Bicycle! Bicycle! Making life roll on

I think this was my first 2 wheeler. It was red or some shade of it. It was a rental bike purchased after the summer season. This isn't the bike I learned how to ride a 2 wheeler, that was in Silver Springs, Md (the summer before this photo was snapped) on a Sting Ray with a banana seat.
After I finally learned how to ride without training wheels (9 was considered old), I couldn't get enough of it and loved to do it. I even managed to save up babysitting money in high school, to buy a Peugeot V-9 that eventually got stolen in my 20s. A rash of other bikes that also got stolen. Till finally I became part of the monster of NYC in the 80s and bought a stolen bike at Astor Place. Another Raleigh, a green one and I've had it since 1985. The hub dates it from Nov 1972. It is heavy, hard to pedal and hard to manoeuver in traffic. It has a nice vintage feel, but at this point, I'm over it. I am a middle aged person leaving my old reliable bike for a younger fresher one.
Infidelity, it's not just about men and woman.

This is how my new 'sweet young thing' showed up today. In a box brought by a kindly Fed Ex fellow. Just like you can get a dog, boy friend, shoes, vitamins or a hand bag, I got it over the Internet. It came all the way from San Francisco (a piece of my heart still lingers there) from Public (note name on box). They are quite wonderful, have a great 'bike ethic/philosophy', the kind of thing that flowers well out there in SF. I did a test ride on a 'test bike' at the equally lovely bike store, 'Adeline, Adeline' in Tribeca (who is beginning to carry Public bikes) and fell in love. It was the peppy, ease of handling, the ability to step through vs swing my leg over the back and the color, ORANGE seduced me.

http://publicbikes.com/

It came assembled, except for the handlebars and pedals. Switched out the seat for the Brooks that I had on the Raleigh, attached my basket and voila! It was ready to roll. My first destination was to buy a lock, which set me back a pretty penny, but allegedly the best money (more than I planned) could buy. As I cruised over to the bike store, most people ignored me, but there were a few head turns. While chatting at the HUB (another good bike place) a french couple walked by and the woman swiveled her head and said to her companion (in French) what a nice bicycle, such a belle couleur!) I smiled, heart beating proudly and gave her a thumbs up.

Which leads me to my next transatlantic translation–French conversation classes.
Will report on that after I get going. My class starts this Wednesday. Esperez-a-moi, bon chance! Just so you know, I will be riding my bike to class, weather permitting.

Transatlantic Translation

Last month, (Was it really just last month? It seems like a season ago.) I had a vacation in Europe, beginning with Amsterdam. It was wonderful, all of it, but especially Amsterdam.

Hadn't been there in 20 years, back when the stamps were beautiful and the city was grittier. Now the opposite is true. But the bicycles! The bicycle paths! The traffic patterns! I could wax on and on. Sitting here writing this listening to a Chopin waltz reminds me of the fluidity of cycling in Amsterdam: romantic, precise, a joy. See, I am waxing on....

I felt like I was seeing the city at the perfect angle, speed, height to take in a small antique/modern city that is comfortable like a living room, but filled with busyness and purpose and BICYCLES! The proximity of people in cafés to the street is narrow, but you get a better seat close to the action of people walking their dogs, their children or better yet riding them around in baskets or carts designed for (what else) bicycle transport.

So I returned home (after some more of Europe: Belgium and a bit of France, tbd later) converted, nigh religious fervor and thought, well NYC has bike paths, but with the contentiousness, adolescent arrogance of cyclists being beyond rules, potholes and rogue cars that would rather ignore 2 wheels vs their four. NY is in medieval times for the bicycle renaissance, but I believe, so I will ride. Not that I hadn't, since before high school, but now it is a different conviction. A desire to navigate the city in middle age with wheels to be beyond the pedestrian when I can. Baby boomer logic of fighting age? Perhaps, but that would be a useless discussion, why bother. Just let me pedal and life will take care of itself.

My next post is how I am making the bicycle conversion.

Bienvenue a Paris, 'Le Chateaubriand'

 

The first restaurant burnt down. Chatelet des Isles, according  to the voice message had a 'force majeure' a fire, and was closed. My friend that I am visiting couldn't think of anything so I gave her the recent NY Times article on Paris to jog her memory.

Donc, it is how we ended up waiting In line to get into 'Le Chateaubriand'.
We were told they took non reservations in a half hour, so we went to a lovely wine bar or cave a vin across the street and had a WONDERFUL bottle of red, which made us very silly. Perhaps it was the alcohol of the first bottle, but my friend suddenly remembered coming to Le Chateaubriand twice before, remembering it as terrific. Emerging from the cave a vin close to an hour later, there was a line in front of the restaurant. Actually, a LINE. The waiter came out and told us, (the line) that it would be an hour wait and anyone behind us on said line would be MORE than an hour wait. Nobody budged. The waiter was mildly astonished. A few asked if they waited would they be fed. The waiter was a bit more astonished, "Why, yes...yes you will eat." The stoic gourmands quietly nodded their heads, set their jaws and did not budge. This being France, people could wait in line outside the restaurant with a glass of wine. Our trio declined this activity, being lubricated enough for the time being. We waited....waited...40 minutes my friend pulls out a half eaten 'Larabar' declaring it dinner if things went amiss....50 minutes later, we were thinking, saying, "Chateau-peut etre, briand-mon cul. (translation: Chateau-perhaps, briand-my ass)
We found out from the people behind us, the British father being less stoic, complaining he wasn't about to wait for an hour he had to work the next day and didn't care what this place was..... The French mother told us that the chef of the restaurant had won a world culinary award the week before in London, #9 in the world which puts him in the 'Young Turk' category beyond Ducasse. So the buzz was real. It was not only the NY Times article.
BTW- One of the daughters of the franglais couple knew the chef and shortly after the Dad's declaration (10 minutes into our wait) were quickly escorted a interiuer.I had assumed because it is Easter and Paris is empty of Parisians, we would be sitting next to people from New Jersey with Connecticut a few tables away with perhaps Wash DC in the corner. There was a lot of English spoken inside the restaurant by the patrons. Actually we did end up sitting next to a swanky young couple (he Gucci shoes, she Chanel bag and large bling ring) from New Jersey.
Go figure.
Anyway, back to the LINE.

Eventually we made it inside to the counter, had a glass of not so great champagne and glared at the table (that we knew would be ours) of people sitting on their check. I don't think we were the only ones glaring....
Enfin, we are seated. The magic begins...

The menu is prix fixe and a fixed menu. I think we were served 9 dishes and they were all quite amazing. Some were tiny and delicate and a couple had strange things like frozen parmesan with peas and cream fraiche or something creamy. It sounds weird, but it was kind of transcendent. There were two small mains, a pork and a fish (see below). The fish had pink tamarind powder and it was quite wonderful.

It was all worth the wait. An interesting different scene for me and Paris. The trio of us had a good time: we ate, we drank, we laughed. I's a t nice memory of the trip. Have had good gastronomic range from the great heights described. above to a quintessential jambon, fromage, beurre on a baguette with a Leff beer....also quite yum, a macarron (cafe) and a strawberry tart. Did I mention the wine? More to report of earlier parts TK. Bonne nuit from Paris.Bises xxxo D

If it's Tuesday it must be Belgium

I was in Belgium on Tuesday, left for France on Wednesday and was in Holland before Belgium. It's a bit whirlwind. But the weather has been fabulous and I'm having a wonderful time. This photo is from the park across from the Hotel de Ville in Brussels. I have a few more Belgium photos a little more and a little less formal.

The famous Mannekin Pis in Belgian Chocolate....one typical Belgian archetype blended with another. It is not fair to Belgium to sum up a small but quite cultural, progressive country with this image. But I am not making summations, just quick impressions.  It has been a nice trip so far, and I will go back and do more 'reporting' and include Amsterdam. The better photos are on my iPhone and I need to download them on my home computer. Now in France, in the Loire  Atlantic region and the weather is even better (how can that be?). So don't hate me because I am in a beautiful place.....Leaving tomorrow for the hustle bustle of Paris. Will attempt to cram in all the social flutter a city of it's repute deserves. Stay tuned....

Lists/Playlists/ Life and its Alternative

I am in the ocean tumble of living, grieving, trying to pay bills and litigation.
Yup, life keeps going....thank goodness.
She is free and so am I.
It will take a little getting use to...

So what am I listening to?
Yes, it's a little manic depressive:
Mozart's Requiem in D
Somewhere Over the Rainbow IZ version with ukelele
(Both aforementioned)
Beethoven's 7th-2nd movement (the one they use in 'The King's Speech')
Erasure-Chains of Love  (love it!)
I can't quite believe I'm quoting an Erasure song but:
How can I explain when there are few words I can choose
How can I explain when the words are broken
We use to talk about the weather, making plans together, days would last forever...
Come to me, Cover me, Hold me
Together we'll break these chains of love
Don't give up...Don't give up...
Together we'll be free and break these chains of love....

Look, I know this is more about Gay pride, choice, and perhaps AIDS, but a good pop song can stretch over many interpretations. If I want to find meaning in it because of my Mom's passing, it's my story and I'm sticking to it. As much as Mozart's Requiem being about my mother's death. Same/same, but different. Erasure also reminds me of a time of my feckless youth: filled with nights of romp, clubs, art openings, big hair, dark red lipstick and lots of camera flash (mostly my camera flash). Parents were neither alive or dead, but calling you to see if you were still around and conscious.

There was my mother reaching beyond the grave when I found out that she had upgraded her casket to one of the high end ones. In doing so, she 'neglected' to pay the burial fee. So it was left for me to 'clean up' the place after she left. I have to laugh, though I was a bit miffed. We all did. Thanks for keeping it real Mom. My Mom knew it was the last time anyone was going to see her. She wanted to look great, and she did.

The funeral was a necessary closure, a welcomed one. These rituals are here for a reason, and I have found out that they can really help. People showed up, they were kind and gracious. I was glad to be in the south, where such behavior (despite any agenda or back story) is as natural as breathing. Perhaps it is a matter of dialect? The southern drawl instead of the clipped Yankee? The casket did look beautiful, as did the flowers (which I picked out and gladly paid for). There was a perfect place for her at the family plot. The cemetery is in the center of town, in the shadow of the great Tuscaloosa football 'cathedral'. She can cheer if she wants to. The game has changed a lot since her youth and 'Bear Bryant'. (I wouldn't necessarily say it's progress, just growth.) It was a lovely day, 70 degrees, sunny, a light breeze, as easy to take as my Mom was easy on the eyes.  Her last words to me were 'come back'. I did and I will return again to see the rest of my family. Godspeed Mom.

Ahh she was a beauty.....

My Mom about age 22

 about age 21

early on in NYC, about 26 years old

That's me, less than 1, Mom is 39

Mom's 43, I'm 3 and a half, I still have the towel (really)

Mother/Daughter/Eternity–a work in progress

I actually used my mother's 'dying' as an excuse to a cab driver, so he would leave me alone, for trying to explain taking the wrong route home from the airport.
My mother hasn't passed away as of yet. But the time is nigh. She has pneumonia and has lost a lot of ground.
I was asked if I wanted to take 'aggressive action' or 'keep her comfortable'. This is code for sending her to the hospital where she will be hooked up to monitors and machines, perhaps a feeding tube to put off the inevitable. Supposedly someone with dementia has a harder time with this because of the lack of familiarity. 'Comfortable' is code for managing pain, remaining at the facility, in this case a nursing home, and having her symptoms managed, but allowing nature to take it's course. This course would be the body shutting down.
I opted for comfortable, though it was an uncomfortable decision, and a lonely one. As soon as I signed papers I wanted to leave, had to leave to get the plane back to where I really lived, had almost always lived. Where she spent half her life, the middle section.

She's 90, it's her choice to stay or go without me forcing her hand. Let her be comfortable.

In 1945 she came to NYC, right before the war ended. She told me on VE day, all these sailors were trying to kiss her. Unlike the woman in the famous photo, she would have non of it. She came from Tuscaloosa, Alabama, a beauty queen with high spirits and a sense of adventure. Her then husband was in the air corp and brought her to NYC on a weekend. Her infidelity to home and hearth started with that visit. She knew she had to come back, no matter what.
She did. The first marriage didn't last, he wasn't who she married, and she wasn't who he hoped she would be. At 24 this is not surprising.

Her urban friends, all from other places, Texas, Alexandria Egypt, Maine all said she should be a model and work at Bergdorf Goodman. 'What's Bergdorf Goodman?'' she asked. She soon found out and did end up working there, as a runway model. Not the same as the catwalks of today, but still earning a living by her looks. She had many adventures in the golden age of New York in the 40s and 50s. It seemed like a lot of fun, and very glamorous.
Pretty good for a small time girl. She ended up living in Tudor City with 3 girlfriends while they were building the UN. The construction always woke them up.

Eventually she met my Dad, after 6 months in the Dominican Republic hanging out with the Trujillo junta set. It was suppose to be 2 weeks with a girl friend, but they just kept staying on. I even have her driver's license for the DR.  She said the guys who liked her the most came up to her neck (when she was wearing stillettos). I saw a few pictures, it looked great.
Anyway, she met my Dad and that lasted longer because they were older and they both wanted to be married and have children. Eventually I alighted on earth and both agreed separately that it was the reason they were ever together. Not the greatest psychology for a kid, but it was something they both completely agreed on.

My Mom's glamorous life was left to stories she told me and how her life was 'before'. Before me, my dad, trying to live a conventional life, that she thought she wanted, but wasn't as keen on when it enveloped her.

But her beauty did carry her, even at the nursing home. I made a small collage of old photos, people talked of her being 'like a movie star', so glamorous. It was kind of amazing, how the nurses and aides, even the hospice people today got gobsmacked over when they saw the photos. Beauty can really count for a lot. I know it's something I pursue. Not quite in the same way as my Mom did. Being a daughter of a glamorous mom, I went about it differently; rebelliously, artistically, poetically, in flats and jeans, no makeup vs heels, pencil skirts, girdles and foundation. She did tell great stories and could be really funny. Giving me tea and cinnamon toast when I had a sore throat, making handmade Halloween costumes (no boxed sets for me), collecting angels at Christmas, teaching me how to sew clothes (as close to fashion as I got).

Parents are never an even playing field. They do the best they can, which is a sliding scale. We as children slide up and down as well. When our parents have grown old, we trade places, they become our children and we take care of them. It's one of the hardest trade offs we have to deal with in our lives. Yet, it does have a natural order. I am not enjoying it, typical of a baby boomer, but it is my duty, and in some strange way that gives me solace.

I will post pictures of what I speak when I can get them scanned in.