Parisian Blur

I feel like I spent more time on the train, stuck on the outskirts of Paris, than I did in city.  After the Eurostar debacle, I arrived in Paris (at the Gare du Nord), raced though the Metro to St. Germain des Pres, checked into my hotel, and headed to my event at Sciences Po.  To save time, I changed into my suit in the loo on the train. 

Later in the evening, I dined on duck foie gras and roast duck breast with Armagnac sauce (yes, I double-ducked) at La Petite Chaise, arguably the oldest restaurant in Paris, depending on who you ask.  Then I went to bed, slept far too little and woke up with just enough time to linger for a few moments at a cafe on the corner and attempt to complete one important errand, a visit to FNAC.  Foiled again: FNAC doesn't open until 10 AM, and I needed to head back to the Gare du Nord to catch another train bound for Belgium.  Merde!

Note: LSB and I love FNAC, sort of a French audio/video/electronic/book superstore (like a French Best Buy and Borders combined, but cooler...because its French and I can't understand most of it--which adds a level of mystery to the shopping experience).

Probably The Best Blog Post on The Internet

Covent Garden/Big Ornaments

I started this post at about 4:21 PM on Tuesday morning, wide awake from a brutal combination of jetlag and spicy Indo-Pakistani food from a hole-in-the-wall Indian restaurant that billed itself as having “Probably the best grilled and cooked items in London.” A bold and somewhat puzzling claim.

Now, as I sit in Coach 4, Seat 15 on the 10:25 AM Eurostar departing London on my way to Paris—riding backwards through the English countryside toward The Chunnel--it seems like a good time to finish in a more coherent state.

Somehow I found myself in this hallway.  I did not linger.

Yesterday, I spent the early afternoon wandering through the cold, rainy streets of London, jumping on and off a double-decker tour bus, and passing by the Tower of London, The Tower Bridge, Leicester Square, Trafalger Square, and Covent Garden.

In search of a cozy pub for lunch, I came across a sign with a photo of a meat pie in front of "The Coal Hole, a potential lunch destination.  The pie had a large bone protruding from it, reminding me of Sweeney Todd. In spite of the awesome pub name, I did not eat there.  I ate here:

Vaguely satisfying fish and chips (with a side
of mashed peas) and a Ghost Ship IPA

Later in the evening, a group of us went to dinner at Raavi Kebab.  A small, simple restaurant down a narrow street near a cluster of South Asian restaurants and markets.  It was recommended by someone at our hotel, who told us that it was real Indian food and not English Indian food.

I took our waiter’s recommendation and ordered something called nihari, an “exceptionally tasteful Indo-Pakistani thick sauce dish” with chunks of lamb, ginger, garlic, spices, etc. It was exceptionally tasteful. It was also exceptionally spiceful.  When we finished and it was time to pay—always an ordeal with 6 people who all need detailed, individual itemized receipts in order to expense their meal—the bill arrived. 

The opposite of itemized.

Now, a bit groggy, but slowly recovering after a Caffé Nero cappuccino, I’m about to head 100 meters below sea level (according to Metropolitan, the Eurostar magazine) under the English Channel.  Wish me luck.

Supermarket window display

Update: This was mostly written on Tuesday morning and I have since passed under the Channel--miraculously leaving cold, gray, and wet England and arriving in cold, gray, and wet France.  At which point our super-fast and super-modern train stopped in the middle of the French countryside (about 45 minutes from the outskirts of Paris) for almost 3 hours.  Sacre Bleu!  Apparently, the TGV ahead of us hit "a metal object" on the tracks.  They ran out of sandwiches and eventually started giving away candy bars.  I feasted on a lunch of Twix, potato chips, and Bordeaux. 

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A Moveable Feast

crêpes on a sunny day

After our weekend wallowing in The Mountain Cheese, we took the TGV from Annecy to Paris, in order to spend a few days of vacation. We checked-in to our hotel near Montparnasse and jumped on the Metro to Montmartre to take in the view of the city from the Sacré-Coeur basilica, and, more importantly, find a good place for dinner.

the other streets were really crowded

We wandered the crowded streets a bit, debated whether or not we wanted to pay the admission fee to climb the steps to the top of the dome of the basilica, considered whether or not my fear of heights would paralize me halfway up the narrow staircase, and then turned around and bought gelato. Eventually, the hoards of tourists and hunger pangs forced us back down the hill, and an inebriated vagabond, who was trailing a little bit too close behind, flushed us out of the series of narrow alleys we were strolling through to a main street lined with cafés. Still indecisive about dinner--we're always indecisive about dinner--we ducked into a bar near Abbessess to regroup over mojitos and caipirinhas.

Our cocktails came with popcorn

Fortified by our tropical libations, we headed back down the alley in search of food. After spending 4 days in the Haute-Savoie eating large, traditional French meals accompanied with much cheese and wine, we opted for something a bit different for dinner.

Le Mono, a Togolese restaurant we found in a restaurant guide given to us by LSB's folks before the trip, was a bit of a hole in the wall, but in a cozy way. Our Mozambican (which is nowhere near Togo, in case you were wondering) waiter was desheveled and more than a bit odd. He spoke English in long, slow, drawn-out phrases that left a lot space for us to make quick, slightly uncomfortable glances at each other while we waited for him to finish. He pointed out the items on the menu that he recommended, and when I asked about a few of the other things listed, he gave me a strange sideways look, as if to say, "nooo...I wouldn't advise you to order that."

It is probably needless to say, but we ordered from the list of waiter-approved items, which started with an appetizer sampler of various fried things from the sea (cod, crab, oysters, etc.) and the house punch--a seriously potent blend of rum, lemon, muddled (more like pulverized)ginger, and cane sugar. LSB ordered a whole fish (Kingfish, I believe) for the second time on the trip (in spite of her previous well-documented difficulties). I don't remember what I ordered, because something entirely different came out. It was some kind of ochre-based stew or savory broth with chunks of fish in it. I also had manioc (a.k.a yucca or cassava), which our waiter described as "a tree that grows under the ground." I guess that's a good enough way to describe a big root.

The combination of the house punch, odd atmosphere, and way too much--but quite good--food left us sleepy and lethargic, so we called it a night.

The following day started with coffee at a corner café. We wandered mostly around the Left Bank, stopping in St. Sulpice, strolling through Luxembourg Gardens, pausing for crêpes, and continuing on to the Pantheon for some after-lunch crypt-peeping. We crossed the river to visit a speciality food/baking store to buy some gifts for folks back home before heading back toward the Latin Quarter for another decidely unFrench dinner. Wait, that's not exactly true--we did have rosé with our sushi.

In the morning, after a short ride on the Air France bus to Orly, I found myself on Air Iberia once again, for my return trip to Boston (via Madrid). LSB got to sleep in before catching her British Airways flight out of Charles de Gaulle and then was upgraded from her luxurious World Traveller Plus seat to First Class.

At least my plane was not musty this time.

Angling for Osmerus Mordax

Osmerus Mordax in Unnatural Habitat

"At the time of year when most anglers hang up their rods,
store their gear, and warm the easy chair next to the fireplace, Rainbow Smelt offer an opportunity for action!"

- Captain Dave

We told ourselves that this time would be different. It was much warmer this year and there were no snowstorms to contend with. We chose a different location and we had learned important lessons from last year--lessons on depth and jiggling. We were prepared to stare into the dark trench carved into the the ice beneath our shanty and patiently wait for the shifting tides to draw the schools of prey to the chunks of bloodworms dangling near the bottom of the river bed. Most importantly, we brought more beer.

This impulse purchase turned out to be a bad one

We took the Downeaster from Boston to Portland--our arrival slightly delayed by a jarring emergency stop in the New Hampshire countryside, which the conductor informed us was "on account of morons on the tracks." After a night out in the Old Port, we headed to a 4-Hour Sale! at a redneck wonderland, where we bought gifts for our friend's newborn baby and felt slightly frightened about being American.

It had me at: "when Pappy cleans his gun..."

This place was truly amazing. It had a huge fake habitat in the middle with a variety of taxidermic specimens scattered about in life-like poses, an aquarium with local species of fish, a carnival-like shooting gallery, cafe, and a Bargain Cave. Paul immediately went to find some fishing paraphernalia and then I lost track of Dan somewhere near the jerky section. When I came across Dan again, he warned me of the masses of "Wilford Brimley-looking people wandering through the gun section." Incidentally, if I'm ever under attack by zombies, nazis, communists, or aliens and need to arm myself, Cabela's is the first place that I would break into.

Squirrel

After an hour or so of superstore awe, we left to have a primitive, manly brunch of crab meat benedict (served over wilted baby spinach) and gather supplies for our evening on the frozen confluence of Kennebec and the Androscoggin.

Our friend, Hugh, could not make the trip this year, but he sent along a package that we were to open once we arrived at our smelt shanty. The package contained a tin of octopus in oil (with “man pills” written with a Sharpie on the top), some pictures that he created/altered (including one of Bill O’Reilly--“You are about to enter a NO SMELT zone”--and another of Alton Brown with a quote that made absolutely no sense to us), and a letter instructing us to eat the man pills and hang the pictures on the walls of the shanty. We obliged. None of this is strange to those who know Hugh.

Arthur C. Clarke reminds us of the Big Picture

outside our smelt shanty

We spent most of the next 6 hours in our shanty—trying to keep the fire going in our stove, drinking beer, cooking kielbasa with onions, and catching a bunch of shiners (like a smelt, only smaller and less desirable) and even the occasional smelt. As the evening wore on, the beer in our bucket was slowly replaced by minnows of various sizes. Full disclosure: I'm the one who kept letting the fire die and managed to pull only one smelt out of the water, but I did my fair share of cooking, eating, and drinking.

Deadliest Catch

Dan and I left the next day, after another lumberjack brunch—this time my eggs benedict came with caramelized onions and brie. We left the few smelt we caught (3 or 4?) in Maine for Paul to give to his grandmother, who is apparently a smelt fanatic, and headed South on the Downeaster.

A poolside iguana and a train through Bohemia

This is a life I could get used to: wake up in the late morning, drink my coffee on a balcony overlooking a pool surrounded by palm trees and the ocean just beyond, wander around plantation ruins in the afternoon, sip rum punch in the shade of the sea grape trees on a soft sand beach…

Rum punch under the sea grape trees

I used to think that vacation was about adventure and challenge: figuring out the train schedules in a small, gritty city in Poland; lugging a backpack through a crowded street market to see the 27th most significant church in Central Europe; struggling over a menu offering "fried frog things" and other creatively translated fare, and eventually coming home with a new stamp in my passport and sense of accomplishment.

The East (not the Caribbean)

I've been there, I've seen famous cultural things, I've eaten strange food (and may/may not have gotten sick from it), and learned how to say "may I have a beer, please" in other languages. I'm somehow a better person—more knowledgeable, or worldly even.

Church of some importance

-

But, I'm tired and need a vacation.

Lately, this structured wanderlust, while still alive and kicking, has ebbed slightly, allowing me to experience vacation in a different way--the way my wife prefers it: on a beach, looking out at the water, with a rum drink in hand.

Our latest vacation, billed as Honeymoon, Part II, was a late April escape from Boston to St. John, USVI. I had never really been to the Caribbean before—with the exception of a short business trip to San Juan, PR a few years back—and was anxious to experience a new island, in another ocean (Honeymoon, Part I was in Kaua'i). There was a significant period of my life (ages 9-17) when a trip to a tropical island would have been my greatest dream. I used to be oddly fascinated with lizards, fish and other tropical creatures—the result of a childhood raised on too much Jacques Cousteau and too many PBS nature shows, I guess. At that time, the closest I got to living this life was a few vacations to Cape Cod and the North Carolina coast.

A poolside iguana in St. John

Over time, and after the gradual realization that a career in marine biology was not exactly what I thought it was, this interest faded a bit. I discovered Jack Kerouac and Milan Kundera, visited Europe and fell in love with backpacks, trains, and (briefly) hostels. I learned to subsist almost entirely on baguettes, cheese, and cheap wine. As I longed to push further East--colder, darker, bleaker--my interest in becoming Pierre Cousteau and owning a huge pet iguana was repressed. To me, a vacation on a tropical island was like a cruise that didn't go anywhere. Where are the Soviet-style block apartments? What do you mean you can't get there by train? Why is everybody smiling? That blue sky is unnatural!

As I get older, I'm learning to reconcile my leisure life as lizard-loving snorkeler with my inexplicable fascination with Eastern Europe. A trip to Berlin a few years ago helped provide an improbable fusion: at some point after the fall of the Wall, East Berliners, dumped loads of sand along the Spree River and created several beach bars on the banks--complete with deck chairs, thatched roof bars, and reggae music.

Lounging with my feet in the sand and a cold drink in my hand in the heart of gritty Berlin, all was well with the world...

A warm shack (on a frozen river): Part I

"So, how does this thing stay on top of the ice?" I asked, several hours into our evening on the Cathance River.

Smelt shanties on the Cathance...

By then we had already baited our hooks with some pretty evil-looking blood worms, dropped our lines into the cold, dark water, eaten our oily Italian subs, finished off a few beers, and settled in for the Big Wait in smelt shanty #31, a 8' x 10' shack that appeared to have been assembled from scrap lumber and discarded siding.

#31

"Good question...haven't really thought about it," replied Paul, our resident Mainer, veteran fisherman, experienced outdoorsman, and renter of shanty #31.

Paul

The trip began 24 hours earlier with a less complicated question: should we have a second beer or try to figure out which platform our train would be leaving from? A nasty nor'easter had descended on Boston, threatening to cancel our weekend plans, and my friend Dan and I were hunkered down amidst a mass of irritable commuters at a bar inside North Station waiting for our train, the “Downeaster,” to board. Dan is a trivia jockey, Quaker, Canadian dual-citizen, Giant’s fan, and returned Peace Corp volunteer who has eaten cuy--but he had never sat on a frozen river waiting for the smelt to bite.

Cuy

After a slight delay at the bar, we boarded the train and found our seats in what was an extremely crowded car (Who are these people? Who goes to Maine in late February?). Eventually, settling into the restaurant car with a pint of bourbon and a packet of beef jerky, we took the Downeaster, North, through the nor'easter to Portland, ME. Conversation drifted between topics: new indie bands, old indie bands, the relative merits of the New Yorker as compared to Harpers and The Atlantic, and other pseudo-hipster-urbanite nonsense deserving of some serious dirty looks at a smelt camp in Maine.

The Downeaster (on a nicer day)

The train slowly chugged through the snow, arrived at the Portland train station a bit later than expected, and spewed us forth with the masses of Mainers. We met Paul at the curb out front and were whisked away into the night in his family's mini-van for a mellow evening of microbrews and billiards in the Old Port, followed by a decent nights sleep in the suburbs of Portland...