but you've had enough
Have you been to Paris, France?
And if you doubt that Paris was made for love
Give Paris one more chance
The home of Piaf and Charles Aznavour
Must have done something right
And will do something more
If you don't think Paris was made for love
Give Paris one more chance
Alright
Give Paris one more chance
We'll skip the free food doled out at the venue dining area (though it was good) and the hotel breakfasts and stick to dinner. My annotated dinners over the four nights read as follows:
Wednesday - Before dinner, Danny, the head coach of our team, and I went for a bite near the hotel. I got calimari in the form of fries, which was interesting.
Then came the coaches' meal, which featured an entrée (French for appetizer, I guess), a main dish, and dessert. For an entrée: rabbit patè. It looked like a pale circle of ham and didn't taste that much different, but it was good, and the center had this delicious jelly that sealed the deal. Danny was much grossed-out by that option.
For a main course: Beef Filet. Originally I was scheduled to get salmon, but there was an extra plate of the good stuff, so I grabbed it. The French like their meat on the raw side, as do I (we'll see more so in a second), so this was right up my alley, with the encircling piece of the beef filled with a stuffing or sauce or something that also elevated the level.
For dessert: Chocolate cake. Self-explanatory.
All this and the halfway-decent red wine made me a happy man the first night.
Thursday - I met up with the family friends and we went to an Italian place in their neighborhood. With patience and diligence, I ate a gràtinee for the entrée, which was basically melted cheese over tomatoes (blech) and eggplants (good), in a plate of tomato sauce. I also assisted on an effort to eat a bunch of small fish that Olga, my kind hostess, ordered.
Already feeling nearly sated, I plowed through a carbonara, finishing the beef on the pasta after a steady effort. It was all too much though, and we turned down dessert for a chance at a peaceful tea and some chocolate wafers back at Olga's house. Also, I took the receipt.
Friday - This time I met up with Ben and his girlfriend (more on those details later). We agreed to go to the neighborhood he was staying in, not far from the center of the city. From there, we set out for a restaurant he had his eye on from the night before. I told him there was only one stipulation from me for where we should eat, and he immediately recalled our previous meal in Paris, two years before, when I noshed on some steak tartare.
Fortunately, his spot had it. And so our meal went off without a hitch. For an entrée the three of us split escargot, getting the full French cuisine action going on. The tartare was delicious, a raw beef patty with spices on the side to give it kick as needed. We drank a bottle of Bordeaux that I selected (though our nice Hungarian waitress told us that wouldn't have been her choice...excusez moi!), we talked of light matters and matters of the heart, and after the dinner we continued (again, more details in a second). Again, I took the receipt.
Saturday - After our team's relatively triumphant tourney (7th out of 10, a 2-2-1 record, a win over the tournament champs), we decided to treat them to a pizza meal. Our bus dropped us off on the Champs d'Elysses, the driver warning us that we had a scant hour and a half to enjoy the meal before he had to take us to the airport five hours ahead of our flight (El Al is not that absurd in their security procedures; the guy was just squeezing us). We had one player on the team, actually our one all-tournament team selection, who is half-French and half-Mexican, and he directed us to Pizza Pino.
Pizza was the simple thing to order for the team, easily apportioned and shared among 15 kids. But as a coach, I had a little bit more leeway in my selection. Thinking about France and thinking about Israel, weighing what my options were and what they would be, I made the only choice I could, and ordered another steak tartare.
My second tartare in 18 hours was a little looser in presentation but it came with an egg. It was also very good. I was again quite sated, a necessity before the long trip home. And no, I didn't manage to snag the receipt this time; that would have been a bit too much of a reach.
So, in four dinner meals, I managed to eat cow in four different forms. I also had steak or beef filet twice at the venue dining hall. I guess what I'm trying to say that in Europe, the answer to "Where's the beef?" is either Paris or my belly.
A last story, a funny meeting
As mentioned, I met up with Ben. It had been in July that we last saw each other, on a day where we watched Spain take the Euro 2008 tournament in football and then took in the film, Lucia y el Sexo. A good, Spanish-themed day. And we're meeting up again when I go to visit him in Madrid for Thanksgiving, which is sure to lead to more silly adventures.
But let's return to the recent past. On Friday, right after our first win in the ISST tournament in at least 14 years, I went into the city to meet Ben. That win was notable not only because of the game itself, but because of the silliness of my role in it. (Of course it comes back to me! Whose blog is this, anyway?) Our first game that morning was a rough game that saw two of our players ejected and saw us give up more than two goals for the only time on the weekend as we went down 1-4. It rained through that game, and as we were supposed to have a nice long break between first and second game, I went back to the hotel to shower, write, and relax.
In the hotel I did those things, and also told an unseen maid below me (we had a duplex room, so I was in the top "floor" of the room, Danny in the bottom) that she shouldn't come now. Actually, I told her nothing, and didn't even walk down to see her, as I only had boxers on. But when she said, "Apres," I recalled the Regina Spektor song, "Apres moi," and remembered that meant after, and parroted the maid. I'm not completely helpless, at least.
Anyway, while lying in a half-dressed, post-shower state, writing to my heart's content in my weathered notebook, I received a phone call. "Who the hell would call me?"
I answered the phone. It was somebody from the tournament. We had decided to play in 20 minutes. No big deal, right? I could just walk over, a 10-minute walk, and make the game. Except, of course, I had the key to the locker room. And so while they offered to send me a car to pick me up, I decided it'd just be faster to jog over to the field. And I remembered that even in crappy, cold, cloudy, raw weather, it is possible to break a sweat.
Satisfied with my vital contribution to our win, I looked forward to the meeting with Ben. I had sent him an e saying I might be a half hour early for our scheduled rendezvous (see? More French!) on Pont Neuf. We selected the location because it's central, and because it was in the Bourne Identity, and besides some of our high school friends decided I might actually be Jason Bourne due to my travels and secrecy, or something.
I figured Ben wouldn't get the email, so I was prepared to walk around Pont Neuf on my own. I did a lap of the famed bridge, realizing as I walked that "Pont Neuf" as a meeting place wasn't very specific. After the lap, I limited myself to traversing one side of the bridge back and forth, crossing the Seine 6-8 times in total. To keep myself amused, I sang songs. Mostly my songs, as I'm fairly self-centered. Then I started improvising new songs, laying bad Spanish lyrics over a tinny dance beat in my head, shaking my ass as I sang to myself. Have you figured out that I'm crazy yet?
Ben y su novia arrived a half-hour late, and were fortunate to catch me on the right bank, resting between trips. We quickly agreed on dinner, as detailed above.
Really, I just wanted to talk about the singing on Pont Neuf, but I might add the fun we had at their rented apartment afterwards. By fun I mean that in opening a bottle of wine, I tugged on the cork too hard and spilled a little. No big deal, except I did it right over a nice white wool chair. Which was still not too big a deal, as la novia, Liz, knew of a way to take care of red wine stains - rubbing them out with white wine. It made almost too much sense, but it worked. At least as far as I knew. And it was the right backdrop for our talks of matters of the heart. By matters of the heart, I of course include fantasy football. As a friend puts it, le sigh.
Don't worry, friends, because in the coming weeks I'll be going to Spain, as mentioned, but also following knowingly in Jesus' steps for a weekend, I believe. Doesn't make sense? Let it lie, then, just let it lie. It'll clear up soon enough. Laila tov, all of you.
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