america, f*** yeah!

Nick and I spent our last 24 hours in London enjoing the Indian food and the Tate Modern. Thanks for the advice, all. To be completely honest, though, London was a bit of a letdown after Paris. Summer in Paris turned Nick and I into horrible city snobs, apparently. I think it'll be a while before Paris's rosy glow wears off and we can learn to love another landscape.

But now I'm back, and it's great! My mom and I went out to the Northern Virginia hinterland to visit the area's sole remaining Roy Rogers yesterday. I scarfed down some fried chicken and an extra large fries, and suddenly the fire of my soul was relit. Mmmm, fried.

Some things about the US have been a bit of a shock, admittedly. Public transit here blows, for example. I miss the Paris Metro. And wow, look at us with the capitalism! Nick and I observed often on our trip that no one in the world gets capitalism like the US. In other countries, shops are closed even when I'm desperate to acquire their goods, and waiters are totally indifferent to my needs. By contrast, in the US when I'd like to acquire a good or service, 99.9% of the time someone has figured out a way to sell it to me. America is all about beating its way to your door with a better mousetrap, and that's awesome. On the other hand, the unrelenting zeal with which Yanks are encouraged to consume is kind of crazy, when you think about it, which you do when you return from a two-month absence. I walked into a Banana Republic yesterday to kill time before meeting a coworker for some drinks, and I had to leave immediately because I almost had a panic attack. I suddenly felt deeply threatened by the borg-like homogenizing power of this season's cute new apple-green silk wrap dresses. Back off, The Man! I need some time to readjust before I can suckle at your teat again. I can't wait to get back to San Francisco, where I'm a total moderate compared to all the other crazy-crunchy-granola-off-the-grid commies.

Before that, though, I've got my road trip through New England with Megan & Ginny. New Englanders, please advise. Alex, I know you'll have wise words to share about Maine. What about Boston? What should be on our to-do list there? And is the Cape or Nantucket worth the detour? I'm sort of tempted to visit the Nantucket airport because that's where the TV show Wings was filmed, so clearly I need ideas for better ways to spend our time, so that Megan is not forced to beat me to death with her bar review books.

king's cross

So, we're on the move again, which means limited internet access. Here's a quick rundown of the last few days.

July 18th - Our last night in Paris. We went back to our favorite steak frites place and reminisced about best parts of the trip so far. (I liked the gypsy caravan, and Nick liked Fete de la Musique.) Then we bought two beers and wandered down to the river. I don't really remember much after that, other than that I insisited at some point that we go to the corner store for another beer run.

July 19 - We woke up in a world of hurt, which was, as Nick pointed out, all my fault. We had to rally, though, because it was our last morning. We bought trois croissants (un for Nick, deux for me, as usual) and walked along the river to the Place des Vosges, where we watched an old man in a track suit do squat exercises among the pigeons. I'm going to miss Paris.

We took the train to Brussels afterwards, and spent the next 24 hours drinking and eating. Street waffles are awesome, by the way. Why hasn't this concept been imported to America yet? Thanks also to Alex for pointing us to a fantastic Belgian friterie.

July 20 - We fly to London and meet up with my cousin Bekah, our host for the evening. At around 11 PM we headed over to the Harry Potter queue party in Piccadilly, and I realized that the problem with going to the best Harry Potter queue party in the whole world is that people started lining up there days in advance. Not only did we not get a book that night, we didn't even manage to walk the whole length of the line, it was so long. It was fun, though, watching the crowds of costumed fans chanting, "HARRY! HARRY! HARRY!" and generally freaking out as the midnight hour approached.

July 21-22 - We bought a copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows in King's Cross station on our way to meet up with Nick's friends, which I thought was pretty neat, since I mostly know about King's Cross from Harry's adventures there. Nick's friends invited us down Pool, which is apparently known as the British Riviera. It seemed quite nice, although I can't say for sure because I spent the entire weekend inside, reading and not talking to anyone. It was totally rude, but I couldn't help myself. Harry Potter 7 is GREAT.

Tomorrow we're off to enjoy some of England's non-fiction highlights, assuming Nick can tear himself away from HP7. If you've got any London must-sees to recommend, holla!

ossuaries, reliquaries, and epiceries

Our time left in Paris is short, so we spent yesterday dashing through three must-see recommendations from friends that we had left to visit.

We started at The Catacombs, an underground network of tunnels leftover from the Romans' limestone quarries. They were converted into a mass grave in the final years of the French monarchy, because Paris was running out of burial space, and nobody (other than bacteria) likes overflowing graveyards. Monsieur Hericart de Thury, an Inspector General of the Quarries under Napoleon, decided to turn the ossuary into a tourist attraction, and had all the bones restacked in crazy patterns. You can see mosaics in the shape of hearts, crosses, and arches, all made from skulls and femurs and ribs and the like. It's nutty.

Nick and I were really curious as to how Thury decided that the public wanted to see skulls stacked into heart shapes. We paid 5 euros each for the privilege, though, so obviously he was right. We got to talking about what we'd do with the Catacombs if we had Thury's job, and decided we'd bring back the candlelit tours they offered pre-electricity, and also let people pay extra to have the guards jump out from behind corners and scare the bejeezus out of their friends. I have now officially added manager of macabre national monument to my list of potential post-midlife crisis careers. (Other possibilities: owner-manager of a socially responsible bed and breakfast in a small Mexican village, high school science teacher.)

If you ever make it to the Catacombs, be sure to read all the signs, some of which were pretty funny. Instead of warning pregnant ladies and people suffering from heart conditions to stay away, like we do in America, the Catacombs cuts to the chase and declares "weak people" unfit for entry. I also enjoyed the warning that read "The ossuary tour could make a strong impression on children and people of a nervous disposition." I guess I've got a nervous disposition, because walking out the exit into the sunlight and realizing my feet were covered in bone dust definitely made a strong impression on me.

After the Catacombs, we jumped on the train to Chartres to see Europe's best preserved medieval cathedral. It was very pretty. If you go, I highly recommend the tour with Malcolm Miller, an adorable old british scholar who makes his living by rhapsodizing about the cathedral for the tourists. (Read more here.)

Finally, we stopped by Le Bon Marche, reputedly the best grocery store in Paris. My favorite part was the foreign food, which included an American aisle, featuring jars of strawberry marshmallow fluff, and a Tex-Mex aisle with taco shells and root beer. Why root beer? I don't get it, but then this isn't the first time I've noticed that Parisians have a strange conception of Tex-Mex. We once walked by a little girl eating a hamburger with a fried egg on it in a Tex-Mex restaurant on Rue Saint-Germain. I'm sympathetic, though. I live with a Texan, and they're still a mystery to me in many ways. (Why do they all think they have a panhandle, for example? Chimney, maybe. Pot-lid, sure. But that's not a panhandle - THIS is a panhandle.)

Anyway, thanks to everyone who shared their Paris recommendations with us, especially Jason and Stacey. We were lucky to have the advice of two savvy tourists like them.

champagne makes everything delightful

champagne makes everything delightful
Originally uploaded by Ffoggy

Today we went to Champagne and toured the Moët et Chandon cellars. Champagne is one of many of the finer things in life that I'm not that excited about, or at least I wasn't until today. The House of Moët , though, is REALLY good at convincing you that they are awesome, and that you'd be lucky to have a sip of their awesomeness.

For example, they offer you the chance to pay a little extra to taste the vintage champagne, and then when you're walking through their 18 km of cellars on the tour, you see the same vintage champagne you're about to taste on a pedestal, under a spotlight, behind bars. No lie. Also, Jean-Remy Moët was personal friends with Napoleon, which is why all the Moët traditional champagnes say imperial on the label. Apparently every time Napoleon won a big battle, he'd travel to the House of Moët to celebrate with some of their bubbly. How ridiculously awesome is that? Now that I know that, I don't ever want to celebrate anything without a glass of Moët. Also, apparently Louis XV's mistress Madame du Pompadour said that champagne was the only wine that made women who drink it more beautiful. It's true, after three glasses, I felt totally hottttttttt. Who even cares what the champagne tastes like, after a tour like that? (It was pretty good, for the record.)

bastille day

ladies love heavy artillery
Originally uploaded by Ffoggy

Bastille Day was fun. We went to watch the military parade on the Champs-Élysées, and had the good fortune to stumble on the end of the parade where all the regiments (or batallions, or brigades, or whatever -- I have trouble with military vocab) were hanging out and getting back on their busses. They were happy to pose for pictures, and Nick and I entertained ourselves for a while getting shots of me with different kinds of French military hats.

That night we walked to the Champ de Mars to see the fireworks, which turned out to be a LONG way. I was determined to get there in time, so I busted out my best immitation of a NY commuter walk for the three mile trek. Nick was impressed -- he described the pace I set as "grueling," and claimed that if we were playing Oregon Trail our oxen would have died somewhere around Napoleon's Tomb. The fireworks were really nice, and the crowd was fun. They applauded like people do at a rock concert -- clapping and yelling during the interludes, and isolated woooo-ing during particularly awesome moments, like the spiral-shaped sparlky explosions (the firework equivalent of guitar solos).

Bastille Day was great, although dissapointingly free of any angry crowds tearing down buildings in the name of freedom. The whole thing made me miss 4th of July, though. Next year, I am SO flying to the east coast and dragging all ya'll out there into to another incredibly stupid and awesome round of tequila flip cup. Mark your calendars, for reals.

jumping

You may have been wondering, "What's with all the pictures of Anna jumping?" Here's the thing: I recently discovered that jumping is possibly the only thing in the world I do more gracefully than Nick. He's a pretty good athlete, whereas I can't always manage to walk in a straight line without tripping over myself. For some reason, though, I totally school Nick when it comes to freeze-frame pictures of jumping. For example, check out this picture of me jumping in front of Mont Saint Michel:



OK, now look at some pictures of Nick:







The awesome thing is, they're ALL like that. So when we go someplace scenic, I usually suggest that we do some jumping pictures. And then we go and share a beer and laugh while we look at them. And then I spill the beer on Nick's lap.

the last full measure of devotion

On Wednesday we toured the D-Day beaches. The combination of my history degree and Catch 22 had me kind of skeptical about all the Greatest Generation stuff. It's impossible to be a cynic at Normandy, though. Jason, who recently visited, describes pretty much exactly what I felt in his blog post on the subject, so I'll just quote him:

"Visiting Normandy was a great experience. As a California liberal pants-wetter I not only believe that all wars are regrettable but that war-making is something we should be able to transcend as a people. So being at the site of justly-celebrated use of American might made me feel a strange mix of emotions.... I can honestly say that in standing there I felt proud of being American for the first time in as long as I can remember. You're looking at a largely intact piece of German artillery and you know that this was the German Army and not the Nazis who were (you try not to over-dramatize) killing your people and you can't help think to yourself 'Yes, this is good. It's good that this was destroyed. The people who destroyed this were right and I'm proud of them for having done so.'"

Word.

One more note on my visit: as I walked through the American cemetary, lines from the Gettsyburg Address kept popping into my head. I realized that it's not only a kick-ass speech about America, but also a spot-on description of military cemetaries, and what they stand for. Check it:

"But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not hallow -- this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here."

That is SO true -- the overwhelming feeling I had at Normandy (and the Vietnam Wall, and Gettysburg) was that nothing I or anyone else could say or do would be equal to what happened there. So, thanks to Abraham Lincoln and Jason, two of my favorite orators, for expressing my feelings about our fallen soldiers better than I could. Tomorrow, back to our regularly scheduled programming of pictures of me jumping and elaborate descriptions of various foods I've consumed.

wow, so fast!

wow, so fast!
Originally uploaded by Ffoggy

On Tuesday Nick and I went to Compiegne to see the Tour de France. Our day there consisted of several hours of loafing around in cafes drinking and reading, two hours of waiting by the race route and watching various promotional vehicles drive by (bottled water,, Haribo candies, shower gel, and Les Simpsons all favored us with free giveaways), and approximately 90 seconds of bicycle racing. That 90 seconds was cool, but given that it was only 90 seconds, I kind of don't get France's national obsession with bicycle racing. I kept reminding myself that the French probably don't understand the appeal of Nascar or the Kentucky Derby, but then I remembered that I don't like those things, either.

Still, it was cool to have seen it, and I finished my book on D-Day during the aforementioned loafing, so that was nice. I think my attention span has lengthened considerably since I've been deprived of English-language TV. I definitely couldn't sit and read for four hours at a stretch this spring. Very upsetting -- I can't wait to get back to the states and my TV, where I'm sure a few episodes of The Girls Next Door will help me forget all about this disturbing discovery.

my summer reading list

I'm currently in the middle of three France-themed history books, all of which I recommend to anyone traveling to France.

The Longest Day, by Cornelius Ryan. The cover calls it "the classic epic of D-Day," and I believe it. It's chock-full of poignant details like the text of the news release Eisenhower had prepared in advance to send if the invasion failed, and the story of a British officer who read the "Once more into the breach, dear friends" speech from Henry V to his troops right before they landed on the beaches of Normandy. Very good.

The Seven Ages of Paris by Alistair Horne. A good history of how Paris ended up looking as beautiful as it does, excellent if you want to deepen your appreciation of landmarks like Pont Neuf, the Louvre, and Saint Chapelle. Also very good if you, like me, are confused by the endless monarchy-republic-monarchy-dictatorship-commune-republic switcheroos of the 19th century. As a bonus, Horne includes lots of entertaining anecdotes, such as stories of monks beaning each other with candelabra.

Instructions for British Servicemen in France, 1944, distributed by the Foreign Office. Lots of funny quotes, like a DON'T list that starts with the item "Don't criticize the French Army's defeat of 1940. Many Frenchmen are convinced that they had a fine but insufficiently equipped army, not very well led." I bought it for the humor value, but found it to be a very sensible and compassionate little book. It's a useful 10,000 foot overview of French culture and history for travelers, AND good advice for a liberating army, complete with warnings about why you should not expect a warm welcome from everyone even when you're convinced you've just done the whole country a huge favor by freeing them from a dictatorial regime. Can't imagine why that struck a chord with me.

twenty four LONG toothless hours

my smile, restored
Originally uploaded by Ffoggy

Last night Nick and I were munching on our customary pre-dinner baguette when I heard a cracking noise, and then felt something small, hard, and tooth-shaped floating around in my mouth. I've had this experience before, and let me tell you, it is NOT a good feeling. Fortunately, it was just the plastic fake tooth insert I've been wearing since one of my real teeth said sayonara last February, so there was no pain and I didn't have to deal with the emotional trauma of losing a chunk of my skeleton.

Still, I was dismayed to find myself looking like Cleetus the Slackjawed Yokel. I've been carefully hiding my lack-of-tooth from Spicer for months now, banishing him from the bathroom when I have to take out my falsie to brush. There was nothing to be done about it now, though -- I had to cave and show him my gaptoothed grin. To his credit, his insistence that I don't need all my teeth to look pretty was actually fairly convincing. Everyone else who's seen me toothless has noticeably winced, including my dentist and the lady at the DMV who took my driver's license photo. Spicer managed to keep a totally straight face, though. Maybe we shoulda gone to Vegas and hit the poker tables instead of Paris, huh?

Anyway, in a development that I'm sure comes as a surprise to no one who knows me well, I now have a dentist in Paris. He's very nice, saw me on short notice, worked efficiently, and speaks excellent English. He charges a lot, but believe me, when you need a dentist in a foreign city, you don't care much about price. I was so thankful to have my smile back that I promised I'd talk him up on the inter-web, so here we go:

Dr. Patrick Bauer
71, avenue Franklin Roosevelt
75008 Paris, Metro St-Philippe du Roule
Tel: 01-4225-7630

i try to be a good American in the south of France

breakfast at la mas de capriers
Originally uploaded by Ffoggy

Sorry for the dearth of posts this week. Nick and I took the TGV to Nice on Tuesday, rented a car, and then spent the next few days tooling around the south of France.

We started our adventure off in a hostel in Nice, where I discovered that I am too old for hostels. All the other girls there had at least three times as much skin exposed as I did, and all the conversations I overheard were about X-treme sports. Also, the staff was too busy tanning and being charmed by the beauty of life to bother with things like towels, or change for the bus.

The next day we drove west along the Cote d'Azur. We went swimming in a scenic little inlet off the side of the road, and discovered that in addition to being very very blue, the Meditteranean is very cold, and very salty. After drying off, we made our way through a whole mess of sunny valleys and scenic villages to Le Mas de Capriers, a little B&B on a farm in the middle of nowhere. Our room was a rennovated gypsy caravan from 1898, complete with a million candles and an outdoor shower. For dinner the owner Christine directed us to a local Provencal restaraunt, where Nick and I ate our first five course meal. (We thought about you, Josh -- you'd be proud. We're really making an effort to sample the finer things in France, instead of just eating falafel every night. And sometimes I really want to do that, because everything in France is expensive, and the falafel here is both relatively cheap and really delicious.)

When the sun woke us up the next morning, we went for a run through the lavender fields and vinyards, and then a swim in the heated pool. Afterwards Christine and her husband Bernard brought a breakfast of fresh-squeezed orange juice, bread, and a cherry cream tart up to a table outside our room. It was exactly what I'd hoped Provence would be, one of those great travel days when you stumble onto a place that's perfect and you know you'll never come back, because it'd never be as beautiful as it was the day you discovered it. I tried to capture it with a photo essay on breakfast, but just ended up with 30+ pictures of a coffee carafe.

We remembered in the middle of our trip that it was the 4th of July, and felt like crummy Americans for having forgotten. I mean, seriously, the south of France on the 4th? We might as well turn in our passports and burn our bras. We did penance, though, by visiting a Provencal McDonalds for some fries. (Have they also launched the "Big & Tasty" in America? Does the ad for it there feature a picture of a cowboy, a boxer, and a Native American chief?) We also made a list of things we love about America over our pre-dinner apertif. Our list included the Grand Canyon, fried chicken, excellent customer service, Bob Dylan, and American confidence in our ability to make the world a better place. Sometimes misguided, obviously, but also sometimes awesome. Superawesome, even.)

food-focused

A week or so ago, Nick and I went to the Le Relais de l'Entrecôte, after some internet research about the best place to get steak frites in Paris. It was fantastic. There's no menu. When you come in, your waitress asks you how you want your meat cooked, and what kind of wine you want, and then she disappears. Five minutes later, a salad and a plate of bread appear on your table. Five minutes after that, you're looking at a moderately sized portion of steak, covered in mysterious pesto-esque sauce, accompanied by a pile of perfect frites. After we finished, Nick and I were chatting about what a great meal it was, and then the waitress showed up with what we later realized was the other half of our steak, and another plateful of fries. Amazing! We were way too full when we left, but really happy.

The meal got me thinking about how some of the best meals I've ever had have been in restaurants that do only one thing, like Le Relais. There's Diporto Agoras, a little cafe in Athens with green-trimmed windows that had two plates of grilled fish, chick peas, and mysterious vegetable mash on our table 30 seconds after we'd sat down. And Bale Well Cafe in Hoi An, where the proprietress taught to toast in Vietnamese, and demonstrated the proper way to roll the Vietnamese pancakes we didn't order.

It makes sense that restaurants like that would be amazing. They only do one thing, so of course they've learned how to do it really well. The customers aren't allowed to mess things up by ordering something other than the best dish on the menu. It's just like we learned in business school, focused factories that only make one thing are much more productive and effective. (I wish they'd taught us that with a steak frites case study instead of a hernia hospital case study. I would have found Operations MUCH more interesting.)

I've never had the experience of not having to order in America, but the way DiFara's is totally focused on pizza artistry and almost completely indifferent to customers comes close. The way people go on pilgrimages to Magnolia Bakery to worship at the shrine of the cupcake is pretty similar, too.

Anyway, the end result of all this food-related musing is that now I'm trying to figure out what one-food restaraunt I'd like to open. Think about it -- quitting your job to learn how to make meat pies, or french fries, or iced coffee, or whatever it is better than anyone else in your hometown, to the point where people take their friends to your shop to appreciate your genius. It's kind of appealing, isn't it? I think I'm going to make this my new small-talk-starter hypothetical, and bench "If you were a Major League Baseball player, what song would they play as you came up to the plate?" I know Sheldon's answer, and I think Megan could revolutionize morning to-go food by opening New York's first bacon stand. The obvious answer for me is cupcakes, but that niche is already taken in NY, DC, and San Francisco. Maybe Thanksgiving sandwiches? This is going to take some musing.

gay pride

Saturday was the Paris Gay Pride Parade. I've never been to the one in SF, because I've been out of town the last few years, but I now realize what a tragedy that is. Gay pride, especially in parade form, is great.

My favorite float was the railway workers' float. They were blasting technno music, like every other float. Theirs, however, was periodically interrupted by the chime that precedes PA announcements on the train, the French equivalent of BART's "The doors are closing – please stand clear of the doors." People went NUTS when they heard it. I was kinda proud that I recognized it, and suddenly a little more at home in Paris, like when Nick gives a passerby directions at the beginning of The Great Gatsby.

PS: I was checking on the Inter-Web to make sure I'd got the BART announcement right, and found this list of announcements from subway systems across the world, complete with audio files. Ed, Jeff, you can thank me later.