tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89692102379157886382023-11-16T13:09:10.573+01:00Two Americans in ParisThe adventures of Karen and Rolf during their stint in France.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02639741551043308356noreply@blogger.comBlogger132125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8969210237915788638.post-47778250827993263522010-08-22T11:22:00.006+02:002010-08-22T11:43:31.817+02:00The muse has left the building<div>Apologies to anyone who was actually reading this blog- Rolf has not been inspired to write in quite some while, and you may have noticed he was carrying most of the weight. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Some updates: we are still in Paris! It looks like we will get the full two years, so although we don't have a set return date yet, end of February looks most likely. We celebrated our 20th wedding anniversary (several times, although I was in the US and he was here on the actual date, which is somehow fitting, if you know our history).</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>We have been traveling a lot this year. Since I last posted in April, I've been to Philadelphia twice, Tokyo, New Orleans; Rolf and I have been to Berlin, Hong Kong, Provence, and the French Alpes. Hong Kong was hands down the most interesting and fun. Great food, great shopping, in a setting of both natural and man-made extremes. The French Alpes were the most beautiful. Just amazingly awesome, with fantastic riding. We were underwhelmed by Provence, but it rained that whole week, and it is pretty much an all-outdoors place.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The revelation of the year was getting a table so we could eat outside on our front balcony. Why didn't we think of that last year?? Other than a stretch of cold rainy days in early August, for most of the summer this has been the way to enjoy our corner of Paris.</div><div> </div><div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508163194043363666" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBgMPRY6f27Rc619NSfT8J6Mz2Sx60BzJKejsATvNCriYoeIBmVenbMmNPUOdDr_4B68hUyXcRfknFNKZu3UfJ_ehAbcjxniyTV-SZhWO5tbxJ5mvKTBqxw5-Gv50ttKwBIDVPQPxorg/s320/IMG_0820.jpg" /></div><br /><p align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>(The Eiffel Tower is obscured in this picture, but is off on the top right corner)</em></span></p><p align="left">As we count down the days remaining, now we're back into trying to make sure we see everything here while we can. I have a longer list of things to do, since Rolf spends time out in the city while I'm at work. He's leaving next weekend for a week of biking in Italy with two of our Philadelphia teammates, so maybe I'll have to hit the sites that he has been reluctant to do twice during his absence.</p>Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02639741551043308356noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8969210237915788638.post-90304856981344590002010-04-03T14:36:00.017+02:002010-04-04T10:26:28.143+02:00One Year InWe're now solidly into year 2 of our French adventure. This comes as a bit of a surprise, since when we arrived we were not sure that we would be here beyond 6 months. But with enough chaos after the merger, and the fact that the incredibly slow and cumbersome French bureaucracy is finally working for us, it looks like we'll be able to stay here through 2010.<br /><br />So where are we? In many ways, about where I imagined we would be in April of 2009, not April 2010.<br /><br />Cycling: Rolf arrived in Paris with newly broken ribs last year. The original plan had been that he'd be riding a lot, exploring the area around Paris and figuring out the best routes, which he could then take me on over the weekends. It took awhile to heal, we figured out some of the roads, after ribs healed then knees became an issue, but it has really been in the past few months that Rolf has been spending a lot of time riding around and really checking things out. We now have a bunch of good ways to get out of Paris by bike, and nicer rides to do. I'm starting to at least recognize places I've been through before, though since I usually don't go out by myself I still don't really know where I'm going most of the time. I did one long ride alone last year with the GPS, and when it freaked out and kept sending me in circles, I just followed the signs back to Versailles (on a highway that at least has a bike lane) and from there the GPS knew where it was, and even I had a pretty good idea of where I was and how to finish the ride. We've finally found a really good <a href="http://www.franscoop.com/">bike shop</a> in Paris, and just in time, as bike parts seem to be falling apart right and left.<br /><br />Cell Phones: I really really wanted an iPhone last year, but when we arrived it made little sense to buy one for the 6 months we'd be here. This year, we're in a better place with our cell phone supplier, having already fulfilled a year's service contract, and iPhones are better and cheaper. When my iPod died a week before we were to go anyway to renegotiate our contract (to arrange for fewer hours, since we never talk on the cell phones) that sealed the deal- I was getting an iPhone. It was the same price as a new iPod- what else could I do?? Rolf decided to go for it as well and got his own. And amazingly, here the monthly service is the same as what we were already paying for ordinary phones, and in 6 months we can get them unlocked, which will make them usable back home. Cool.<br /><br />French language: I had a fantasy that somehow just being in France I'd pick up the language by osmosis. Since I spend all of my work day in an office on teleconferences with people in English, it hasn't happened. We made several half-hearted attempts to look into formal instruction, but Alliance Francaise, Berlitz, etc, were painfully expensive. I'm still on Rosetta Stone Level 1. I do read the free papers every day (Metro, Direct Matin/Soir, 20 Minutes, etc) and I'm able to understand a lot more both reading and listening. But my spoken French is abysmal.<br /><br />Getting around Paris: I am now getting a much better sense of the city- of the different neighborhoods (Arrondissements) and where they are in relation to each other. The problem of getting around by Metro is that you go underground, travel, emerge somewhere different, and really don't know how you got from point A to point B, or what was in between. The layout of Paris doesn't help either- with lots of streets radiating from multiple circles or public squares- no grid. And the long streets change names repeatedly.<br /><br />Living in Paris: We've got a pretty good grasp on Paris with regards to the things that make life comfortable- we know the best bakers, butchers, vegetable sources, fish markets, etc for specific food items, we are getting a better handle on how to negotiate day to day things, what are the French equivalents for what or how we do things, what to take advantage of in France (eg, <a href="http://www.viparis.com/Viparis/salon-paris/salon/SALON-VINS-VIGNERONS-INDEPENDANTS/fr/7530?homeType=GP">Salon des Vins</a>, Moroccan and Tunisian food), what to avoid in France (beer- go to Belgium; Indian food- UK; coffee- Italy or UK). Some things are still mysteries (can you get any restaurant type take out food delivered in Paris??) We love not having a car to worry about. Even with the frustration of constant strikes, my commute to work is much shorter and more convenient than in the US. I don't have a gym membership, but can easily run, and can ride most of the year before work to keep some marginal level of fitness. I can not get a good haircut in Paris- I've given up on the second salon I tried here, and am working instead with Rolf's haircuts in capitals of the world plan (next up- Berlin in May). I'm enjoying clothes shopping again, and may not dress nearly as well as your average French woman, but am generally much better attired than my previous US comfort-focused (aka frumpy) wardrobe. We're still exploring restaurants. There are only <a href="http://resto.hieraujourdhui.free.fr/indexeng.html">a</a> <a href="http://satellite-productions.fr/Satellite/La_Gazzetta.html">few</a> we've been back to more than once. For the most part, every Friday night is exploration night.<br /><br />We're hanging out in Paris for the Easter weekend this year (I only get Monday off instead of both Friday and Monday this time around), but there's a whole bunch of travel (both for work and fun) coming up in the next few months. So more adventures to come.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02639741551043308356noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8969210237915788638.post-36329047101120950402010-03-24T19:25:00.002+01:002010-03-24T20:35:22.048+01:00La Greve reduxI remember it was about this time last year when we had only been in France a few weeks and we got to experience our first greve (strike). It was exciting then. I'm totally over it now.<br /><br />The French strike at the drop of a hat, and especially the transit workers. Here's the secret: in France when you go on strike, you still get paid. Why not go on strike? Anyone can make up a grievance if it's going to mean a day off of work!<br /><br />However, for those of us who still go to work every day (I hear: suckers!!), and who need the Metro to be working to get there, it becomes a major problem.<br /><br />Yesterday: go to the RER station. I have a variety of options to choose on how to get from point A (apartment) to point B (work), but this one seemed (?) like a good choice, since my other major option includes 3 different Metro lines = 3 opportunities for problems. Rolf had already experienced leg one on that journey in going to get bread in the morning- bad enough that he walked home (30 minutes) from the bakery. But the RER was not immune to the strike- only a fraction of the trains were running, so I had to sit for 30 minutes before the next one showed up (for a 5 minute ride). When I got to the transfer point, the Metro was actually fine. But in the midst of my journey, my iPod died. It froze up, and when I unfroze it I got the sad iPod face. (Ok, it's 5 years old, but still, I love my iPod!) Wahhhh.<br /><br />Getting home yesterday actually wasn't too bad.<br /><br />But today. Ugh. So the strike was officially over. But that didn't mean that the commute would be trouble free. No. No problems on the RER, and Rolf let me use his iPod (now that's true love...). But when I got to the transfer point, there was a huge mob about 6 people deep on the platform, all the way down. It took 6 trains before I finally had made my way up enough to squeeze on, convinced that the closing door would smoosh me. The claim was "signal problems." My theory- all of the train engineers who worked yesterday decided to take today off. Hence, Metro chaos.<br /><br />Clearly I'm not French enough yet. I need to go on strike.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02639741551043308356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8969210237915788638.post-85963099906739546102010-02-13T20:46:00.001+01:002010-02-13T20:54:04.109+01:00Je t'aimeJust in time for Valentine's Day, I have a secret admirer.<br />
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Yesterday I came home from the market with my fish to find this note stuck on the fence outside our building:<br />
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As the only anglophone I know of in the building (well, except for Karen, but we'll ignore that for the moment), there's no question that this note was intended for me. I'm very lovable.<br />
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What is in question, though, is who it's from. The gardienne, her sneers perhaps just desperate cover of her longing? Our landlord the disco queen, who has willfully displayed her thong while fixing our toilet? One of the old ladies I get items off the top shelves for in the grocery store? Madame Gantier, who has been saving the darkest kouign amanns for me after my bike rides? The <a href="http://2yanksinparis.blogspot.com/2010/01/winter-odds-and-ends.html">leash-yanker</a>? Maybe a peeping-Thérèse from across the street or across the courtyard? So many alluring possibilities.<br />
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If she's been stalking me attentively, the sign might well be followed on Valentine's Day by a bottle of wine, some salted butter caramels, a fresh fish, or a fender for my bike. But with my luck, it's just as likely to be a dead rat under my pillow. Yecch.<br />
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It's probably best for everyone involved that I put an end to it before it gets serious. So I'm skipping town before dawn on Valentine's Day for a week in Italy, a solution that has a reasonable chance of creating as many problems at home as it fixes. Hopefully, though, since nothing says "I love you" like a few pounds of cured pork, those problems can be solved by returning with a full load of guanciale.<br />
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And just in case it doesn't, Funny Girl and I shared a sumptuous Valentine's Day eve afternoon indulging in <i>chocolat chaud</i>, pastries, chocolates, caramels, and pâte fruits together at Jacques Genin's luxurious salon, wallowing in a little of that fabled romance in Paris. We hope everybody else is finding a way to do the same, wherever they are.<br />
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Rolfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08655178481559856016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8969210237915788638.post-27333082628897635772010-02-12T14:30:00.002+01:002010-02-12T15:57:40.672+01:00No more carping about fish<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Despite growing up a steroid-abusing baseball player's home run distance from a Great Lake, we didn't eat any fresh fish as a kid that I can remember, and given the PCB levels in the Great Lakes in the 1970s, that may have been the best decision my parents ever made. What little fish we ate came frozen and pretty much unidentifiable as fish, as I remember it. Which suited me just fine-- fish sticks, like tater tots, were good application of technology to food. In fact, the only aquatic food I took any notice of as a kid was shrimp and scallops, and those only because they made me physically ill. There was really no need in my mind to explore any further.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I don't remember when I had my first non-frozen expertly prepared fish. Might have actually been the first time I had sushi, which was neither something I was especially eager about nor a revelation (it was in grad school in North Carolina in a mediocre Japanese chain). But I didn't get sick, and it was way more interesting than a fish stick. Come to think of it, the first real fish I ate might just have been something Karen's dad cooked at one of many Saturday night dinners. He's a good cook, and I recall eating a mean grouper there one evening.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Anyway, I don't cook much fish even now. Not because I don't care for it-- I love fish raw or cooked-- but because I've never really had a decent fishmonger. We're blessed in Philly with great butchers, produce vendors, cheesemongers, and specialty shops. But I've never found a place that sells genuinely fresh fish. And it's so easy to tell. Cloudy, dull, and even sunken eyes, grayish gills, mushy flesh. Old fish is simply an unpleasant eating experience. And apparently I'm not the only one in the world having trouble finding good fresh fish, because I've had more stale fish in restaurants (in Philly, in Paris, on the coast in Italy of all places, and just about every place I've visited except Japan) than I care to remember, even though I never order fish on Sun or Mon.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But all of that has changed, recently. After several unhappy fish purchases when we first came to Paris, I've found a reliable <a href="http://www.poissonneriedudome.com/">fishmonger</a>. It's not a big place and the selection is limited and variable, but what they have is (almost) uniformly exquisite. Plump striped bass with bright, clear eyes, dorade, monk fish, sole, turbot, salmon pieces so fresh they work even for tartare-- really great stuff. Unfortunately, it's expensive enough that I can't buy as often as I like, but I'm finally getting a chance to learn to cook fish. It takes an attentive and light hand, but it's wonderful to have at home.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The last week has been a fishy one on av Henri Martin, and I'm hoping for more of them.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik_OSWMKlyIvFnmDiD-ZifhyphenhyphenklZ_FdUXluHbVuNDwhHn3fya2rI1IqFuqKAuNqhN2IO-gDtObyPoBQyTbhKacLsa-pfgGyVcmOCtE5ggI6D2p9VXSxNv9LJ2VLAARaHajSzgE8KXAaEGdG/s1600-h/Skate.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik_OSWMKlyIvFnmDiD-ZifhyphenhyphenklZ_FdUXluHbVuNDwhHn3fya2rI1IqFuqKAuNqhN2IO-gDtObyPoBQyTbhKacLsa-pfgGyVcmOCtE5ggI6D2p9VXSxNv9LJ2VLAARaHajSzgE8KXAaEGdG/s400/Skate.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><i>Skate, cooked on the cartilage, in a pseudo-Provençal fashion, with slow-roasted fennel and tomatoes and tapenade, and also wild rice with hazelnuts and green beans. The green beans weren't supposed to be there, but Funny Girl saw them in the market and insisted they be added on. They were yummy, but the plate wasn't big enough for it all.</i><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnpoc3BmJZMnYswgUPG3c3g8J9377_DjvMMnUyG2-d9mbxa0DmAemTLXDvlHk38yM0ECFBm8ejwtLe5AgaexNMZ-lISpYjVIfqZfWKSMkAJQYd6nYN3CLfwJJfHoqJobax7bTOVIs8evKp/s1600-h/No+longer+for+baking.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnpoc3BmJZMnYswgUPG3c3g8J9377_DjvMMnUyG2-d9mbxa0DmAemTLXDvlHk38yM0ECFBm8ejwtLe5AgaexNMZ-lISpYjVIfqZfWKSMkAJQYd6nYN3CLfwJJfHoqJobax7bTOVIs8evKp/s320/No+longer+for+baking.JPG" /></a></div><i>"This pan is </i>so<i> no longer suitable for cakes when we get back home." My sauté pans don't fit in our tiny oven, so these 9" cake pans have become my roasting pans.</i><i> Lamb, pintade, and now skate. Hey, if Maryland can have its crab cakes, why not?</i><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTx5Wgr86WU6ZCOfFqa-hzreQTSOZNrojnMWzAX63G0SLwR7TDusDXTfQ6kY6SnClrLimA9rYj6WuT7p_jWhEo30UT1PwkuB_d3o-oDISFXSNvzkNtudU2dgHuGZWvVWHW92ndApGPv9WY/s1600-h/Skate+with+risotto.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTx5Wgr86WU6ZCOfFqa-hzreQTSOZNrojnMWzAX63G0SLwR7TDusDXTfQ6kY6SnClrLimA9rYj6WuT7p_jWhEo30UT1PwkuB_d3o-oDISFXSNvzkNtudU2dgHuGZWvVWHW92ndApGPv9WY/s400/Skate+with+risotto.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><i>Skate leftovers, this time off of the cartilage, with leek-and-pea (and skate cartilage broth) risotto. Skate has such a wonderful meaty texture and takes just about any sauce or accompaniment in stride. Peas aren't in season anywhere near Paris, but one of the produce places we passed coming home on our Sunday bike ride had them, and they weren't nearly as disappointing as I'd anticipated.</i><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieBtt5SCGfdtGMsFdli14MRcEis-znOU6S0sYtxNlMMOEjFZKo9d1eTr9-ik6sWT10TsA6Oh_cFIMaJur2LL9PqR0FCEoEF3uDuPdWpco3V7k9XTzelO8twZaUGm9tJPWwWc8ANWUgWIOu/s1600-h/Ravioli+in+the+making.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieBtt5SCGfdtGMsFdli14MRcEis-znOU6S0sYtxNlMMOEjFZKo9d1eTr9-ik6sWT10TsA6Oh_cFIMaJur2LL9PqR0FCEoEF3uDuPdWpco3V7k9XTzelO8twZaUGm9tJPWwWc8ANWUgWIOu/s320/Ravioli+in+the+making.JPG" /></a></div><i>Parsley root ravioli in progress. I don't know that I've ever eaten, much less cooked, parsley root before, but my regular produce guys had it at the market this week, and I couldn't resist. It's definitely got a parsley flavor, but also a bit of a hoppy taste (pair it with a malt-flavored sauce, maybe?? Mmmm, beer food...). Mild and a touch bitter, it also seemed like a good match for a somewhat sweet fish...</i><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-rDuvdqwriuKmZEzcLCMsLEQolKsJKTdFmGxEhWsdJDx2gluFkvRKoajdxzyvWi0gX7voM3WTtgNpeUm7KPrB4Lj6jliTCIbWi9IiryYk6lQojyvm40JwZSb-9WU4Ex3mzT9qCCu6eq8i/s1600-h/Red+Mullet.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-rDuvdqwriuKmZEzcLCMsLEQolKsJKTdFmGxEhWsdJDx2gluFkvRKoajdxzyvWi0gX7voM3WTtgNpeUm7KPrB4Lj6jliTCIbWi9IiryYk6lQojyvm40JwZSb-9WU4Ex3mzT9qCCu6eq8i/s400/Red+Mullet.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><i>... Like this one, a red mullet from my fishmonger today. They're beautiful fish, with yellow stripes down the sides, and their pigment appears to be fat-soluble, because the oil this one cooked in was a lovely red afterwards.</i><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrWii4tCL187vG3VQt7RdFZSbk3JWfVe8gh1hc22yOFUPbmb0Fgy8j4Uz5i5yQAiOd6EyisZ-p0QA2v5GVOC8cxAym70Ncz1F76OkLhG0nD1kOsOaSOfPXXNj1p6kA2kT4NGq2jZEF4ZUF/s1600-h/Parsnip+gnocchi+and+squash.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrWii4tCL187vG3VQt7RdFZSbk3JWfVe8gh1hc22yOFUPbmb0Fgy8j4Uz5i5yQAiOd6EyisZ-p0QA2v5GVOC8cxAym70Ncz1F76OkLhG0nD1kOsOaSOfPXXNj1p6kA2kT4NGq2jZEF4ZUF/s400/Parsnip+gnocchi+and+squash.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><i>Parsnip gnocchi with squash sauce. Yeah, I know it's not fish, but it was part of our red mullet meal, along with a surprisingly excellent wine we'd bought back in November before Thanksgiving at the "boat" salon des vins. We must have bought that early in the day when we could still taste anything.</i><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNqDcFRBMkalpHtzSquE4wJ-W9ITR8ZwU7hCDt9yFQIPnrbSzO0bnct_IRKAeCYHspm1aAbT6PoFGgcfp5TRJHFFvuZgy-c0cM7jGJyOQQNzkZ2EH_skhHr84-sZQ9e2vwCpCZpX_BjxJP/s1600-h/Mullet+with+lemon+broth.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNqDcFRBMkalpHtzSquE4wJ-W9ITR8ZwU7hCDt9yFQIPnrbSzO0bnct_IRKAeCYHspm1aAbT6PoFGgcfp5TRJHFFvuZgy-c0cM7jGJyOQQNzkZ2EH_skhHr84-sZQ9e2vwCpCZpX_BjxJP/s400/Mullet+with+lemon+broth.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><i>Red mullet with parsley root ravioli, sauteed spinach, lemon broth (made of a fish fumet made from the bones/head/tail/etc) and parsley salad. I love the beautifully colored red mullet with dark green. This was one of those rare times that what was in my head exactly came to be on the tongue. Too bad it's just luck when that happens.</i>Rolfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08655178481559856016noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8969210237915788638.post-63731539465543838532010-02-10T22:45:00.004+01:002010-02-12T12:05:44.207+01:00Life's little oddities<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6silAQvOboBCRaf_FnRsx1xr8twGjB5BO5QEBQjbgwODh4ekbzH8tEt6sr_wCEkbBr5AtmBkJdg81-L6-yITybZXBV7ZmnK0doZzJPdXonqwkS_mAzS8EWdQ5yUnTQ4cD1Da3m-i-xPNl/s1600-h/Snowy+Longchamp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6silAQvOboBCRaf_FnRsx1xr8twGjB5BO5QEBQjbgwODh4ekbzH8tEt6sr_wCEkbBr5AtmBkJdg81-L6-yITybZXBV7ZmnK0doZzJPdXonqwkS_mAzS8EWdQ5yUnTQ4cD1Da3m-i-xPNl/s400/Snowy+Longchamp.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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You know it's going to weird a day when it starts lying in bed with your wife standing over you, and in the same slightly panicked voice she uses when injured or sick, she says, "I need your help."<br />
<br />
Uh-oh. Things have been going pretty smoothly in Paris lately, and I've been trying not to let the other-shoe scenarios intrude too much in my thoughts. But I was raised Lutheran-- the other shoe is always gonna drop.<br />
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Swallow hard, focus. "What's going on?"<br />
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Scary pause...<br />
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<br />
"I can't get out of my shoe."<br />
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Squint-- think <i>real</i> hard (it's literally now 15 seconds after waking), and... laugh. OK, not super high on the Supportive Spouse Index, but c'mon. Who saw <i>that</i> coming?<br />
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Not being able to get out one's shoe isn't a really confidence-inspiring way to start one's day. She'd gotten up early to ride the trainer, something we just don't do. Anymore. Time was, years ago, when we were new to racing and optimistic about our potentials, that we'd be up before 5.00 AM and on the trainer in the basement many days a week Jan-Mar, to get an hour of work in before the long commute to work. We proved pretty conclusively in those years that such diligence didn't matter. So when Funny Girl got up at 6.15 to get on The Beast this morning, I could only be glad that "early" here in Paris means more than an hour more sleep than "regular" in Philly for the previous 8 years of our lives.<br />
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Yea, France!<br />
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Turns out the ratchet on her right cycling shoe was stuck and just needed a bigger, clumsier set of fingers to release it. Sprung from her captivity, she went about getting ready for work, and I, now awake, amused, and relieved it was something so simple, went about smearing particularly perfectly ripe, particularly smelly and oozy Brie de Meau on <i>pain forainois</i> for her sandwiches. I don't really know that that's what the bread is called. I only know that's (roughly) how it's pronounced, because every item at our bakery except that small, heavily seeded loaf has a sign on it. I looked in the dictionary, figuring it was a variant of <i>four</i>, or oven, but I couldn't find a word that should sound like "foreign." <i>Foreignwah</i>. Four-reine-roi (oven-queen-king)? No clue. Forain is a "stand." No earthly idea how that relates to this whole wheat/rye bread with sunflower seeds baked in and covered with sesame seeds that shoot all over my apartment when I slice it. I'll have to ask Madame Gantier someday, when there's no line, how to spell it. Her opinion of me can't drop much lower, so she'll no doubt get a kick out of that, 4 months after we've been getting 2-3 of them per week.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcSzGmmg4-v1_etrluJR2oQOCDdiXU8Cl7Pah43tlTi0J4Hr0RzNiXWQ6CuYlm1AS0pAcod1vD3rG0eZJo7w1HJm3DGBkjtPfkqT6DBZdCnx2B1YB9p2felnYIhZrOn453zGiuOTsw8QhU/s1600-h/Seeded+bread.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcSzGmmg4-v1_etrluJR2oQOCDdiXU8Cl7Pah43tlTi0J4Hr0RzNiXWQ6CuYlm1AS0pAcod1vD3rG0eZJo7w1HJm3DGBkjtPfkqT6DBZdCnx2B1YB9p2felnYIhZrOn453zGiuOTsw8QhU/s400/Seeded+bread.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><i>The last of a loaf of pain foreignwah, proof that good things do come in small packages.</i><br />
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</i><br />
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We've both had our revelations in Paris, and the seeded loaf is one of Funny Girl's. I tried to get her interested in <a href="http://www.maison-kayser.com/">Kayser</a>'s excellent baguette aux cereals when we first moved here, but she said, "I like seeds <i>on</i> my bread, not <i>in</i> my bread." And so it was, until that first loaf of foreignwah, the perfect bread for sandwiches of sheep cheese. Or nutty alpine cow cheese. Or chevre. Or prosciutto (pork, or cinghiale, or <a href="http://2yanksinparis.blogspot.com/2010/01/just-ducky.html">duck</a>, for matter). And just recently, she was waxing poetic about the very baguette aux cereals she'd poo-poo'd 11 months ago, the inside all substantial and light and airy at the same time, rich with flax and sesame seeds, with a super-crackly crust impossibly loaded with more of the same plus sunflower seeds (my favorite part). Lord, that's good. How I'll cope without those breads (or the cheeses we schmear between them) when we get back home, I'm afraid to contemplate. There's getting to be a long list of such items. Swell-- something new to worry about.<br />
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Anyway, the day did indeed turn out to be weird.<br />
<br />
Not long after Funny Girl set off for the salt mines, I, inspired by the clear blue (if damned cold) skies and for-the-first-time-in-a-week dry roads, put together a new exploratory bike route masterpiece and got suited up to head out. I don't much mind either the cold or the wet, but because ice + steep = injury, I don't like both at the same time. So I'd scrapped riding my cobbled/speed-humped (surely the name of a doggie dating service, somewhere)/hilly-and-twisty routes yesterday to play it safe. Because the circulation in my extremities is nearly non-existent nowadays, Funny Girl sweetly brought a package of 16 pairs of toe warmers back from the States on her last visit. And though they don't guarantee my feet won't be morgue-white/blue at the end of a ride, they improve the odds substantially enough that I stuck those bad boys to the bottoms of my socks before putting on shoes and heavy shoe-covers. Grab the bike, call the elevator, get down to the lobby, and ... waaa?? In the 45 seconds it took to get from the 6th floor to the ground floor, it had gone from nice day to white-out. Huge heavy flakes pouring down. Son of a...<br />
<br />
I thought about just going back upstairs. But I'd used one of my precious pairs of toe-warmers, so there was nothing to do but suck it up and ride. Besides, riding in the snow can be a blast. Well, that thought lasted about 6 seconds. It was freaking cold, and the big flakes melted on my face and just accentuated the cold wind created by riding (not to mention the stiff wind blowing of its own volition). It was snowing so hard that I couldn't see and nearly rear-ended a parked construction vehicle on my way out of town. I realize that to the folks in the mid-atlantic, who are getting slammed with their second big-ass storm in 5 days right now, big enough to close Funny Girl's headquarters for the first time in 8 years, a little snow squall wouldn't seem like much. But you see, I'm a wuss. I missed 'cross season, and so what tiny little bit of toughness I once had was lost. Use it or lose it.<br />
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The snow was accumulating fast, covering the ice from the last several days and making me think that going out and hitting the roller-coaster roads, including a signed 23% hill we found last weekend, I'd targeted earlier in my sunny living room would be a bad idea. After all, it was almost exactly a year ago that my stupid human tricks mountain bike episode put me in the ER. With a trip to Italy around the corner, I wasn't eager to risk it. So I decided I'd do 1 lap at the hamster track for giggles and then head home where I could feel smug for getting out. Thing is, after a lap I was having way too much fun to cut it short. Yeah, my face and hands were completely frozen (my toes, eh-- cold but still had sensation), yeah my cassette was completely packed with snow making shifting impossible, and yeah, my wheels were snow-packed and rubbing against ice blocks wedged in the brakes. But it was the best ride I've had at Longchamp since I've been here. Riding fresh snow, looking at the tracks I made the previous lap on each subsequent one, like an early morning on the mountain when skiing. There were 2 other people out riding, which shocked me, and we were all smiling and laughing as we made our normally-boring rounds. Good times. It stopped snowing after a few laps, and it was just quiet, solitary fun.<br />
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The ride back home was a bit sketchy, over the slippery frozen cobbles through Porte d'Auteuil. I stopped at Kayser to buy a fresh baguette aux cereals for my lunch, and by the time I came back out, it was sunny again, and the traffic had melted most of the snow on Av Mozart.<br />
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From there it was just progressively weird life-in-Paris. From the normal-- a woman walking down the street while I was stopped at a light who was body-checked into a shop window by an older woman who suddenly decided she wanted to occupy that space, or an old man patiently waiting for his mangey little dog to finish crapping literally on the stoop of a shop door, leaving it there for somebody else to take care of-- to the odder: later in the day, a group of about 20 really little kids (not much taller than my knees) with 2 teachers got on the metro train car I was standing in, and with pole/railing space limited, one of the little buggers wrapped one of my legs with both arms to keep upright, repeatedly wiping his runny nose all over my jeans (thanks, kid), and finally, in the Concorde metro station after extracting myself from that snotty embrace, I was walking towards the exit when an armed guard, about 5-feet tall with shaved head and space-age sunglasses, backed quickly out of the ticket office and ran straight into me, pulling his gun from his holster with his latex-gloved hand (so he doesn't leave prints??) and pointing it at me (Dude! Breathe... s'il vous plait-- put.the.gun.back.) before pushing me out of the way so his bigger, more hairy colleague carrying a big sack of money could make his way out of the underground. Texas? Yeah, that'd be normal. Paris? First for me.<br />
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So yep, definitely a weird day. Can't wait to see what happens tomorrow.Rolfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08655178481559856016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8969210237915788638.post-56577468589966803552010-02-07T17:40:00.008+01:002010-02-07T18:46:00.674+01:00H1N1 Conquest<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Y8mwZM4-dDTeOS9oq6-zozg40IVRT1Vg8HuW-NVSRa3rH-kXk36HB04ZhdUp1Ei05bb78axyUAQiAlr1eA2QBlQv04p3WnyXtkeclbQSTnvGASOVjdpSiUQSMsq7UFCjPtUDePpIqQ/s1600-h/H1N1_fluyou01.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 210px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 155px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435551925079859778" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Y8mwZM4-dDTeOS9oq6-zozg40IVRT1Vg8HuW-NVSRa3rH-kXk36HB04ZhdUp1Ei05bb78axyUAQiAlr1eA2QBlQv04p3WnyXtkeclbQSTnvGASOVjdpSiUQSMsq7UFCjPtUDePpIqQ/s320/H1N1_fluyou01.jpg" /></a> <em><span style="font-size:85%;">H1N1 virus image from </span></em><a href="http://www.cdc.gov/"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">www.cdc.gov</span></em></a></div><br /><br /><div>I am someone who gets their flu shot every year. I have been for years- it's always been relatively simple to get them at work, since I have worked for large employers (and for a time, hospitals/major medical centers) who always have found it in their best interest to vaccinate their employees. The one year that my employer handed out FluMist (the nasal vaccine) I was even able to convince Rolf, a needle-phobe, to come in and get it too.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I did get my standard seasonal flu shot in October, right on schedule. But this year, of course, the big news is not the plain old flu, it's the Swine Flu, H1N1. Between <a href="http://www.who.int/csr/disease/swineflu/en/">WHO Pandemic status</a> and the fact that flu vaccines take awhile to make, there has been the conflict between the urgings of major national and international authorities to get vaccinated, and the lack of available vaccine. In the US, supplies have been scarce. In France, home to one of the major pharmaceutical <a href="http://en.sanofi-aventis.com/">companies</a> manufacturing the vaccine, supplies have been plentiful. But that, of course, did not insure that I could actually get it.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>In France it is being distributed by the <a href="http://www.pandemie-grippale.gouv.fr/">government</a> in neighborhood based distribution centers. But you need to bring in the letter which documents your coverage by the French national health insurance, which I don't have (I'm covered by my US employer). I asked at work, and they had no plans to give out the H1N1 shots, because the government is giving them out. I asked my primary care doc here, and he did not have the vaccine, because the government was the only distribution point [although that has very recently changed]. Now, despite France being awash in vaccine, very few people here are getting it. Besides the usual (unfounded) rumors that the vaccine will give you other horrible problems, there was also a scare campaign that said that the pharmaceutical companies were behind the whole thing, just as a money making scheme. Conspiracy theories a-go-go.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>In the mean time a number of friends got the Swine Flu, and it sounded pretty miserable. I really did not want to get sick. There is no need to get sick, when there is a vaccine for this virus.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I knew I would be traveling to the US in January. I asked if the occupational health center at the US work office had the vaccine- no. I called my primary care doc in the US, but they had already gone through the very limited supplies they had already.<br /></div><div></div><br /><div>In early January, the government of France declared that they had a huge surplus of vaccine and would start selling it to other countries. (Please, I'll be happy to pay for my shot...)</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>When I got to the US in late January, I had one final possibility: the <a href="http://www.minuteclinic.com/en/USA/">CVS walk in clinic</a>. I went, and 15 minutes later was vaccinated. They even took my insurance card and did not make me pay the $15 fee up front. It was such an uneventful occasion, despite the months of asking and 4000 mile journey that it took. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The next day, I got the second round of the Hepatitis A vaccine (the first was before my trip to Colombia last year, from the work occupational health clinic). It's official- I now have <em>all</em> of my shots.</div>Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02639741551043308356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8969210237915788638.post-80702793960342934602010-02-04T15:00:00.000+01:002010-02-04T15:00:09.756+01:00Travel grinchWhile Karen was in the States last week, I got to thinking about what a lousy traveler I am.<br />
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I've never really been a very enthusiastic traveler, something my parents recently commented on. It doesn't matter whether it's flying 12 h to Japan or driving 90 min to a race, the act of getting someplace is almost never enjoyable for me. And in the period on either side, the getting ready to go and the getting there, I'm usually even more uptight, grumpy, and irritable than normal. I'm a guy who likes to know what awaits him, likes knowing how to do things, and likes things to "go right." Traveling is all about not knowing what awaits, having to figure out how to do things, and most definitely stuff going wrong.<br />
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There was a period in our graduate school-postgraduate training lives where we didn't take a real vacation for 7 years. We'd occasionally manage to travel together to the other's conference or get a quick visit in to one set of parents or the other, but we didn't go anywhere outside of work just to travel or see the world. That long spell broke about a year after we moved to Philly, when we went to visit a fellow former <span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: line-through;">prisoner</span> postdoc from our U of TX days and his wife in their native New Zealand. If you're going to break a dry spell, may as well do it in style. It was both an awful and wonderful trip. Awful in getting there. Flights were interminable, connections were missed, luggage was lost, what a mess. But aside from a couple of days at the start with our friends in Wellington, we just had a car, a map, and a couple of weeks to get to Aukland for our return flight. And so we just set off to explore the South Island, quickly figuring out how to get information in each town, learning not to worry about hotel availability at that time of year, and having a slew of unexpected memorable experiences.<br />
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That unplanned traveling model worked for us the first trip we took to Italy, as well. After 10 days of riding with a group, we dumped our bikes at a hotel in Pisa, got on a (wrong) train south, and after a pretty eye-opening evening in Naples, rented a car and drove to the Amalfi coast with no reservations or plans. A few bewildering, frustrating hours later, including stopping at and then running away from a little Bates motel-like spot recommended by the only Italian we knew, we took a break to eat at a little road-side restaurant for lesson #1 of the trip, which is that when you're sitting at an outdoor table on the side of a cliff looking over the Mediterranean, you order the simple grilled fish and local wine and then shut the hell up and just listen to what the place is saying instead of trying to make the place match up with some preconceived ideas. We got back into the car, drove 30 min down the breathtaking cliff-side highway and stopped at an intriguing little white door that turned out to be a hotel cut into the cliff face, with balconies cantilevered out over the water, where we got a room for about a quarter of the normal rate since they'd just drained the pool and were only going to be open another week. The only thing more perfect than that hotel was the untopped pizza crust that served as the bread basket at one of the little family-run restaurants we ate at one night. 9 years later, I still dream of that bread at night.<br />
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And so we travel. And Karen puts up with my increased anxiety and grouchiness at the start and end of the trip, and plenty of times in the middle of the trip until food calms me down again. We never show up with an itinerary, and we sometimes haven't done enough advance reading to generate a list of things we want to see. I'm sure we miss some amazing sites and sights, but for us it's so often the chance encounters with somebody or something that we remember most from a trip that aside from reserving a room somewhere, we pretty much wing it. And so far, cross fingers, it works out. We have never traveled so much in our lives as we have this past year. And though I'm no better at it now than last February, I hope it continues. I had fantasies after the Japan trip of really getting off the beaten path. But I'm not sure I'll ever be take-it-as-it-comes enough to handle that kind of adventure.<br />
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My most recent traveling has been on the roads just outside Paris, on the bike. When we moved here, we started riding the hamster track at Longchamp, and then I started getting out into the country to ride, using a route from <a href="http://www.mayq.com/Cycling_out_of_paris/Best_bycling_routes_from_Paris.htm">here</a> to get to the open spaces to the west, using a route learned from friends to ride in the Chevreuse valley, and taking regional trains to explore the countryside to the south and north. As much fun as that kind of riding is, 2 or more hours on bike or train just to get to and from the interesting riding just isn't practical on a daily basis.<br />
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Like more distant traveling, familiarity is a big help in finding routes. It's hard to take the dive to explore when you have no idea which towns are where and have a hard time understanding the complicated directions that asking for help enlists. In rural Italy, or even in the open countryside around Paris, it's easy to ask which direction town A is, because you're standing at an intersection with the next road 5 k down the way. Immediately outside Paris, it's hard to even know what town you should be asking for because they're packed in together with oddly shaped boundaries, and there are hundreds of possible roads, many of them 1-way in one direction for 2 or 3 blocks and then in the other direction for the next 3.<br />
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Thank goodness, then, for Google maps and especially street view. Since the <a href="http://2yanksinparis.blogspot.com/2009/03/la-poste.html">French atlases are useless</a> for this kind of thing, the reasonable accuracy of the online maps is incredibly helpful for finding unlikely arteries through suburbia, and it's easy to preview for traffic light density (French police take seriously the running of lights by cyclists) and potentially dangerous high-speed highways. Recognizing key traffic circles before you find yourself in one with no street signs to be seen is also a benefit of the street view capability.<br />
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The recent local exploring has been enormously satisfying on all accounts. Aside from making me feel like I've not completely given up on the bike, I've found some great rolling suburban and urban roads full of punchy ups and downs punctuated by cobbles and speed bumps that make riding on the road a little like mountain biking at Fair Hill or White Clay (man, I miss my mountain bike), terrain that's otherwise hard to hard to find in this area. I've learned to connect some beautiful areas just outside of Paris with twisty narrow low-traffic roads, making for good riding and just good learning about the area. And I've now got a bag full of 1.25 - 4 hour rides from my apartment door that I can choose from with a minimum of "getting to." I have aspirations of listing rides someplace here for future Paris-frustrated cyclists, since I've been unable to find any since moving here. Hopefully I'll find a mechanism to do that.<br />
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Best of all, unlike my other travel, the only times riding makes me grouchy is when the weather is nasty and I can't get out to explore more.Rolfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08655178481559856016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8969210237915788638.post-49161885418504098142010-02-03T21:36:00.001+01:002010-02-03T21:36:37.266+01:00Ragu re-runsA no-frills food post:<br />
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Uninspired to be creative this week, I pulled the frozen duck ragu out and stretched it out for 3 nights.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEbLeE29P3wLl1w5VP-Sl1134KtOww4FBMUetKmO2GjSBpseDxIbNQvcuL2kFjbKOhtiRaqNqMeuVUnG3SR5tNryCXx2Q9DSMq2UX-CMNivI0i1KF7mFT8RoJ0KW5DBQ8onTBZykbOBT2B/s1600-h/Duck+Lasagne.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEbLeE29P3wLl1w5VP-Sl1134KtOww4FBMUetKmO2GjSBpseDxIbNQvcuL2kFjbKOhtiRaqNqMeuVUnG3SR5tNryCXx2Q9DSMq2UX-CMNivI0i1KF7mFT8RoJ0KW5DBQ8onTBZykbOBT2B/s320/Duck+Lasagne.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Fist up was duck lasagna. I made some chestnut pasta and alternated layers of duck ragu or béchamel enriched with just a little mascarpone. It was going to be 2 nights' worth, but I'd ridden and not eaten lunch, so screw it-- I made it twice as deep, and we ate the whole thing. I'd kind of hoped I'd get some of Karen's, but when I reached over for a little supplement, she growled and bared her teeth. Don't mess with Funny Girl's dinner!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy2X_4C_kACX0rD2-KU_YO_T8wV285gBpNdRIuges28erExJVjTJdYYbt_ZWBATxLuDbI1jijIZmUZySwKh2nk9a2nEJt-gXJJV5lm39upCS4QZkiMZ3FxlUTEiDDemPJgj6gxYbC-jHpc/s1600-h/Chocolate+duck.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy2X_4C_kACX0rD2-KU_YO_T8wV285gBpNdRIuges28erExJVjTJdYYbt_ZWBATxLuDbI1jijIZmUZySwKh2nk9a2nEJt-gXJJV5lm39upCS4QZkiMZ3FxlUTEiDDemPJgj6gxYbC-jHpc/s320/Chocolate+duck.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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Next was a more traditional use of ragu, with wide noodles. This time chocolate. I've struggled with getting the <a href="http://2yanksinparis.blogspot.com/2009/03/chestnuts-and-chocolate.html">right proportion</a> of cocoa in my chocolate pasta, and this one was (a lot) closer: a teaspoon of cocoa per 2 servings (2 eggs' worth of pasta). A little short, maybe, but better than the overkill of previous efforts. I still like the slight sweetness of the chestnut pasta with duck more than the slight bitterness of the cocoa, but Karen liked it.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbjaSU1XAh0jS27GaU-9I5OKflejc5fjJj9NKJfAoAK5uTYW1VUcGfdbnJtu_27_pEm9Zcq1Zs6HRuKRoLOfsn2Av_ldH3_C03jgHQHhwgiKRCXfRkTjFhTYtj-mu5G_Qgi0Xa9aHwSOn6/s1600-h/Agnolotti+duck.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbjaSU1XAh0jS27GaU-9I5OKflejc5fjJj9NKJfAoAK5uTYW1VUcGfdbnJtu_27_pEm9Zcq1Zs6HRuKRoLOfsn2Av_ldH3_C03jgHQHhwgiKRCXfRkTjFhTYtj-mu5G_Qgi0Xa9aHwSOn6/s320/Agnolotti+duck.JPG" /></a></div><br />
I only had a little ragu left after splurging on the lasagna, so a stuffed pasta seemed the best way to stretch it. I had planned to go to the Italian coop here in town for some of their amazing ricotta, but after having to wash my bike after a wet ride today, I recalled seeing sweet potatoes at the local produce vendor. So it was a mad dash to get the potato cooked, get it pureed with mascarpone and butter (everything's better with mascarpone and butter) and turned into agnolotti in time for dinner. Served with some orange-peel-and-garlic-scented sauteed spinach, just because we've been a little light on greens this week. Not really Italian, but there're no real Italians here to report us.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg00BW10QJC_hMVaOiquA1lKFYAr8GBoHE2IVpYWF1dCloYLa4dQBTn9RigQ35L7c_x9SMkqTS3uVlNvoumN8IHz8JUDhrBIHrmq18gBBYsuceZ-uV-P-sWQ9KI4q5IL7jqnOTBGKF-MI7Y/s1600-h/Hazelnut+chocolate+cake.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg00BW10QJC_hMVaOiquA1lKFYAr8GBoHE2IVpYWF1dCloYLa4dQBTn9RigQ35L7c_x9SMkqTS3uVlNvoumN8IHz8JUDhrBIHrmq18gBBYsuceZ-uV-P-sWQ9KI4q5IL7jqnOTBGKF-MI7Y/s320/Hazelnut+chocolate+cake.JPG" /></a></div><br />
OK, so these weren't leftovers. We had a little unexpected celebrating to do tonight, and I recalled we'd bought a dessert red wine at the on-the-boat salon des vins in Nov for our Thanksgiving dinner, specifically for the opera cakes (almond, chocolate, coffee) we'd intended to buy, but couldn't because they'd sold out. So with the one egg I had left, I faked a chocolate cake recipe made with ground roasted hazelnuts instead of flour, espresso instead of vanilla, and a boat-load of butter, cocoa, and good chocolate. I can pretty much put together any pasta at the last minute, but I don't bake nearly enough to have ratios and methods memorized. And so it was no surprise that whereas the 3 individual cakes looked beautiful coming out of the oven in their ramekins, once unmolded, they collapsed in the center. This runs in the family. When we lived in Austria many moons ago, the only cooking I remember of my mom's (aside from bringing home a chicken with the head most definitely attached) was the first chocolate cake she made that came out of the oven with 3 fist-sized indentations in it, the same as mine tonight. Like hers back then, these little cakes were delicious even if saggy, and more importantly, they served as a perfect excuse for a fabulous half-bottle of wine.Rolfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08655178481559856016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8969210237915788638.post-71876307385584589012010-02-01T15:00:00.000+01:002010-02-01T15:00:10.904+01:00Barcelona<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7EktDjPF1bct69Y7CrLzWiOAXTsjgKNF4RF2PTQvAIzvzieuq8I3YLUNHA5_23XJKuCEw7l6GoVND7CQe1sMMKwXuci_WhcqibAcrO411lFMnESEZZwl-MLKirTEGvRjQe2AcNL0NNqc6/s1600-h/Door+knocker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7EktDjPF1bct69Y7CrLzWiOAXTsjgKNF4RF2PTQvAIzvzieuq8I3YLUNHA5_23XJKuCEw7l6GoVND7CQe1sMMKwXuci_WhcqibAcrO411lFMnESEZZwl-MLKirTEGvRjQe2AcNL0NNqc6/s320/Door+knocker.jpg" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I've never been to Spain. But I kinda like the music.</div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">OK. The first part isn't technically true. I spent about 4 hours in Spain in the early 1980s, a short train ride across the French border from St Jean de Luz one Sunday morning to find no way to change money, nothing open, no place to eat, and nobody interested in making exceptions for a 6' 4" 135 lb, perhaps smelly, American backpacker and his similarly undernourished and aromatic Austrian companion. So we wandered around an empty town for several hours until the first train bound for France carried us off (imagine that-- <i>France</i> was the friendly place. Ha!).</div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">It <i>is</i> true that, despite realizing that my unpleasant experience there was my own fault (expecting things to be open on Sunday? Not knowing a single word of Spanish? C'mon...), I've never been back. And it's almost true that I've never even been all that tempted to go back. Something about not liking hot, or even warm, climates much and figuring that Italy fulfilled my Mediterranean culture interest.</div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">But things change, and the case for going to Spain at some point had been building for a few years. With a 2-week block of vacation for Karen over the holidays, some cheap flights available, and cold dark dreary days fully enveloping Paris of late, we decided to go to Barcelona for 5 days just before Christmas. The 5th major city outside France we've visited since moving to Paris, it might just have been the most fun. Hard to compare with Tokyo, where we spent more time, and which was more fascinatingly foreign.</div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Since a month has passed since we were there, this'll just be a list of stuff we liked, making it easier for all of us.</div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">1.) Architecture. It's hard to go to Barcelona and not get caught up with Gaudi. Not impossible, mind you: my mom remarked before we went and after we got back that it doesn't take long to get over that stuff. I can see her point. A lot of it is a little over the top and can actually get a bit monotonous. And all of the technical issues, like making the arches a slightly different shape so there would be perfectly balanced forces in compression, don't seem to my non-engineering mind to be terribly significant. It's not like the cathedrals built in the 1100s with the old arches have come crashing down unpredictably. But even in the most distractingly embellished buildings, there are moments of pure aesthetic elegance, curves and meeting of curved planes that are both breathtaking and serene at the same time. I absolutely loved the cathedral, a non-Gothic take on a Gothic form. The font is different in Gaudi's cathedral, but the text is the same-- it's telling the exact same stories with the same level of ornamentation and over-the-top presentation as the cathedrals of the middle ages. I dug it.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">And there's plenty else aside from Gaudi. The colorful 19th century Eixample neighborhoods, the beautifully austere Romanesque Sant Pau del Camp, the twisty streets of the gothic quarter, and the 15th century hospital de la Santa Creu offer very different experiences of space and place. I've commented before on the pros and cons of Haussmann's Paris. There's a harmony and elegance, but there's also a bit of stifling sameness. Barcelona didn't suffer from that at all.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk33JiBysJKh15qnN7NJwqaxyhj-v8NYx92vc13Dbr-9O_AaA0Ps31U2rSWzBOpkcpYFx5CTBCXJO-hvuw__ScjN7bDDNjKAM4tWe0V9gsP1HbYFrZ8QXhCSMNviJoEcdnbVPvHfaxJMCe/s1600-h/Casa+mila+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk33JiBysJKh15qnN7NJwqaxyhj-v8NYx92vc13Dbr-9O_AaA0Ps31U2rSWzBOpkcpYFx5CTBCXJO-hvuw__ScjN7bDDNjKAM4tWe0V9gsP1HbYFrZ8QXhCSMNviJoEcdnbVPvHfaxJMCe/s320/Casa+mila+exterior.jpg" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Casa Mila, a Gaudi apartment building.</span></i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL88wOwKuLZP4iszqYXDCuIm4cxhU3hlaUR7eBOXgwAXQWjEKSm14tCHJp_Tr5MjnZMV_rYlTT5stMfxxUa5i-iOkrW5fPBO-O3wynM32t-7fIyiEDlnbjX0c6FJgtd3-i006ICsybcYhz/s1600-h/Casa+batllo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL88wOwKuLZP4iszqYXDCuIm4cxhU3hlaUR7eBOXgwAXQWjEKSm14tCHJp_Tr5MjnZMV_rYlTT5stMfxxUa5i-iOkrW5fPBO-O3wynM32t-7fIyiEDlnbjX0c6FJgtd3-i006ICsybcYhz/s320/Casa+batllo.jpg" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Casa Battlo, an even gaudier Gaudi building</span></i>.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiPW1b1I4uRLacDWjLTewQhj8P7HVIDIBfoLSUjCHB2PQyOZGnIkeRpGNx3oyYN2jyQcpfFyGqiVw1tnodnVnXiZSj2hX2CAd3Ye5ynuVW4bv0WZeUkkBiCFMUXjru1WWCOvqWG_2ACd9i/s1600-h/Sagrada+familia+passion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiPW1b1I4uRLacDWjLTewQhj8P7HVIDIBfoLSUjCHB2PQyOZGnIkeRpGNx3oyYN2jyQcpfFyGqiVw1tnodnVnXiZSj2hX2CAd3Ye5ynuVW4bv0WZeUkkBiCFMUXjru1WWCOvqWG_2ACd9i/s320/Sagrada+familia+passion.jpg" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The passion facade, by Catalan sculptor Josep Maria Subirachs, on the Sagrada Familia cathedral is powerful and bleak.</span></i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpDxEtdbHVShzCEfh9lI6heUMbvPH08TzN2maN3M2HoAHfVI8GFBSar9BWGIW_w2Dlmbyh7V5qxlEEZSHrcfjtsieaFy6v6IVQQJOJKi24z2AWvRA1hZCW1Shd65XIHdbCbOqBC0G8dxvL/s1600-h/Sagrada+familia+light+wall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpDxEtdbHVShzCEfh9lI6heUMbvPH08TzN2maN3M2HoAHfVI8GFBSar9BWGIW_w2Dlmbyh7V5qxlEEZSHrcfjtsieaFy6v6IVQQJOJKi24z2AWvRA1hZCW1Shd65XIHdbCbOqBC0G8dxvL/s320/Sagrada+familia+light+wall.jpg" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The interior light in the unfinished cathedral is magical, and the stained glass, which doesn't photograph well with my crappy cell phone, was like jewels.</span></i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpkognE_QgaBX9MsTpIjKW61i3bKj5qgtKJt1JupsOIPtTDw9ryCTMS73zIdHLKNDzRRdrprWLFunapc8gjsdykJI0vTrphNqf5pqrPCySB8BY5Zkc2nHoS5AsNCtdRkEpXVB1-080wm1m/s1600-h/Sagrada+Familia+Flora.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpkognE_QgaBX9MsTpIjKW61i3bKj5qgtKJt1JupsOIPtTDw9ryCTMS73zIdHLKNDzRRdrprWLFunapc8gjsdykJI0vTrphNqf5pqrPCySB8BY5Zkc2nHoS5AsNCtdRkEpXVB1-080wm1m/s320/Sagrada+Familia+Flora.jpg" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Gaudi's peaks culminate in colorful plant motifs, which seem pretty whimsical...</span></i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Zz4wV_EvAwk4tCWtXrja_4S5drc2sXovKWcth2ntuOiJFfHDcXdPD28T_YQZupzaO8gc-UfnMAzAExw-zZAD16Gz3A2iFS5iV4CTF8D9KgyCzU8hwQXR7Gk3CIVl0leAbzjVN75apCny/s1600-h/Laon+cathedral+fauna.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Zz4wV_EvAwk4tCWtXrja_4S5drc2sXovKWcth2ntuOiJFfHDcXdPD28T_YQZupzaO8gc-UfnMAzAExw-zZAD16Gz3A2iFS5iV4CTF8D9KgyCzU8hwQXR7Gk3CIVl0leAbzjVN75apCny/s320/Laon+cathedral+fauna.jpg" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">... but are they really any sillier than the giant marble cows (said to be among the finest gothic animal sculpture around-- not sure how much competition there is for that honor) atop the 12th century cathedral in Laon, France? </span></i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNkdnLz1Puq2PwlDI77Bo4gUS_itgYmlEvNyv9EYmVfysKac5XEpFUkxp6A1sNFYj75lKkkeJ_2ONx4M29cHs4SNtCXG-SgY1S1MylnFZYQN1BY04NKKrkzbfsjiOw2CGPqcA3fZmheRer/s1600-h/Hospital+santa+creu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNkdnLz1Puq2PwlDI77Bo4gUS_itgYmlEvNyv9EYmVfysKac5XEpFUkxp6A1sNFYj75lKkkeJ_2ONx4M29cHs4SNtCXG-SgY1S1MylnFZYQN1BY04NKKrkzbfsjiOw2CGPqcA3fZmheRer/s320/Hospital+santa+creu.jpg" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The courtyard of the Hospital de la Santa Creu feels like an Italian villa...</span></i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9nENurcyYZAgdGcDU3LRLKxhbkovfL5oRWXGd27LHLlWTLFA37mc5G3miLVESGBO1B0xyQMVrK0w6LNGXDrazOjn5MtAlnCjVEHfvJBc6rGFVeRqC5roN9Hkv0u_alsPVULIVNysTGrwN/s1600-h/Sant+pau+cloister.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9nENurcyYZAgdGcDU3LRLKxhbkovfL5oRWXGd27LHLlWTLFA37mc5G3miLVESGBO1B0xyQMVrK0w6LNGXDrazOjn5MtAlnCjVEHfvJBc6rGFVeRqC5roN9Hkv0u_alsPVULIVNysTGrwN/s320/Sant+pau+cloister.jpg" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">... and Sant Pau's cloister is one of the most intimate and blissfully peaceful places I've ever been.</span></i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0yhCaIIC9D6MWTFui6Mgi3oel6ubRAcLqxHkqoX9t-egVo2c3D8KjcaNmHNPCyXKgWDw2bdcJhojydfQNndK2pMIM03E5MBGQXl3T9IRdcujKEqUaO6xfhIaAjRMilvxyLF9g5D_Oz2xm/s1600-h/Sant+pau+del+camp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0yhCaIIC9D6MWTFui6Mgi3oel6ubRAcLqxHkqoX9t-egVo2c3D8KjcaNmHNPCyXKgWDw2bdcJhojydfQNndK2pMIM03E5MBGQXl3T9IRdcujKEqUaO6xfhIaAjRMilvxyLF9g5D_Oz2xm/s320/Sant+pau+del+camp.jpg" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Sant Pau del Camp's simplicity reflects in part its role as a defensive structure, built outside the city's walls.</span></i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6ucYc2nGKbCVf2dX234wAQRbeAkGiIfCY2KGchJMtCfNkxNDsTzLARePQ11xWfw48nPOh8MvVUDvrgoOYxOz44YfLyNT2yAjYh_8lMZykBdbIHn3e2CmNy2NEBjlqDmqWoYOLiAsoS4T8/s1600-h/Hanging+laundry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6ucYc2nGKbCVf2dX234wAQRbeAkGiIfCY2KGchJMtCfNkxNDsTzLARePQ11xWfw48nPOh8MvVUDvrgoOYxOz44YfLyNT2yAjYh_8lMZykBdbIHn3e2CmNy2NEBjlqDmqWoYOLiAsoS4T8/s320/Hanging+laundry.jpg" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">You're not allowed to hang your laundry outside in Paris. I like it-- it gives the sense that a place is lived in.</span></i></div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">2.) Food. You can run the gamut in Barcelona, from the simplest snack foods (egg-and-potato omelets/tortillas) to the most cutting edge cooking technology. I loved the fish in romesco sauce I had one night, the stews of white beans or chickpeas, and the dishes that mixed fish and meat. But our favorite meal of the trip was lunch at Casa Lucio, a modest little place that does "standard" tapas at the bar up front and more inventive fare in the dining room in the back. Not having reserved, we got a couple of stools at the tapas bar and tried to communicate with the owner, who asked the other folks in the bar to help with some English. With a Catalan patron's help, we explained my shellfish allergy and that we were game for anything else. The owner pulled a little slip of paper out of the cash drawer that simply read "Trust me," and then mimed that we just needed to tell him when we've had enough. The parade of plates was amazing, marinated fish and vegetables, outstanding sausages, croquettes of Iberian ham, and one of the best cheeses I've ever had in my life. There was earnest pride and respect in the progression of the meal, and it was the kind of perfect simplicity I should be aspiring to in the kitchen. It was a truly memorable meal, both for the food and the intimate cultural experience. This, ultimately, is why I travel.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-lj0Wl6BSBi_9dn2ljQGid0jvv-B5B6lksQwExMrmWDkDzY3aUUgJf3j3O46UQ6uvQUeJFvuDWnD3xs_Hxc7aV6u-IT53UuF2b52Ks1_hYl2ZsuVIDx7MTdzFVhkR6lQ1ric1IvY_rlQM/s1600-h/Bar+Mut.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-lj0Wl6BSBi_9dn2ljQGid0jvv-B5B6lksQwExMrmWDkDzY3aUUgJf3j3O46UQ6uvQUeJFvuDWnD3xs_Hxc7aV6u-IT53UuF2b52Ks1_hYl2ZsuVIDx7MTdzFVhkR6lQ1ric1IvY_rlQM/s320/Bar+Mut.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">One of seemingly thousands of comfortable neighborhood wine-and-tapas bars, this one Bar Mut in the Exaimple, where we had a very good lunch our first, and only sunny, day in Barcelona</span></i>.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-lj0Wl6BSBi_9dn2ljQGid0jvv-B5B6lksQwExMrmWDkDzY3aUUgJf3j3O46UQ6uvQUeJFvuDWnD3xs_Hxc7aV6u-IT53UuF2b52Ks1_hYl2ZsuVIDx7MTdzFVhkR6lQ1ric1IvY_rlQM/s1600-h/Bar+Mut.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV6PTHTuxlhL_sBVbIQHT88-lr44KCnqy5-rhMAPz0IQvRR9v-Xo-X7gBrSCP6m4L05LYNs3BW_Owx8T09DvLFJW_N3YHRz8lOhBFPS24dSk7FCfXEIpT81QVUBv2Dm7YCl4lF2en6gyvW/s1600-h/Bouqueria+heads.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV6PTHTuxlhL_sBVbIQHT88-lr44KCnqy5-rhMAPz0IQvRR9v-Xo-X7gBrSCP6m4L05LYNs3BW_Owx8T09DvLFJW_N3YHRz8lOhBFPS24dSk7FCfXEIpT81QVUBv2Dm7YCl4lF2en6gyvW/s320/Bouqueria+heads.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">La Bouqueria, the big and busy food market off of the Ramblas, wasn't such a novelty coming from Paris or even Philly. But local eating habits were on display in the dozens of stalls selling Iberian hams and the lamb's heads in this butcher case.</span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV6PTHTuxlhL_sBVbIQHT88-lr44KCnqy5-rhMAPz0IQvRR9v-Xo-X7gBrSCP6m4L05LYNs3BW_Owx8T09DvLFJW_N3YHRz8lOhBFPS24dSk7FCfXEIpT81QVUBv2Dm7YCl4lF2en6gyvW/s1600-h/Bouqueria+heads.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMbW87wIuHUqneYF0ZtueO4oowADsIvIomWDZjM6vO0LAuupLqBYqqPaorBHHTE_x7SiBxbEXrRvkT5mfss0tmPmhkVAG_6XjF2fC6qdALIjUHZbmc7LgMsMDZctYhyphenhyphentexufNx4aA3Tf9t/s1600-h/Bouqueria+game.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMbW87wIuHUqneYF0ZtueO4oowADsIvIomWDZjM6vO0LAuupLqBYqqPaorBHHTE_x7SiBxbEXrRvkT5mfss0tmPmhkVAG_6XjF2fC6qdALIjUHZbmc7LgMsMDZctYhyphenhyphentexufNx4aA3Tf9t/s320/Bouqueria+game.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A little ways down the aisle was this cooler of small wild game. Now <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">that's</span> what I want at my butcher shop. Thoughtful of them to line the bottom of the cooler with red, rather than white, paper...</span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMbW87wIuHUqneYF0ZtueO4oowADsIvIomWDZjM6vO0LAuupLqBYqqPaorBHHTE_x7SiBxbEXrRvkT5mfss0tmPmhkVAG_6XjF2fC6qdALIjUHZbmc7LgMsMDZctYhyphenhyphentexufNx4aA3Tf9t/s1600-h/Bouqueria+game.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiupdQq-hWU0PwnwQEA3PgGL2gl7I3jBDbw4e1z0r4Hwp7q_DR-dyQzYIt3X3zUovx9zC4LFxA-uGo3DM9r5uGI75MOjHGOuQetpqqL6kk-EFZV9IA4kSNil90QPZ4SK8xekJqVvd9pKMEC/s1600-h/Casa+lucio+goodies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiupdQq-hWU0PwnwQEA3PgGL2gl7I3jBDbw4e1z0r4Hwp7q_DR-dyQzYIt3X3zUovx9zC4LFxA-uGo3DM9r5uGI75MOjHGOuQetpqqL6kk-EFZV9IA4kSNil90QPZ4SK8xekJqVvd9pKMEC/s320/Casa+lucio+goodies.jpg" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A small sampling of the treats at Casa Lucio's tapas bar, where we had a trip-defining lunch.</span></i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">3.) Wine. You've got to wash all that good food down with something, and the Spanish wine washes down pretty well. In a world where vineyards of indigenous grapes are being replanted with French grapes to make generically international wines, it was really easy to find good Spanish wines made from the traditional Spanish grapes at reasonable prices, whether in the wine bars before dinner or at the table.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">4.) Art. Though the museum capitol of Spain is Madrid, there's still plenty to see in Barcelona. The highlight for us was the Fundacio Joan Miro, both for the broad collection of Miro's own moving work and for the outstanding temporary exhibition of Frantisek Kupka's paintings and drawings. Our time-to-museum-saturation is usually fairly short, but we spent forever there.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEincBXmjAO1z4XGMU0mj9KGaw4_zdqyYb0_o1d4_gJT1ztTqQtkNER7fZZKP2V71Y5oeQs7kFxoQt_wMmdgZIrBEDkqtE_YdaKK69xnFOmG8324qvQmpBmi6PgfMtPMizI1_Q3slRHieHqo/s1600-h/Fundacio+Miro+sculpture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEincBXmjAO1z4XGMU0mj9KGaw4_zdqyYb0_o1d4_gJT1ztTqQtkNER7fZZKP2V71Y5oeQs7kFxoQt_wMmdgZIrBEDkqtE_YdaKK69xnFOmG8324qvQmpBmi6PgfMtPMizI1_Q3slRHieHqo/s320/Fundacio+Miro+sculpture.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was raining, so I didn't stop to write down the name of the artist who created this sculpture outside the Fundacio Joan Miro.</span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQdAAnRzxDRw65bnhm0mjfoprmEdYzZ7cWGDR2rnD572ka_X32Emab-2srj93f3l5foR-3flNgItt86Xbcw0viPIBBhyphenhyphen7GMgMfp5OlNxbr7vo_xBYLnuyAl-Rk07QFwy0Vh8Kcaa3U7oIx/s1600-h/Kupka.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQdAAnRzxDRw65bnhm0mjfoprmEdYzZ7cWGDR2rnD572ka_X32Emab-2srj93f3l5foR-3flNgItt86Xbcw0viPIBBhyphenhyphen7GMgMfp5OlNxbr7vo_xBYLnuyAl-Rk07QFwy0Vh8Kcaa3U7oIx/s1600-h/Kupka.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQdAAnRzxDRw65bnhm0mjfoprmEdYzZ7cWGDR2rnD572ka_X32Emab-2srj93f3l5foR-3flNgItt86Xbcw0viPIBBhyphenhyphen7GMgMfp5OlNxbr7vo_xBYLnuyAl-Rk07QFwy0Vh8Kcaa3U7oIx/s320/Kupka.jpg" /></a></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A Kupka painting, the picture downloaded from the Fundacio Joan Miro's website, since I was about the only person in the museum complying with the no-indoor-photography request.</span></i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">5.) Shopping. We don't spend much time shopping, generally, but something about Barcelona drew us in, and we had a lot of luck finding stores with a good combination of style, fit, and price. It didn't hurt that it rained almost constantly after our first day.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">5.) People. I heard a number of (presumably non-Catalan) people in Barcelona make cracks about the impersonal and prickly Catalans, but we were impressed by how graciously hospitable people were.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">6.) Vibe. Though the feel and prosperity of the city change depending on where you are, the central part of town has an energy and movement that's charming and compelling. Maybe that reflected our mood more than the city itself, but we had a sense of moving and looking forward. I suspect some of it's the whimsy and exuberance in some of the architecture and art in public spaces. I think I've said before that Paris, like Philly, has a bit of a yesterday-centric culture about it, even beyond the preservation of their histories. Barcelona felt optimistic, somehow.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Fr_ky6hfCuwFA6Jn2PcPpGCHWyQEOFfAV0w-iUodnZ5KaC8xJr_uJquibca4Fwxd1o_0KNS7UsuyJfPNejqt3GQzTUGmPj0FsS8V9SKyOYUnE5fxbhV8QIZSbU7X0u-WpxLnqGQ_V9dM/s1600-h/Alien+invasion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Fr_ky6hfCuwFA6Jn2PcPpGCHWyQEOFfAV0w-iUodnZ5KaC8xJr_uJquibca4Fwxd1o_0KNS7UsuyJfPNejqt3GQzTUGmPj0FsS8V9SKyOYUnE5fxbhV8QIZSbU7X0u-WpxLnqGQ_V9dM/s320/Alien+invasion.jpg" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Even the giant crustaceans in Barcelona are optimistic. You can't see it in this picture, but this menacing creature along the recently updated waterfront wears a goofy smiley face.</span></i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">The very few negatives of the trip were the kinds of things one runs into anywhere-- a hotel that, while cool looking and nicely appointed, was lacking sound proofing and design common sense (are clangy metal shelves and minibar cubicle doors a good idea in a minimally soundproofed place? Not so much.), a hugely overpriced meal at Cinc Sentis that, although stunningly plated, fell well short of its mark both in service and taste (a chef needs to use more than 3 of the 5 tastes at that level-- where on earth was acid or bitter?, expensive wine pairings need to highlight the unique flavors of both the food and wine rather than pile the same gustatory experience on your tongue course after course, and with 48 h notice on allergies, the management needs to be more flexible in a tasting menu), and my umbrella was stolen from a store umbrella rack. Spain still has a reputation for petty theft, and it doesn't get any more petty than my 7-euro-buck folding umbrella. A tiny dose of bad luck. <i>C'est comme ça</i>.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I'd have put the mediocre coffee on the negative list, but it was still better enough than what you get in Paris that I think I have to put that on the win side, along with 95% of the rest of our Barcelona experience.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPRF9VAkA7grYYL7WlSOSA3b_FKP4NTzK9SPKmQvjXLES8iqQY84Evx6Vm8VP83-SgB2zc2yFnfk1-aRoacyo588jK3n3jlkNKcpGl8ZAzmlWMa_RZ_o2I_-kGszNLGzqGpO_nYtyf4-bY/s1600-h/Goodbye+Barcelona.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPRF9VAkA7grYYL7WlSOSA3b_FKP4NTzK9SPKmQvjXLES8iqQY84Evx6Vm8VP83-SgB2zc2yFnfk1-aRoacyo588jK3n3jlkNKcpGl8ZAzmlWMa_RZ_o2I_-kGszNLGzqGpO_nYtyf4-bY/s320/Goodbye+Barcelona.jpg" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Goodbye, Barcelona. We'll probably be back.</span></i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
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</div></div>Rolfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08655178481559856016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8969210237915788638.post-85642266505885032862010-01-31T12:46:00.006+01:002010-01-31T15:26:52.413+01:00Safer Skies?I flew to Philadelphia and back this week for work, the first time I've flown since the Christmas day foiled bomber. I wasn't sure what sort of new security measures would be in place, having seen news stories of now only one carry-on, or not being able to touch your personal belongings during the flight. None of that was enforced on my flights. In Paris there were more rounds of the "did you pack your own bags?" questioning, and they searched a number of "randomly" selected people for manual searches of carry-on bags which delayed our take-off, but that was about it.<br />
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On the way back to Paris on Friday, when I finally found the Delta counter (Delta took over the Air France route between Paris and Philadelphia. Not a good thing), the rep asked me if I had already checked in. No, I didn't remember to do the advance check in on-line, so had not checked in at all. But we have you checked in with three bags? No, really no. So he checked me and my 2 bags (only one on the way over, the 2nd mostly bike stuff!) and that was that.<br />
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While I was still trying to settle into my seat on the plane, another woman came up and said she had 2A, my seat. No, 2A is definitely my seat. She got the flight attendant, who looked at my boarding pass and her boarding pass. Both said 2A, and both had my name on it. I don't know what the other woman's name really was, but mine is unusual enough that hers definitely was not identical.<br />
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They shuffled her to another seat (or maybe off the plane?) and asked for my bag claim checks to make sure the bags were labeled correctly, and the flight attendant apologized to me: "that doesn't usually happen on international flights."<br />
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So- the rep at check in did not get the right name from her passport, and checked her in under my name. Then the how many checks through security did not pick up that her boarding pass and passport did not match? But if I bring a bottle of anything greater than 3 oz. I'm a security risk? Please.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02639741551043308356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8969210237915788638.post-45135949758215863902010-01-30T15:00:00.004+01:002010-01-30T15:09:14.003+01:00Reasons to live in Paris, entry 2<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
Sugar...</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMCRwkCys6ynEXIHEEdvDNtCOJ_J7mPPFCdE-qM38VvAaifcerpkqtd4gUuwMjmcDbGyC3nkNCf2SGxggYVk6SVeEjkhT6olyLlPmt8dPqAQA8DHCzOsF-zIkW6esscG9As-be-8I8HGIS/s1600-h/Daddy+Sugar.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMCRwkCys6ynEXIHEEdvDNtCOJ_J7mPPFCdE-qM38VvAaifcerpkqtd4gUuwMjmcDbGyC3nkNCf2SGxggYVk6SVeEjkhT6olyLlPmt8dPqAQA8DHCzOsF-zIkW6esscG9As-be-8I8HGIS/s320/Daddy+Sugar.JPG" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Or more specifically, <a href="http://www.daddy.fr/">Daddy</a> brand sugar, which dominates the store shelves here. I realize it's childish, but I chuckle every time I see that pink bag.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">And as if that weren't enough, trying to find the company's website through a 'net search for your blog post provides at least an afternoon's worth of entertainment, as any combination of France, Daddy, and sugar brings up the most interesting sites.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div>Rolfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08655178481559856016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8969210237915788638.post-45603669225002565552010-01-29T17:38:00.002+01:002010-01-29T23:26:42.916+01:00Cyclocross in France: Roubaix World Cup<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #29303b; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"></span><br />
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</div><div>A couple of weekends ago, we completed our 2009/2010 cyclocross spectating season by taking the train up to Roubaix to watch the 8th race in the World Cup series.<br />
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</div><div>The city of Roubaix hosts the finish of the spring classic Paris-Roubaix bike race, which is contested over a bunch of now-carefully-preserved-and-valued super-crappy cobbled roads in northern France. It hosts the finish way more accurately than Paris hosts the start. For the last 40 years or so, it has started in Compiégne, which would be like saying a race from Allentown, PA starts in Philly. Regardless, the Roubaix velodrome is iconic in the bike racing world, a place where the few tough and crazy riders who survive the race finish. And the 'cross race is held in and around the velodrome, which was at least part of the reason we went up.</div></div><div><br />
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</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG3SkIYnksAlLBF-ferM0jR_V3UeGvonZygJFfFau3b8af3TtZylSxONFcKX8Ya4BX9BTztfqQ117gbIMu97mUmfCC2O5SEyhAMZUQCh0L8AmH-MRu7YooHTbpNtb8i-yTkxQ53EChW7BC/s1600-h/Velodrome+course.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="color: #473624; text-decoration: underline;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431850869334992210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG3SkIYnksAlLBF-ferM0jR_V3UeGvonZygJFfFau3b8af3TtZylSxONFcKX8Ya4BX9BTztfqQ117gbIMu97mUmfCC2O5SEyhAMZUQCh0L8AmH-MRu7YooHTbpNtb8i-yTkxQ53EChW7BC/s400/Velodrome+course.jpg" style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; border-width: initial; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The Roubaix velodrome. The technical part of the course uses the sliver of steep hillside from where the spectators are standing to the street.</span></i><br />
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<div>The velodrome and sports park isn't a particularly big place, and they run the race entirely on the grounds. At first glance, aside from the use of the velodrome surface for part of the lap, the course doesn't look much different from my club's Whirlybird course back home, winding around a bunch of playing fields, using the track-and-field sand pits, and eeking out just a little bit of elevation gain on the berms around the fields. But the sliver of land between the velodrome itself and the street provided some technical challenges, including a steep set of stairs (tricky because the front of the stair is wood but the step itself was just soil, which in the mud made for some precariously uneven footing), a couple of tricky off-camber switchbacks, and 2 steep downhills that ended in very short run-out sharp right-hand turns (or, failing the negotiation of the turns, ended in a head-on collision with a solid wall, thoughtfully covered with very thick padding). The first descent was harrowing enough that on the first lap of the pro women's warm-up, there got to be quite a gaggle of riders looking, laughing nervously, and waiting for somebody to dare to push the front wheel over the edge.</div><div><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdOjVoGOex26t28S_hr3ksqcr5NbE6UStSj34q7xfRkNHjbfIposYA9I9Cw8eNyMRTMODg5oePeMGkK68885GuGudmB9p3Z7iI9VKWHNy_cU_6opC7LwnbNQsG2WsLF_Vy1_RZDUk1Blt5/s1600-h/Roubaix+downhill.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="color: #473624; text-decoration: underline;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431850867508186530" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdOjVoGOex26t28S_hr3ksqcr5NbE6UStSj34q7xfRkNHjbfIposYA9I9Cw8eNyMRTMODg5oePeMGkK68885GuGudmB9p3Z7iI9VKWHNy_cU_6opC7LwnbNQsG2WsLF_Vy1_RZDUk1Blt5/s400/Roubaix+downhill.jpg" style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; border-width: initial; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The first descent on the lap is a pretty intimidating sight when you're the first to roll up to it...</span></i></div><div><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_E3Al4AZP2wj3CsntJLFx3zfQIq9uX8F0FyABVRKKcwfnGSi_vjNDhCWhkqzK6dP2Z2t3XRir1cZX1n4_bN2cI62KO8E9Ws0QWyL4YGCwEeSQOXec5RP6KunBJl7BRNzI_4pZpOM2-9Z-/s1600-h/Roubaix+downhill+2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="color: #473624; text-decoration: underline;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431850857615329042" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_E3Al4AZP2wj3CsntJLFx3zfQIq9uX8F0FyABVRKKcwfnGSi_vjNDhCWhkqzK6dP2Z2t3XRir1cZX1n4_bN2cI62KO8E9Ws0QWyL4YGCwEeSQOXec5RP6KunBJl7BRNzI_4pZpOM2-9Z-/s400/Roubaix+downhill+2.jpg" style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; border-width: initial; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was tackled a lot of different ways during the day, riding, running, and plenty of hybrid technique. This is the U23 race</span></i>.</div><div><br />
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</div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2c_Grf-Fh4rA5yfIJX-Ss2JJXdvQM7EjI5Xm8o_Zp7o8WJjfRvyplxOs_83SyBV4jOzDsNiIxgWkIzN6GavrdGiCXhD5Z0Cxl5jrjcK7YstmVC8vhPE98xeyAEyEho7HTz_jrD3lpbs9b/s1600-h/Roubaix+second+downhill.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="color: #473624; text-decoration: underline;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431850852358074498" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2c_Grf-Fh4rA5yfIJX-Ss2JJXdvQM7EjI5Xm8o_Zp7o8WJjfRvyplxOs_83SyBV4jOzDsNiIxgWkIzN6GavrdGiCXhD5Z0Cxl5jrjcK7YstmVC8vhPE98xeyAEyEho7HTz_jrD3lpbs9b/s400/Roubaix+second+downhill.jpg" style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; border-width: initial; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The second descent is longer and steeper, but the run-out is longer, and the approach is less sketchy than the first. Still, even the leaders in the pro race ran it as often as they rode it.</span></i></div><div><br />
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</div><div>The atmosphere at Roubaix was really different from the other races we've been at. First, the crowds were smaller. It was still plenty packed in the techy section behind the velodrome, but the rest of the course allowed pretty easy moving around. The crowd was still mostly Belgian, but unlike the races in Flanders, I could hear at least a little French wherever we stood. There were tons of French riders in the younger races, 11 in the U23 race alone. These guys haven't been racing much 'cross, since there are only 2 French riders in the top 36 World Cup standings for the season, so they apparently gave every kid in town a bike and told them to show up on Sunday.</div><div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpvsgbr2zAlECaZ8trvgJGbyyLHroyiDnB_OPMamorlfQpJ9HHyBbHvefMmFDv5kYQjWsBj_Wk5sK-vePMm7e4Bu4LbO20L5YTW5SYRKmXI4C7bENifDHeDY6mDuaOoS3GRTucqy00q0ER/s1600-h/Oompah+band.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="color: #473624; text-decoration: underline;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431850845238981890" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpvsgbr2zAlECaZ8trvgJGbyyLHroyiDnB_OPMamorlfQpJ9HHyBbHvefMmFDv5kYQjWsBj_Wk5sK-vePMm7e4Bu4LbO20L5YTW5SYRKmXI4C7bENifDHeDY6mDuaOoS3GRTucqy00q0ER/s400/Oompah+band.jpg" style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; border-width: initial; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In addition to this pajama-wearing oompah band, there was a drum corp at Roubaix. Overall, there was more silliness and a more relaxed vibe.</span></i></div><div><br />
</div><div>There was only 1 beer cart, and no real beer tents, which may explain why there were fewer specatators. The food vendors, much to my surprise, were still Belgian, something I figured the French wouldn't stand for. But France doesn't have a big street-food tradition, and maybe they figured the Belgians who would come to watch the race didn't want (or deserve) French food. Interacting with the vendors at Roubaix was completely different than at the races in Belgium. In Belgium, it's Dutch or English with them, and though they're nice about it (a lot nicer than the French are, certainly), it's clear that by speaking English you're definitely foreign. In Roubaix, I spoke to them in French, which just seemed like the the natural thing to do in France, which it turns out they didn't like or do very well, but they couldn't really complain, being in France and all. It was a strangely empowering series of interactions, perhaps the first time since we've been in France that I felt like I actually lived here. That<i> I</i> was the "native." I almost wished I'd had a beret.</div><div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVPFdxvo11JansmvdF-qhZLQvrHm8udURJBvvFHWMegw47UApFeKoTDU5fSr1yiy6lgbY7byOualT_7CXtcbKeK611uCbDVbCOzlh3a2La_R0LOTj2uCpkDIgyG3f7uv9rUJjdVawIshHP/s1600-h/Curry+Ketchup.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="color: #473624; text-decoration: underline;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431850518507559938" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVPFdxvo11JansmvdF-qhZLQvrHm8udURJBvvFHWMegw47UApFeKoTDU5fSr1yiy6lgbY7byOualT_7CXtcbKeK611uCbDVbCOzlh3a2La_R0LOTj2uCpkDIgyG3f7uv9rUJjdVawIshHP/s400/Curry+Ketchup.jpg" style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; border-width: initial; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Some things, like curry ketchup, you don't need to taste to know not to eat. But being slower than the average guy, I exercised some regrettable judgement and tried it on my frites.</span></i></div><div><br />
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</div><div>And in fact, there was a bit of that feeling all day in Roubaix. In contrast to Barcelona, Brussels, Vienna, Stockholm, Tokyo, etc-- or Paris, for Pete's sake-- places we've been over this past crazy year that were decidedly foreign, Roubaix felt very familiar. An industrial city of a bit less than 100,000 people that's lost most of its shine, made mostly of red brick row houses that weren't distinctly Flemmish or Norman or Alsatian, it could have been any smallish-to-midsize PA city: Lancaster, York, Allentown. Hell, it could have been Racine or Kenosha, WI. It felt oddly like home.</div><div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV6NufxaOkbY16NC_iCbu1y51RgfR6JwH8jkpkoPO2lepFPGMvJKhegYprlHNXhYpX-BzhUj_rfD1rTDufSmUHSdSxmyzwvvy0FX1JD5ove3153LEy8nO_Gj2e9fcVsXHLJfIXgBjQ3s77/s1600-h/Roubaix+Train+Station.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="color: #473624; text-decoration: underline;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431850512554552738" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV6NufxaOkbY16NC_iCbu1y51RgfR6JwH8jkpkoPO2lepFPGMvJKhegYprlHNXhYpX-BzhUj_rfD1rTDufSmUHSdSxmyzwvvy0FX1JD5ove3153LEy8nO_Gj2e9fcVsXHLJfIXgBjQ3s77/s400/Roubaix+Train+Station.jpg" style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; border-width: initial; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The Roubaix train station is handsome and in excellent repair, though there aren't many trains through here anymore.</span></i></div><div><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqDpqYUWQ6sqiX_eCgOxCndE8PQcMaLwuSPwiwxS6zl4X_oeP5Z6ONfj5Mz2Zog2wgLZ8csCH7o5gDcTWviw3SXpEZ-GMCNmbMa4Q-XrphRYfhsNPH64ghVgBnUQxIClHL4OZS9VEqsr0q/s1600-h/Roubaix+street.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="color: #473624; text-decoration: underline;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431850505943134082" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqDpqYUWQ6sqiX_eCgOxCndE8PQcMaLwuSPwiwxS6zl4X_oeP5Z6ONfj5Mz2Zog2wgLZ8csCH7o5gDcTWviw3SXpEZ-GMCNmbMa4Q-XrphRYfhsNPH64ghVgBnUQxIClHL4OZS9VEqsr0q/s400/Roubaix+street.jpg" style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; border-width: initial; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Roubaix's streets remind of home.</span></i></div><div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-ACbvt6PYU5hVjt8NLfPXvqymFO62NpM-QOmN4Yna3EDgVxIIcprzhcUDLhppbn1b9c8ES5pbKhLuSZbFBBvltgs9v2EbmPXjHXWjaNyZ1PcIcPNaEJgYU1oqcd_Y25G8S7ad_y4WMZUQ/s1600-h/Roubaix+Grand+Place.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="color: #473624; text-decoration: underline;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431850497869275746" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-ACbvt6PYU5hVjt8NLfPXvqymFO62NpM-QOmN4Yna3EDgVxIIcprzhcUDLhppbn1b9c8ES5pbKhLuSZbFBBvltgs9v2EbmPXjHXWjaNyZ1PcIcPNaEJgYU1oqcd_Y25G8S7ad_y4WMZUQ/s400/Roubaix+Grand+Place.jpg" style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; border-width: initial; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It wasn't all like familiar, though. The Grand Place (hotel de ville) on our walk from the train station to the velodrome was a striking, and very European, sight</span></i>.</div><div><br />
</div><div>It also felt like perfect spectating weather, with sunny skies on race day. We'd done our 34-degree-and-rain spectating in December, so we were happy for the difference a little sun makes when standing around all day (and it really was all day, because they did UCI officials training between the U23 and women's races, an extra 90 min of just standing around). Like most of the races we've seen this year, the course was crazy-muddy, since it had rained all week. Those steep downhills were as gnarly as I've seen, with even most of the pro men running them, and it was just a long, brutal slog through the flatter sections of the course. It looked like a painful day on the bike, for sure.</div><div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuuYakHlhRmRQj59jxwQwGF4uIVPbp6q4zkRqfF444WGHbj_XbjP9-kbRVgs2HlcLwPCLJ6gaLjXlkyr_2_6Dc0lIrKE04TkTfDTy1RJiyY8Ke_cihVQSt83qsLWfsCcEEPqstsuNNS_GV/s1600-h/Safety+Jogger.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="color: #473624; text-decoration: underline;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431850489419936434" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuuYakHlhRmRQj59jxwQwGF4uIVPbp6q4zkRqfF444WGHbj_XbjP9-kbRVgs2HlcLwPCLJ6gaLjXlkyr_2_6Dc0lIrKE04TkTfDTy1RJiyY8Ke_cihVQSt83qsLWfsCcEEPqstsuNNS_GV/s400/Safety+Jogger.jpg" style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; border-width: initial; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Safety Jogger work boots is a major sponsor for many of the 'cross series. As Karen has said, it ain't a cross race without the inflatable boot</span></i>.</div><div><br />
</div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJQ9jlV0z2BAuk0BG4z-Z86GVlsahfWsR2P3WQhyDmAcbvz8uytO0r9pLivWkYcbLBcYyKNBXUce3a32hjuUqjt0d1Zet7xnO_J4CGag-L9CtLG6uS9-I_NIAA8V1-UK2HfK4d-neCjVc2/s1600-h/Wellies.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="color: #473624; text-decoration: underline;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431850165563112898" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJQ9jlV0z2BAuk0BG4z-Z86GVlsahfWsR2P3WQhyDmAcbvz8uytO0r9pLivWkYcbLBcYyKNBXUce3a32hjuUqjt0d1Zet7xnO_J4CGag-L9CtLG6uS9-I_NIAA8V1-UK2HfK4d-neCjVc2/s400/Wellies.jpg" style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; border-width: initial; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">However, the more logical sponsor would seem to be Wellies, because the deep mud has made for messy and treacherous walking all season long.</span></i></div><div><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgik7yFM5L4NZRXOsF5ao3jRqldgO_-yrBSITWsyItg6slacLcFP_WcTPivorJ_9GR0aQatXEFrfUOirJbKLmd0tWsl5lakJCP_iImjQgZCC4JgsVM867fT14XCzeqjjJ7zlYAN4MuILtvC/s1600-h/Promo.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="color: #473624; text-decoration: underline;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431850160195585682" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgik7yFM5L4NZRXOsF5ao3jRqldgO_-yrBSITWsyItg6slacLcFP_WcTPivorJ_9GR0aQatXEFrfUOirJbKLmd0tWsl5lakJCP_iImjQgZCC4JgsVM867fT14XCzeqjjJ7zlYAN4MuILtvC/s400/Promo.jpg" style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; border-width: initial; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">One guy who isn't getting dirty is Sven Nys. In this promo in Roubaix, pictures of muddy Niels Albert, Lars Boom, and friends, and a sparklingly clean Sven Nys, have been photoshopped together. There's no shortage of pictures of Nys in the mud, so the use of this one is perplexing.</span></i></div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div><div>With the various European national championships having run the week before, there was a lot of commentating over the loudspeakers about who was in what jersey. It would be a big day for the Czech champions, with Katerina Nash taking the women's race, the most notable moments of which were the missing Katie Compton (they called her repeatedly at the start line, but she didn't race due to leg cramps) and seeing Dutch national champion Daphny Van den Brand touch wheels with Nash on an early lap and crash hard on the velodrome concrete. Van den Brand got back up and though well-bloodied, held her position to take the overall lead in the World Cup.<br />
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Czech sensation Zdenek Stybar won the men's race convincingly, and World Champion and crybaby Niels Albert, who had until that race been leading the World Cup, had a tough day of it and finished well back in 8th place. sniffed after the race that with the broken ribs he suffered the week before, it wasn't possible to "defend my chances in a fair way." Having suffered through some busted ribcage myself in the past 12 months, his toughness is not in question in my book-- I can't imagine the pain of piloting a bike around the slop like that on freshly broken ribs. <i>Chapeau, monsieur!</i> Maybe there's something that happens in the translation from Dutch, but he just can't seem to help but whine in his interviews. There must have been something in the air, though, as even the normally stiff-lipped Sven Nys groused that day, saying that whereas the Czech champion had the luxury of training in Majorca the previous week, he, as the Belgian champion, had Obligations including an early-week race and a team event. Poor Svenny. It's such a burden to be so good.</div></div><div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC3HYn_23I_f3fM6J64e22Dwa1dr026TrK047oGYiR-rekhs5wsknewlKxjV7PeTYNKnIQx7WIjDXbR0na214n5iMl3B-ZV7WUSjdE5UcMoaXN_l4L87tEWGmUC62rP-l0RCTBP-VeLO_o/s1600-h/Backboard.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="color: #473624; text-decoration: underline;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431850155025650914" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC3HYn_23I_f3fM6J64e22Dwa1dr026TrK047oGYiR-rekhs5wsknewlKxjV7PeTYNKnIQx7WIjDXbR0na214n5iMl3B-ZV7WUSjdE5UcMoaXN_l4L87tEWGmUC62rP-l0RCTBP-VeLO_o/s400/Backboard.jpg" style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; border-width: initial; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 275px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Daphny Van den Brand got back up a couple of moments after her hard fall, but somebody apparently forgot to tell the emergency crew, who struggled to get the yellow backboard, stationed up at the top of the 2 treacherous descents, down to the velodrome through the thick mud, but not arriving until at least 5 min after she left the velodrome.</span></i></div><div><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAhgutTDidJQUX3eyg8pxAeIXEuoZ_wClyZF2GUSfTe4OGH-8ige0C3weQzmHNhjyALRn2h8XxKleFoeXVj30MVMiL9YyqqqTYWVRTzRfx073Jdjg4beXvghrJI5LGnXcGyqRLARij9HDF/s1600-h/Page+shoulder-butt.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="color: #473624; text-decoration: underline;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431850148971034306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAhgutTDidJQUX3eyg8pxAeIXEuoZ_wClyZF2GUSfTe4OGH-8ige0C3weQzmHNhjyALRn2h8XxKleFoeXVj30MVMiL9YyqqqTYWVRTzRfx073Jdjg4beXvghrJI5LGnXcGyqRLARij9HDF/s400/Page+shoulder-butt.jpg" style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; border-width: initial; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A guy who seems to be having a rough time for much of this season is American Jonathan Page. A good technical rider, it seemed like every time up this run/ride up at the soccer fields, somebody was running into him. On this lap, it's Ondrej Bambula (#28) with his shoulder in Page's ear.</span></i></div><div><br />
</div><div><div>Watching these races in person is a totally different experience than watching on TV. I know this, because I watched the TV coverage of it (on Belgian internet: neither of the French World Cup races this season were broadcast on French TV) that night when we got back to Paris. Unless you're lucky enough to be standing where the race is made or lost, as we were at Diegem when Nys broke his derailleur hanger at the top of the stairs, you really have no idea how things got the way they did in the race. But there's so much else you just don't get to see on TV. Like the Mongolians.</div><div><br />
</div><div>There's been a contingent of Mongolians racing in December and January, and since I figure that just about every other nation racing has representation in the crowd, and even the announcers keep calling them Chinese (I don't think Boldbaatar or Myagmarsuren are traditional Chinese names), I focus my cheering efforts on the Mongolians. Fortunately, this doesn't much interfere with cheering for the leaders, because the Mongolian fellas are pretty quickly off the back. Though the only time you see them on TV is when they're being lapped (usually just past mid-way through the race), they embody a lot of what I admire in bike racing: they ride hard and with dedication, but not without a little sense of humor about their situation, they're always taking chances and trying to conquer the lines and technical challenges (at Roubaix, with a little encouragement from our group at the soccer field run-up they managed to ride the run-up more often than most of the other guys in the pro race), and they're good sports, always getting clear out of the way of the front of the race as it laps them and, unlike a lot of the tools who get lapped and then try to draft the guys who caught them (which in my book just endangers the guys at the front of the race-- if you had those skills, you wouldn't have just gotten lapped...), they leave a gap before soldiering on.</div></div><div><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaUtstF8_NFSLF2vqTPq0_uscIaUK-gXwUbJd7l_2-kGiyx4e57pFNBRRX_xp801-UlV3yXNZvVoozfI0oMJwWfBph6EkStud1KNtCyuuTvWebw7FnbeXYcPmtxsh4LJVjNqWtNgo4xIhy/s1600-h/Mongolian+power.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="color: #473624; text-decoration: underline;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431850146457422370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaUtstF8_NFSLF2vqTPq0_uscIaUK-gXwUbJd7l_2-kGiyx4e57pFNBRRX_xp801-UlV3yXNZvVoozfI0oMJwWfBph6EkStud1KNtCyuuTvWebw7FnbeXYcPmtxsh4LJVjNqWtNgo4xIhy/s400/Mongolian+power.jpg" style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; border-width: initial; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 284px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Mongolian U23 team member Baasenkhuu Myagmarsura pushing through the slop.</span></i><br />
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</div><div><br />
</div><div>I came to decide at Roubaix that they're a little like Power Rangers, with powers that can be summoned (briefly) on command. In the U23 race, one of the Mongolian fellows (Naran Kangarid) was struggling with one of the zillions of French riders (Dmitri Corriette) pretty far back in the race for several laps. With a couple to go, Kangarid absolutely <i>lit</i> it on the velodrome, as if he'd just been saving energy for the previous 30 min, and just toasted the French guy, eventually finishing a lap up on him. It was amazing. I thought I heard him shout, "Mongolian powers, activate!" when he kicked, but I could be wrong. Anyway, they were fun to watch and cheer, and I sincerely wish the team the best. I hope that when I get back to racing, I can do it with as much class and good nature as they do.</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div></div></div>Rolfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08655178481559856016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8969210237915788638.post-5283556043783767642010-01-28T12:05:00.010+01:002010-01-28T13:33:11.307+01:00Winter odds and ends<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span></div><div>It's darned near February, already, and that means we're quickly closing in on a year in France.<div><br /></div><div>Which also means I'm quickly closing in on needing to renew my carte de sejour. Since she came into the country gainfully enough employed that it seemed unlikely she'd sponge off of the social services here, Karen's carte de sejour is good for two years. Since I was just freeloading off of somebody gainfully enough employed that it seemed unlikely she'd sponge off of the social services here, I'm on a leash just half as long as hers. I'm not complaining, mind you. Heck, if I were Karen, I'd make me reapply for freeloading off of her every year, too.</div><div><br /></div><div>Life in France requires a lot of photos. When we made our original applications for residency permits, I think we needed 13 of them, just a couple short of one for every most-wanted list in the country. It was a royal pain in the butt getting those photos in Philly. Even though we live within walking distance of the customs house, with a passport-and-other-official-documents photography service across the street, it took a long time and cost a small fortune to get the photos. The whole picture process was also pretty grim, since all of the photos have to be unsmiling. I'm not sure whether that's so that any official protector of la France won't be tempted to think that a terrorist couldn't possibly lurk behind a charming grin, or whether it's an acknowledgement that virtually any occasion in which your residency permit would be requested will not be a fun one and thus the unsmiling picture will be an easier comparison to the real thing. Either way, mirth is strictly <i>interdit.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>But in one of the rare efficiencies in France, since life here requires a lot of photos, there are a lot of places to quickly get them made cheaply. Photo booths that produce document-appropriate photos can be found in many of the metro and train stations, among other places. My carte de sejour renewal required 4 new photos, and the booths give 5 for 5 euro-bucks. You pull the curtain closed, sit on the little stool, adjusting its height so your eyes fall on the line in the video screen, put in your 5 euros, stop smiling, and shoot. You even get up to 3 shots at it before you have to commit. Pick up your pictures (outside the booth-- that took a couple of moments to figure out). It's a snap.</div><div><br /></div><div>Or at least it would be if you're not 6'4" tall. Even with the stool in its lowest position, my eyes were well above the line, so I had to additionally slide forward off the stool to get my head low enough, bending awkwardly at the neck, my knees pressed into the opposite wall of the booth. Any passersby seeing a glimpse of my near-horizontal body under the curtain would probably have wondered which official document I needed that position for, but I suspect they'd doubt that such a document existed. This <i>is</i> France.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, I got my pictures, and apparently they were good enough, because I've gotten word that my new carte de sejour is ready. I can't pick it up, of course, because there's still a month left on the old one. I have to go in, pay the residency tax, give them my old residency card, then go get the new one. The only problem is that the old one expires on a Monday, but the office that gives the new ones out isn't open on Mondays, so I'll go 24 h or more without valid documentation. Though I've been assured that this will not be problem, $20 says that when I show up on Tuesday to get the new card, there'll be some crisis around the fact that the one I'm giving back isn't valid, anymore. There's probably another ($20) tax for that.</div></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWalN2qh69O7pztXSHaPIf5yW1uqw0iobE0LHRC-1RdkL6a-AS35hBJ8NhQB9Y3ZpKS57VZcUsH9IvoURaVuPCukp0sQAEAUIpl1oRmWF9Jpto9CnPDdshQWqvexAZDeR70LOcNZ5T837I/s1600-h/pic.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWalN2qh69O7pztXSHaPIf5yW1uqw0iobE0LHRC-1RdkL6a-AS35hBJ8NhQB9Y3ZpKS57VZcUsH9IvoURaVuPCukp0sQAEAUIpl1oRmWF9Jpto9CnPDdshQWqvexAZDeR70LOcNZ5T837I/s400/pic.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431765466047523490" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Would you let this guy into </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">your</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> country? Me neither.</span></i><br /><br /><div><br /></div><div>On the way home, just a few doors from our apartment building, I noticed a dog being walked by a woman. Now, our neighborhood is lousy with tiny, decrepit, ill-tempered dogs being walked, or sometimes dragged since the dogs have so little mass that their stubbornness is easily overcome, by small, decrepit, ill-tempered old ladies. So the sight of a matchy dog-and-woman pair is hardly a novelty. But in this case, the dog was an Afghan hound, seemingly 3-feet tall with its Parisian-like upright carriage, impossibly skinny underneath its cascade of long blonde hair, with a darker long pointy face. It would have been striking just about anywhere, but especially in Paris, where I've never seen a dog a quarter that size, it was no less remarkable than a Bengal tiger. And, <i>quelle surprise</i>, the middle-aged woman attached to it was tall, skinny, and blond, with a face dominated by a long nose (I'm just stating facts, here, folks-- Lord knows I'm in no position to mock big noses).</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwCZ5frAe16UQx3MazUTwXKUOLav-3FbpsfuLYo4xxyyqJ39yXncXZttfb7uoOLTMW_p5d7r5A1rnBxfqGRexEW1Lhodg2BxcOuWbHkzSl-MEL2W7BWaaF1La8ib4kx-LsHciaiRFl6zbN/s1600-h/Afghan.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwCZ5frAe16UQx3MazUTwXKUOLav-3FbpsfuLYo4xxyyqJ39yXncXZttfb7uoOLTMW_p5d7r5A1rnBxfqGRexEW1Lhodg2BxcOuWbHkzSl-MEL2W7BWaaF1La8ib4kx-LsHciaiRFl6zbN/s400/Afghan.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431766416219138050" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">An Afghan hound. </span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Picture from: http://www.breederretriever.com/photopost/showphoto.php/photo/174</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>The dog looked to be contemplating an evacuation in one of the tree wells along the street outside our building, and the woman was tugging on its leash, no doubt to encourage it to crap on the sidewalk, instead. Even as skinny as it was, this dog was way too big to simply drag where she wanted it, and so she was really pulling hard, and it occurred to me that she might just break its skinny long neck. Which is when I noticed that the dog was outfitted with what seemed to be some kind of brace, the whole length of its neck, that the leash disappeared into. I guess if you're a committed leash yanker, it's only responsible to put your dog in a neck brace.</div><div><br /></div><div>But as I got closer, I realized that, in fact, the dog wasn't wearing a brace, but rather a <i>scarf. </i>Oo-la-la. Welcome to Paris.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Rolfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08655178481559856016noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8969210237915788638.post-66416438857451830772010-01-27T22:11:00.009+01:002010-01-31T15:28:27.513+01:00Just ducky<div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">My refrigerator smells of feet.</div><div><div><br />
</div><div>And not like feet that see a lot of scrubbing in the shower or are lavishly washed in the fashion of old with olive oil or wine. More like one might expect the feet of Oscar Madison to smell, if one thought about those kinds of things-- until now, I'd have counted myself (firmly) in the camp that doesn't. Oddly, this (the smell, not thinking about Oscar Madison's feet) doesn't really bother me.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I'm in bachelor mode this week, since Karen is traveling for work. And so I'm doing the things that bachelors do: going to bed late (the guy upstairs has been dragging a 100-lb stone around his bare wood floors for 30 min each night at about 00.30, so there's little point in trying to get any sleep before he's finished), riding my bike over new routes, and eating leftovers.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Fortunately, having cooked for company last weekend, there's plenty to choose from. I've got something of culinary ADHD, and so the dinner wound up being 9 courses long, 7 of them duck. There is definitely such a thing as too much of a good thing, and it's a lesson I learn (and then ignore) over and over, kind of like the lesson that one should not experiment on one's guests. I mean culinarily. Well, actually, I guess performing <i>any</i> experiments on guests would be uncool, and even illegal, but in this case, I mean that it's perhaps unwise feeding them first attempts at physically realizing food ideas that seemed really great at 1 o'clock in the morning after the stone-dragging upstairs has finished. Thankfully, our guests were polite and gracious and complained not at all about the excess or experimenting.</div><div><br />
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</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkhX48nybIWkvcQY4Cg0vGsENsBw5b6xNgOnE73Lh6PgTDA3m9_sk91qOZ08OtNadIbXZa6Tq2oEZLjqrNf_rSNVt-eTTsmTO2AIL-3LS1KxYKqv0kHZKqWGzJkipqufyHm4s4IlQVXN_u/s1600-h/Duck.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431518014962579074" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkhX48nybIWkvcQY4Cg0vGsENsBw5b6xNgOnE73Lh6PgTDA3m9_sk91qOZ08OtNadIbXZa6Tq2oEZLjqrNf_rSNVt-eTTsmTO2AIL-3LS1KxYKqv0kHZKqWGzJkipqufyHm4s4IlQVXN_u/s400/Duck.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 287px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I've maybe mentioned before how much I love duck. Everything's usable: bones and feet (stock), skin (confit), legs (ragu, confit), breast, neck (stuffed), liver (ragu, neck stuffing), heart and gizzard (ravioli fillings, neck fillings, etc). I like to take the duck off the bone as a single big piece, good practice for using the whole skin to wrap fillings and such. It's also just fun.</span></i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihf_TTkirC0e8TM3jNyNNTIJMGVdrcXhRUmvNWNdl_wORRZ9XZWkaSdclRq97_4LPBAPuHs_rLHmxYdsO3NH8J_N4T3cjwBc07Kx4zw1hyphenhyphenvZvNLdCNLR3IKMVvw7Lt4QZYrWCuxd9wkKcz/s1600-h/duck+prosciutto+before+drying.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431518007894337746" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihf_TTkirC0e8TM3jNyNNTIJMGVdrcXhRUmvNWNdl_wORRZ9XZWkaSdclRq97_4LPBAPuHs_rLHmxYdsO3NH8J_N4T3cjwBc07Kx4zw1hyphenhyphenvZvNLdCNLR3IKMVvw7Lt4QZYrWCuxd9wkKcz/s400/duck+prosciutto+before+drying.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 315px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I decided to make duck prosciutto for the first time. I don't have a recipe, but how hard can it be? Salt (and season) duck overnight, wash off salt, hang duck until it has lost about 30% of its pre-hanging weight. Salting darkened the meat (salted and rinsed on right, raw counterpart on left).</span></i></div><div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh28uHd-3fubaGz7mI1TBriAuB8QgLhbPWzDpaVX3yaOQvi4DfkcWV4Gd7E88Er2qMsc6iGMMwM8GzY-XIJ08YVCoExlH9pJhaUoVj5g1Hv7UxaudIBjay-cZmqzbDNFETvAgcOelQw36aA/s1600-h/duck+prosciutto+drying.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431518004387247298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh28uHd-3fubaGz7mI1TBriAuB8QgLhbPWzDpaVX3yaOQvi4DfkcWV4Gd7E88Er2qMsc6iGMMwM8GzY-XIJ08YVCoExlH9pJhaUoVj5g1Hv7UxaudIBjay-cZmqzbDNFETvAgcOelQw36aA/s400/duck+prosciutto+drying.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">They say the flavors of the great hams are derived from the air they dry in, the sea air or other flavors of nature imparting flavor to the fat and meat. Our duck dried in the rare av Henri Martin air, a mixture of smog (the air quality in Paris over the 8 days it hung was among the worst since we've been here, according to the papers) and ubiquitous cigarette smoke. I drew the line at the funky stinky mold on the rolling wooden shutters-- we had the door cracked open during the day all week to keep the temp around the duck a little low, but at night when that shutter was down, the door was sealed tight.</span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSMvBkXdwtTYpC7NZy-QxICq3UWQyzVJhAxgODAwTgp_iPDJrqV5oQiNbGAdsePbl_MPkTr81hQ6nDR3Fj1s2vR12O0oaebefNdJn_jsLXeWQy0jK_tpGMMdTPOUNaUDqy1y0VYOEcz2QD/s1600-h/duck+prosciutto+sliced.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431518000959619090" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSMvBkXdwtTYpC7NZy-QxICq3UWQyzVJhAxgODAwTgp_iPDJrqV5oQiNbGAdsePbl_MPkTr81hQ6nDR3Fj1s2vR12O0oaebefNdJn_jsLXeWQy0jK_tpGMMdTPOUNaUDqy1y0VYOEcz2QD/s400/duck+prosciutto+sliced.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 332px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Ready for eating-- now dark and decidedly prosciutto-y smelling, a bundle of salty ducky goodness. For the dinner, we served sliced with a timbale made of roasted turnips hiding a just-warm egg yolk. </span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">That was followed by a star anise-infused duck consomme with little mushroom and white bean raviolis. The consomme was killer, the raviolis weren't quite the right flavor (originally they were going to be stuffed with the roasted turnip and the timbale was going to be parsnip, but these things keep changing).</span></i></div><div><br />
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</div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEint8xiJHnPTEjh7_Mom8IQ4UKN8t8npmK3U7hBbsO_naR5fWjosmyG4JevzPJYpZPrYyVHyZm_X48c5ubaH_n08kShE0qKReBL07cTPI9MkpFoVWCzu74IJfHA_J4tRm1jCBDPVhEUzgb-/s1600-h/frankenduck+neck.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431517999352573474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEint8xiJHnPTEjh7_Mom8IQ4UKN8t8npmK3U7hBbsO_naR5fWjosmyG4JevzPJYpZPrYyVHyZm_X48c5ubaH_n08kShE0qKReBL07cTPI9MkpFoVWCzu74IJfHA_J4tRm1jCBDPVhEUzgb-/s400/frankenduck+neck.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 326px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Stuffed duck neck is a French classic, basically using the neck skin as a sausage wrapper. I'd hoped to have 2 necks, but the less-bright of my butchers slit one of them down its length (the one at the back in the pic), so I had to get every bit out of the other one. Thankfully, Karen loved doing sutures in surgery rotation, and she stitched up the head end (rather than my tying it) and stitched the body end so it would hold the stuffing of duck meat, sausage, wild rice cooked in giblet stock, and roasted hazelnuts. Can't believe I didn't get a picture of it stuffed and poached (it was a perfect cylinder, not at all creepy like this). For dinner it was fried until crispy and dark on the outside, sliced, and served with Bordelaise and deeply browned brussels sprouts. </span></i></div><div><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrKZQRvsnVFmwjkOC4EdL2-n92ERkJaF10wlU8mxZBmlA9Rp0aw9U3DBy0VJkAj5Og_HW_aVoI-u7ymn22cD1MdeYUbnpSbn6IqgDCQbV34oySpc6jcqno6-Dm04Qj0pjF0FHoMtMvlM3p/s1600-h/Confit+salted.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431517740390281106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrKZQRvsnVFmwjkOC4EdL2-n92ERkJaF10wlU8mxZBmlA9Rp0aw9U3DBy0VJkAj5Og_HW_aVoI-u7ymn22cD1MdeYUbnpSbn6IqgDCQbV34oySpc6jcqno6-Dm04Qj0pjF0FHoMtMvlM3p/s400/Confit+salted.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 259px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I have yet to have a good duck confit in France. I know-- it seems wrong. Especially since it's easy to make. But every one I've had here have been tough and tasteless. So I made my own. Salt and season (I'm partial to ground fresh herbs, black pepper, and a little quatre epices) like this overnight, before rinsing off seasoning and drying. </span></i></div><div><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKmFwA4bYPcmyjxMI9-ZHf94o1Qc7IDvmAk5g3j5qwQNUZcjEAXyUH9mPZeVjvmOw9EPiXXantK4UQzfElfK6Nh6wpt6Py-sHk_dYO7wGQNF8Nih9gl-WC6UD1aRn984DT7hGLTVO1X-wV/s1600-h/Duck+fat.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431517735934182642" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKmFwA4bYPcmyjxMI9-ZHf94o1Qc7IDvmAk5g3j5qwQNUZcjEAXyUH9mPZeVjvmOw9EPiXXantK4UQzfElfK6Nh6wpt6Py-sHk_dYO7wGQNF8Nih9gl-WC6UD1aRn984DT7hGLTVO1X-wV/s400/Duck+fat.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 326px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Melt a whole crapload of duck fat that you've rendered from the duck skin you've been collecting. </span></i></div><div><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuvPK03tmL-_yuHnxp9BZUdb9xFQjwmFmXpCQAsgsd-1FpU-a6ovht2M54HDAv8rU5vsADCW2RNylFiiL35pigZvCNdQm-cSiGPhvA7Vjx-YTOiqKTn2FFbh0j9wNuEO20vXqwCTArg6Xt/s1600-h/Confit+ready+for+the+oven.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431517737930925794" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuvPK03tmL-_yuHnxp9BZUdb9xFQjwmFmXpCQAsgsd-1FpU-a6ovht2M54HDAv8rU5vsADCW2RNylFiiL35pigZvCNdQm-cSiGPhvA7Vjx-YTOiqKTn2FFbh0j9wNuEO20vXqwCTArg6Xt/s400/Confit+ready+for+the+oven.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 278px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Cover duck legs completely with the melted fat, cook <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">really </span>slowly (~180 degrees-- don't let it get above 200 or it'll toughen) for 8-12 hours. Cool in the fat, store for up to a couple of weeks. Yeah, right, like it'll last more than a day or two. For the dinner, we served crisped confit on top of confit'd (in sugar, not fat) orange slices with a celeriac and mustard seed salad</span></i>.</div><div><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCWTM6VNLkxDHqvl1sK9Agiun0KipvyFxTOhfFLFlnKoiD_ThBOhHtai4ozrC4ghmHr_H4hNrz5QmlD2rBS3WM7nf4L2IbXlOWrvmO1L3mUNRxBT5kGrx88xMQiuIupUoItFvVOlhpPZFh/s1600-h/duck+ragu.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431517727194204354" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCWTM6VNLkxDHqvl1sK9Agiun0KipvyFxTOhfFLFlnKoiD_ThBOhHtai4ozrC4ghmHr_H4hNrz5QmlD2rBS3WM7nf4L2IbXlOWrvmO1L3mUNRxBT5kGrx88xMQiuIupUoItFvVOlhpPZFh/s400/duck+ragu.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 358px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Duck ragu is one of my favorites. This time I did it with black olives and served with chestnut pappardelle. We were eating this before the dinner, had it at the dinner, and have some left over, and wish we had more.</span></i></div><div><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgif4Je0G9AeN9gHPiediGfuKUWoxFKKYm9R2FG-y7Vk2d48ug73Npqct_q5293YLyHNUiqUHvj-CMiDfNPUPq7qaHFsdpylDT2mYZzcdfdh-LkbyrchcEmQmfk0ImKymDlW6jMgfCJZ5A/s1600-h/poached+duck+idea.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431517721135601458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgif4Je0G9AeN9gHPiediGfuKUWoxFKKYm9R2FG-y7Vk2d48ug73Npqct_q5293YLyHNUiqUHvj-CMiDfNPUPq7qaHFsdpylDT2mYZzcdfdh-LkbyrchcEmQmfk0ImKymDlW6jMgfCJZ5A/s400/poached+duck+idea.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 296px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I had this idea a few weeks ago for poached duck breast (and of course later learned I was nowhere near the first). Duck breast is so often all about the skin, but I love the flavor of rare duck, so I thought I'd lightly cure it in salt and citrus peel and poach it in olive oil. Not so good-- the semi-cured duck just didn't do it (I thought it might be like a duck gravlax, but I was way wrong). So I poached the other one uncured in olive oil and served it with turnips "Anna" and crisped skin. The duck and skin were good, and the turnips tasted good but never got that crispy awesomeness that potatoes anna get. Back to the drawing board. Karen suggested crispy polenta as an accompaniment. Smart girl.</span></i></div><div><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7W_AbaAp_729-1WsvCsLejpkZ8eVLb1jd-83dolFBsNrqqfTv7z0V2GMjjYABW8rNGwJyMfk99ODw5I3ZMXpHJ2TVLU86L9XiEfAuGdxVmG5UPxqGpstR4TBdj4bKDO87gT2BgIeRWa3p/s1600-h/poached+duck+dinner.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431517031328696162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7W_AbaAp_729-1WsvCsLejpkZ8eVLb1jd-83dolFBsNrqqfTv7z0V2GMjjYABW8rNGwJyMfk99ODw5I3ZMXpHJ2TVLU86L9XiEfAuGdxVmG5UPxqGpstR4TBdj4bKDO87gT2BgIeRWa3p/s400/poached+duck+dinner.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 310px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">For the dinner, I poached the breast in clarified butter (may as well go big...) and served with garlicky turnip greens, crisped polenta with a bit of mushroom reduction, and mostardas of quince and parsnip. Like everything else, it could still use tweaking, but it was a step in the right direction.</span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i>The last duck course was a Chinese-spiced duck breast, pan-seared and served with squash, baby bok-choy, and a mildly hot but too-sweet Chinese-style loose sauce. Way too 1980s. Oh well.</i></span></div><div><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUMhDnPumH-b-MoriBjyeWHktqC8KAjXzU7LALw0OHPZK3gbqQGmQ4B_kYht_UwLm5FE-yCuaxhZcxZBiXyV4hm4pvu-YsZt81AWmXR7PfBUqILtObUIJWCg4RaZqWkQP_VDa8jsWZeBP4/s1600-h/coffee+caviar.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431517027229650034" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUMhDnPumH-b-MoriBjyeWHktqC8KAjXzU7LALw0OHPZK3gbqQGmQ4B_kYht_UwLm5FE-yCuaxhZcxZBiXyV4hm4pvu-YsZt81AWmXR7PfBUqILtObUIJWCg4RaZqWkQP_VDa8jsWZeBP4/s400/coffee+caviar.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 290px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I've been playing with encapsulation/spherification and other science-in-the-kitchen stuff lately. I made some coffee caviar to use in an opera-like dessert (classically chocolate, almond, and coffee): a chocolate-almond tuille filled with chocolate-coffee mousse with coffee caviar on top. I'm not a dessert guy, but it was fun to make. And the coffee caviar were a genuinely good idea (though I'm sure if I look, I can learn I'm not the first).</span></i></div><div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqfv0Ie34k7YRensgt1Htprs3qjdL58vLWWx_4y8Pr3m7jbs7mm9jWVbEf4W2iCnEsP4YKDalMXg-Xq8OsRaPGW4_BK8lb70mf1Hz2Qj37BdpCavQeTyDSuMyoEHxfH-k97lsp8UEJN_78/s1600-h/coffee+noodles.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431517020254079106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqfv0Ie34k7YRensgt1Htprs3qjdL58vLWWx_4y8Pr3m7jbs7mm9jWVbEf4W2iCnEsP4YKDalMXg-Xq8OsRaPGW4_BK8lb70mf1Hz2Qj37BdpCavQeTyDSuMyoEHxfH-k97lsp8UEJN_78/s400/coffee+noodles.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 317px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The coffee noodles, however, were a <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">terrible</span> idea. Though they looked kinda like soy-soaked bean thread noodles, they looked a lot more like nasty worms. Fortunately, I had the good sense not to even try to find a use for them in any way.</span></i></div><div><br />
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</div><div>But the leftovers aren't perhaps what one would expect. We ate everything of the dishes from the dinner. What was left was the back-up stuff. You see, you never know what you're going to actually find and not find at the markets here, especially in winter. Two weeks ago, I had the most amazing broccoli rabe from one of my produce vendors, but the day before the dinner, they had none. So instead, I bought some good-looking long radicchio, even though it isn't green (it's still bitter, which was the point). And I bought a bunch of turnips to roast for a timbale, and nobody has them with the greens attached, except for the guy at the stand 2 down from the guy who had the good radicchio (who was around the corner from the guy I bought the other turnips from), which I hadn't noticed on my first pass, because they were stuffed way at the back under the cascade of lettuces. So I now had extra turnips *and* the extra radicchio. It was like that 5 times over-- which of the French sausages is going to be the flavor I want in the stuffed duck neck? Dunno, better cover my bases and buy several. Add in trips to both the Indian and Chinese/Vietnamese grocers for weird stuff, and I always came home with more than I expected (hey look-- dried jujube! Never had it, but I need a big bag of it, I'm sure). </div><div><br />
</div><div>According to Wikipedia, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The jujube's sweet smell is said to make teenagers fall in love, and as a result, in the </span></i></span><a class="mw-redirect" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Himalaya" style="-webkit-background-clip: initial; -webkit-background-origin: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: none; background-repeat: initial; color: #002bb8; text-decoration: none;" title="Himalaya"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Himalaya</span></i></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> and </span></i></span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Karakoram" style="-webkit-background-clip: initial; -webkit-background-origin: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: none; background-repeat: initial; color: #002bb8; text-decoration: none;" title="Karakoram"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Karakoram</span></i></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> regions, men take a stem of sweet-smelling jujube flowers with them or put it on their hats to attract women</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">."</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif, serif; line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif, serif; line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">(</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I guess that would be, attract </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">young </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">women. Good for them.)</span></span></span></div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNb-UT874Y6hfUGowDENhnJUO1CTbeC5X64wsrwhWiv_A5YwC0pIST7x412MH6DKGTKehR7kW1DWqNHETxxQihXJQS9ouMPNO6IgCmOAbymvogyd2slzOHIquokGsE8VRImh2bPYuFa4pO/s1600-h/compulsive+buying.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431530405170847954" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNb-UT874Y6hfUGowDENhnJUO1CTbeC5X64wsrwhWiv_A5YwC0pIST7x412MH6DKGTKehR7kW1DWqNHETxxQihXJQS9ouMPNO6IgCmOAbymvogyd2slzOHIquokGsE8VRImh2bPYuFa4pO/s400/compulsive+buying.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 292px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The haul from the ethnic markets. In addition to the ethnic goods, they're great places to get the stuff from home you can't find easily here, such as baking powder and corn syrup.</span></i> </div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div>Anyway, I had a lot of greens/reds, sausages, and other random things to use up. which has made for a weird week of eating so far. </div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi554gU9h5Og5k-u5-GujtUfBTVnuXdMhc2BVfzp1djCJsMHuhRg_6indjX7tf6XgVYz7C2xvZq98rMdjtdmlTTgZaydpXThja6u48hPIM4J22Im2fsnysPSkbv-VnDc2NyAIyg_tT_6_6S/s1600-h/chickpea+stew.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431517016392320818" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi554gU9h5Og5k-u5-GujtUfBTVnuXdMhc2BVfzp1djCJsMHuhRg_6indjX7tf6XgVYz7C2xvZq98rMdjtdmlTTgZaydpXThja6u48hPIM4J22Im2fsnysPSkbv-VnDc2NyAIyg_tT_6_6S/s400/chickpea+stew.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Leftovers for lunch: north African-spiced chickpea stew with lots of vegetables and a bit of duck confit</span></i>.</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhPUDQON5CzFk3P4ZB6_aUqUAFLppyy176E-VfS9POXLCD5y9g_F2vRAusxOITl1W_roSe3cV1JUp6G6bBjhOwLwlyau3eoN53wtD6d7BKdrci9LoRgXIpAR6fFb1N9rK7NxQkkvtcapgs/s1600-h/rabbit+agnolotti.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431517011586654578" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhPUDQON5CzFk3P4ZB6_aUqUAFLppyy176E-VfS9POXLCD5y9g_F2vRAusxOITl1W_roSe3cV1JUp6G6bBjhOwLwlyau3eoN53wtD6d7BKdrci9LoRgXIpAR6fFb1N9rK7NxQkkvtcapgs/s400/rabbit+agnolotti.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Leftovers for dinner: rabbit-and-polenta agnolotti with radicchio, duck prosciutto, and walnuts</span></i>.</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
But none of that really explains the foot odor in the fridge. It wasn't the leftover wine (many French red wines are <i>élevé en fûts de chêne</i>, or as we surmised on our arrival last winter, "made with the feet of eleven dogs" (no telling where that 3rd dog's 4th foot went)), because we had no wine left over, despite starting with more than a bottle a person. I'm probably only still alive because our wiser-than-us guests turned down the offer of cognac after dinner, and I'd be really grateful if I'd stop feeling the effects of the night's excess before March. No, my refrigerator smells of feet because although I was content to serve the 7 duck courses and then dessert, Karen insisted that we do a cheese course, "because this is France." She's right, of course, this <i>is</i> France, for better and for worse, and a cheese course and the good cheese vendors here are definitely among the betterest things of France. So she went out and bought 3 delicious stinky French cheeses, less and less of which are still in there. </div><div><br />
</div><div>By the time she gets home, there might only be the lingering funk. <br />
<div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div></div></div>Rolfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08655178481559856016noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8969210237915788638.post-85890577380352257912010-01-21T18:42:00.003+01:002010-01-21T20:41:57.440+01:00Keeping up with business<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB1qqhCK8YPYktWWgf8O48QZkKhoS9jPuJq-64y8RdZP4Jr0uAp8yBB__3g9NZZFWRR1pRpWOT9pCsTYWln4OqdhLvn_crX02uJID1e7YxC46GjaJEa0g3dYyqj1ufxwxIf9OaQRJCwQ/s1600-h/soundstation2_avaya2490.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5429250313306741218" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB1qqhCK8YPYktWWgf8O48QZkKhoS9jPuJq-64y8RdZP4Jr0uAp8yBB__3g9NZZFWRR1pRpWOT9pCsTYWln4OqdhLvn_crX02uJID1e7YxC46GjaJEa0g3dYyqj1ufxwxIf9OaQRJCwQ/s320/soundstation2_avaya2490.jpg" /></a> One of the ubiquitous features of the corporate conference room is the Polycom. Although they may have fancy names like Soundstation 2, everyone calls them by the company name, <a href="http://www.polycom.com/global/siteselector/site_selector.html">Polycom</a>.<br /><br />When I moved to Paris, the office I was squatting in had its own Polycom- most of our meetings are with other parts of the global team and hence teleconferences, so my office becomes the de facto conference room when 2 or 3 of us from Paris join the global conversation. When the office's real occupant returned to Paris (she had been squatting in my Collegeville office for 4 months!) I got moved to another lesser office, on a different floor, and without a Polycom. The normal telephone in conference call mode does not work nearly as well. I asked for a Polycom, but there was no IT budget by that point last year, so the telephone it was.<br /><br />Now that it's January, ie, a new year, I asked again. In French they are referred to as "pizzas". So this morning, the pizza delivery guy showed up and voila, I have my own pizza.<br /><br />Life is good.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02639741551043308356noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8969210237915788638.post-72307660675837509042010-01-10T16:09:00.020+01:002010-01-14T21:00:40.394+01:00Creative Parking<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-size:small;" class="Apple-style-span">This is another post that sat, unfinished, for a long time. Which will explain why the pictures are not how Paris looks right now (ie, winter).</span><br /><br /><br />We are very happy that we do not have a car in Paris. At home we live in Center City, and we undestand what a problem parking can be. We will avoid going places if we have a good parking spot. We never take the car out on a Friday or Saturday night, since it will take hours of driving around to find a spot again when we get home. It doesn't seem to be any better in Paris, although it is much easier to live without a car here (public transit is much more extensive).<br /><br /><br /><div></div>For the hardy souls who do have cars in our neighborhood, the most impressive thing is the opportunities they make for themselves to park their cars. (Pretty much all of these options would generate a ticket from the only efficient Philadelphia city service, the Parking Authority, if tried at home.)<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg9bt44YepsqNINFDL39l11nHWDjKLnycU92PEMqSu9-BWyEA1aqCsz-frWS_2eeClctf-sbKSly5BOTT6qB8NxxdFKhSfDudk55UPBXazCc5b9JoPBuXTMtFnDsusYRsOdpGP-hXnbA/s1600-h/parking+a+lot.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425130875961110882" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg9bt44YepsqNINFDL39l11nHWDjKLnycU92PEMqSu9-BWyEA1aqCsz-frWS_2eeClctf-sbKSly5BOTT6qB8NxxdFKhSfDudk55UPBXazCc5b9JoPBuXTMtFnDsusYRsOdpGP-hXnbA/s320/parking+a+lot.JPG" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" align="center">Our neighborhood. There are a lot of cars parked on the streets, most days.</div></span><br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left"><br /></div><br /><div><br /><br /><div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425130559833442018" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMMOjXMUG_y9KFjecO9-_AsoAQiGCaWKkb-JuxJORox0so7XdfPqOZpFWhE0rQ4wuaySlctbtqiQROzG-O6vTxC9sz0aa4EeHUE5ENFQiW9n5p2O_r4vnZcuU0u9WhAgC9Lg6cuaTdWw/s320/Smart+parking.JPG" /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="font-size:85%;">Most of the cars are smaller than American cars, which does allow more to fit in a given space. But if you have a Smart car, you can fit in spaces that other's can't. In ways other's can't.</span></div><br /><br /></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left"><br /></div><br /><div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjivWKBbLaIvhupWi5jEGDlsUHppjhLe-EAOKXizXGOH4RUZAMilkgrhKC5GNXiXKZaory4ibonxG4T0dHTQmu-bfa5y9g5HJy1QUXOENLqcG6PWTDouesnnMptsSW3n1hwI8pbtWVrTQ/s1600-h/parking.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425130132688461618" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjivWKBbLaIvhupWi5jEGDlsUHppjhLe-EAOKXizXGOH4RUZAMilkgrhKC5GNXiXKZaory4ibonxG4T0dHTQmu-bfa5y9g5HJy1QUXOENLqcG6PWTDouesnnMptsSW3n1hwI8pbtWVrTQ/s320/parking.JPG" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" align="center">Or, you can create your own definition of what is a space. So what if it includes a little sidewalk?</div></span><br /><br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left"><br /></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIaQlRXsY98rMakagXdkjDS4djH-oWeAIeSlKpwfNsVf6STXeLuB8SylbQt3uaMYbKQw3SnA6S9BGEV12-WFjQTl5BdHxem7qqyVu0JcrjNWR4siRV4cGFpRFwEyeCFWjxn5Kk8knvfw/s1600-h/parking+diagonal.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425130124228941490" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIaQlRXsY98rMakagXdkjDS4djH-oWeAIeSlKpwfNsVf6STXeLuB8SylbQt3uaMYbKQw3SnA6S9BGEV12-WFjQTl5BdHxem7qqyVu0JcrjNWR4siRV4cGFpRFwEyeCFWjxn5Kk8knvfw/s320/parking+diagonal.JPG" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">This is an example of either really bad parking, or just making that station wagon fit in a space that's too small.</div></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirbipmPC5fkQ-NV8QeqyjmH3emhV8r2DJjf3xC-xYvxTJcTgKUESAQ9ay0PNqmyByvOFRN3ez63cdW5_Zk2YYb2TKMnr42GQyI7IwZUPwwBQ-U2qty8yc8oktMpe1eQhyphenhyphenZ3NNCMzjU5Q/s1600-h/parking+sideways.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425130118590045634" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirbipmPC5fkQ-NV8QeqyjmH3emhV8r2DJjf3xC-xYvxTJcTgKUESAQ9ay0PNqmyByvOFRN3ez63cdW5_Zk2YYb2TKMnr42GQyI7IwZUPwwBQ-U2qty8yc8oktMpe1eQhyphenhyphenZ3NNCMzjU5Q/s320/parking+sideways.JPG" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">Trying to be a Smart car, when you aren't. You still get the space! Twice! (Sorry for the fuzziness- I took this one while running.)</div></span><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP7W_0r7XMiMQbZmzEqZIret4EVQN07VPh3aRehl0ZeJVo4N6ocF7_HEyrSIwVVqzatpIhVn1HTbSkaUXCCr-vXuU2JV32E30tpwwpr7h20FMADFUJIASf_ewx_Z5tlV4slgtM_ZMnbA/s1600-h/parking+tangential.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425130113189907986" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP7W_0r7XMiMQbZmzEqZIret4EVQN07VPh3aRehl0ZeJVo4N6ocF7_HEyrSIwVVqzatpIhVn1HTbSkaUXCCr-vXuU2JV32E30tpwwpr7h20FMADFUJIASf_ewx_Z5tlV4slgtM_ZMnbA/s320/parking+tangential.JPG" /></a><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="font-size:85%;">Here's my favorite. This person has taken advantage of 2 one way streets at the corner, to park in a spot that is out of the way of both lanes of traffic. And not even in either cross walk!</span></div><br /><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 212px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425137495106996882" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD3ylBsgp-KEM82kkL0X9lWcqRfn3j8YZ0CMKdOGyZ8Olxet9L52PmCZtZGo6huABMpJMXNR26RXhTmvQuhaTkR06jQrKsFFWWa9BGwRdNp7hMF-tjOEpZtjr5gGKFGyuApWqzVzMhvA/s320/car+with+bird+poo.JPG" /><br /><div align="center"><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="font-size:85%;">But make sure you remember where you parked, and move the car every once in awhile. This car is both right under a tree (and thus covered in bird poo) and the recipient of a number of tickets. Meter maids are usually not that persistent in Paris, so this car has evidently worn out its welcome by not fitting in with the image the neighborhood would like to project.</span> <span style="font-size:85%;">Cover it in dog poo, no one would notice it.</span></div><br /></div><br /><div align="center"><br /></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left">Yes, it is really nice not to have a car.</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left"><br /></div><br /><div align="left"></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left"><br /></div><br /><div align="left"></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02639741551043308356noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8969210237915788638.post-1375430620336045342010-01-03T18:00:00.002+01:002010-01-09T10:44:04.571+01:00King's Folly<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span></div><div>This <a href="http://2yanksinparis.blogspot.com/2010/01/bonne-annee-pt-2.html">King-for-a-day thing</a> is for the birds. I have to buy next year's galette, and I have no useful powers, such as getting my bike washed, or the apartment vacuumed, or even removing that stupid picture from Karen's post. In fact, the only action I managed as king was to finally take the time to figure out how to list some of the blogs one or the other of us reads and change the formatting of the posts a bit, hopefully making it easier to scroll through recent posts. At least for us. I mean, the 2000s are no longer new (in fact, they're officially tweens now), and we need to get with the program and make the place a little less bare.</div><div><br /></div><div>As has been typical around here lately, we got a late start and were bummed that both the Colombian place we wanted to go (apparently moved around the corner, so we couldn't find it) and our back-up of the <a href="http://2yanksinparis.blogspot.com/2009/12/thanksgiving-in-paris.html">Portuguese chicken we ate over Thanksgiving weekend</a> (undergoing renovations until today) in the 9e were nixed. After failing to find noodle soup at several Japanese places in the neighborhood, and neither of us feeling like typical heavy brasserie fare, we found ourselves standing outside of Brasserie Paris Nord, debating whether it was really worth trying couscous in what otherwise seemed a typical brasserie. </div><div><br /></div><div>As we hemmed and hawed, two gents emerged and, divining our dilemma, raved in French about the couscous (<i>C'est vachement exceptionelle!</i>), which is only available on weekends. Denying he worked there or was a family member, one of the guys even brought us in and told the guys behind the bar that his good friends (that'd be us) wanted couscous on his advice. So pretty soon we were seated and had a big platter of very small grain but fluffy couscous, a plate of merguez sausages and chicken, and a big bowl of fragrant broth filled with chickpeas, carrots, turnips, and celery. And although I personally prefer larger grained couscous, and nobody here seems to make it the traditional way of steaming it over the stew, it was still <i>vachement</i> good: the chicken was tender and juicy, the sausages were perfectly browned and spicy, and the broth was complex and savory. A superb lunch for a cold Saturday afternoon, made even better when we realized that it was only thanks to our new friend's introduction that we were offered the meal, since the kitchen had closed moments before to anybody else who came in. </div><div><br /></div><div>Along with the miraculous unsticking of the double boiler, a good omen for 2010.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy2woiFEJDjous66Pqnl_fn3gSll4fTgUKmZ50WtiaH5k7M5szltahmoyYzGm1bjkJI7MiVzdYnPHnqFVujafzC-6q5Gcq8vhANbPZO2klOIZmnGmKT-rDQDJTON-jDXuB2ruah0gnaw4g/s1600-h/couscous.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy2woiFEJDjous66Pqnl_fn3gSll4fTgUKmZ50WtiaH5k7M5szltahmoyYzGm1bjkJI7MiVzdYnPHnqFVujafzC-6q5Gcq8vhANbPZO2klOIZmnGmKT-rDQDJTON-jDXuB2ruah0gnaw4g/s400/couscous.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422551955915403938" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Unexpected feast: couscous at Brasserie Nord. Tell 'em the jolly Algerian sent you.</span></i><div><br /></div><div><br /><a name='more'></a><br /></div><div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhovIsZcroyJ4U7ViNucr1omv8nhaHxBX8X1uJHCcBVepPJsaCozb6BC4eHchzvNsHtTs8NsHj0mXRh-z6DqeeXGDs4KAQQQ-6DD83HTyCG2K4HZ0d9M_9PQVEw6XAANu4wYX3fcpPEPqL1/s1600-h/Arc+de+Triomphe.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhovIsZcroyJ4U7ViNucr1omv8nhaHxBX8X1uJHCcBVepPJsaCozb6BC4eHchzvNsHtTs8NsHj0mXRh-z6DqeeXGDs4KAQQQ-6DD83HTyCG2K4HZ0d9M_9PQVEw6XAANu4wYX3fcpPEPqL1/s400/Arc+de+Triomphe.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422551950893575794" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The Arc de Triomphe really is massive.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div>Today is the first First Sunday of the year, and so we took the opportunity to go for free up to the top of the Arc de Triomphe. And for the second day in a row, we actually had sunny (or as the French pilot on our flight to Stockholm earlier this year said: shiny) skies, so it was possible to see all of the city and even some of the surrounding area. I would think it's more fun to be up there when, like us, you already know the city pretty well and can see all of the landmarks from a different perspective and really see the spatial relationships. I don't think I'd have much enjoyed it if I'd only been here a few days (or if I'd paid 9 euro-bucks).</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8uSpQfOBtJLpKktEuFaohIMISAmzDB9JsO05sNBEAxEpqj9YPa0NTIguONxdH19bY9FiHDzlGRjazUG8f-NaQ0VkauhF_k4eN5mw-ypAsHooVnveX7jpKEXWpmr1jCd5SEugM9YpCYYIO/s1600-h/Paris+from+above.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8uSpQfOBtJLpKktEuFaohIMISAmzDB9JsO05sNBEAxEpqj9YPa0NTIguONxdH19bY9FiHDzlGRjazUG8f-NaQ0VkauhF_k4eN5mw-ypAsHooVnveX7jpKEXWpmr1jCd5SEugM9YpCYYIO/s400/Paris+from+above.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422554123529840066" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The view off the top northeast toward Sacre Coeur.</span></i><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span></div><div>The Arc itself, commissioned by Napoleon in 1806 after his win at Austerlitz (the former Gare d'Orleans train station in Paris was also renamed in honor of that victory), wasn't finished until 30 years later, probably due to strikes. These days, the tomb of the unknown soldier lies beneath the arc.</div><div><br /></div><div>The arc is such a ubiquitous symbol of Paris that it's easy to dismiss as not very interesting, but both its enormity and the details in its ornamentation are impressive up close, particularly on a day with angled light to accent the reliefs.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGOLCM9s3DDaNX9XvNH9MEcyUa43oo7Xb-qVBCifMLVmBxGcqRC2DBeNjv6hyZGkYDPIGuhz1FfXweZbrrPbY7U8bCm3L-20f3b_x-EbcST45Heigk5o_xe_UkQOCGnOtWtRk7SFAUivAH/s1600-h/Republique.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGOLCM9s3DDaNX9XvNH9MEcyUa43oo7Xb-qVBCifMLVmBxGcqRC2DBeNjv6hyZGkYDPIGuhz1FfXweZbrrPbY7U8bCm3L-20f3b_x-EbcST45Heigk5o_xe_UkQOCGnOtWtRk7SFAUivAH/s400/Republique.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422551750832444242" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A cast of the head of La Repubique, looking like she's just been goosed and isn't all that happy about it.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW6khnK_N1COj8KvasGzpvJdt_gcItxY1qmTiB71twuBn8YkyIob4VsrO9AbLVkGgq-Oth4Nyrb7mNRgzOrEzHmAFxpRv5DI67tYwZFPMAwwZukSAY7VT12MgQ6OBRVnCC-D__qws_gb4I/s1600-h/Up+up+up.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW6khnK_N1COj8KvasGzpvJdt_gcItxY1qmTiB71twuBn8YkyIob4VsrO9AbLVkGgq-Oth4Nyrb7mNRgzOrEzHmAFxpRv5DI67tYwZFPMAwwZukSAY7VT12MgQ6OBRVnCC-D__qws_gb4I/s400/Up+up+up.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422551747134293970" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Long way up...</span></i></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuECz_v2g1_IKaIAmIfm7y403h0ZgjOyl5hbF52x76D4TSzCSBQgvQ15UWYcP56PmejCJkVYPUlPgdSaPdnWq-ZydrEQ2nXQit6oIoMwGKnGTgPW8G8_M33d4JTxESJL-hCP-isf9E3nam/s1600-h/end+view.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuECz_v2g1_IKaIAmIfm7y403h0ZgjOyl5hbF52x76D4TSzCSBQgvQ15UWYcP56PmejCJkVYPUlPgdSaPdnWq-ZydrEQ2nXQit6oIoMwGKnGTgPW8G8_M33d4JTxESJL-hCP-isf9E3nam/s400/end+view.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422551743198777122" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It's been a long time since we've had such strong light here.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>On our walk home, we passed the shop of <a href="http://www.patrickroger.com/en/index.php">Patrick Roger</a>, chocolatier and window display wizard. I've mentioned I've been underwhelmed by the Christmas windows in Paris, but these were pretty amazing.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqeDwjxiyZNTo_wkr6l-wLlXYqi1ym11ZueJxmELRKpSHtUn66IhhdHKvRLbA8Q-PII3F5pvnMnL9cr-pZV6DWHAHYzdCyvXGg18Qh687PcXjbZMn4RZuMz68zN0SnLPuMjYQd-Puv-0Bc/s1600-h/Christmas+tree.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqeDwjxiyZNTo_wkr6l-wLlXYqi1ym11ZueJxmELRKpSHtUn66IhhdHKvRLbA8Q-PII3F5pvnMnL9cr-pZV6DWHAHYzdCyvXGg18Qh687PcXjbZMn4RZuMz68zN0SnLPuMjYQd-Puv-0Bc/s400/Christmas+tree.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422559222302126386" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The details in the chocolate trees is spectacular, and the little balls on some of the branches are filled with delicious lime- or yuzu-flavored caramel.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitZB7BbKllo_Z-xsMQyievZcJ3FL42TadUtW90-BpbVUezMjCJPvh3iOKIWIhgtkW5a52EyK3LyjpvQYSOWFZvXzJgspoD2uXxl0r1JUaLJDEbujKJioR_HYr6_pTQ0EDiuakCz0fxETwN/s1600-h/Patrick+Roger+mountains.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitZB7BbKllo_Z-xsMQyievZcJ3FL42TadUtW90-BpbVUezMjCJPvh3iOKIWIhgtkW5a52EyK3LyjpvQYSOWFZvXzJgspoD2uXxl0r1JUaLJDEbujKJioR_HYr6_pTQ0EDiuakCz0fxETwN/s400/Patrick+Roger+mountains.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422551732084583506" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I'd ski a lot more if it were on chocolate.</span></i></div><div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span></div></div></div>Rolfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08655178481559856016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8969210237915788638.post-64465897713404364342010-01-03T16:25:00.006+01:002010-01-03T18:04:35.953+01:00Bonne Année pt. 2One of the traditions for Epiphany in France is the Galette des Rois, a pastry with a trinket baked inside. Originally this was a bean, then a porcelain object (usually a king or a baby), then plastic. Whoever finds the trinket gets to be king for a day and gets to wear a paper crown (which comes with the pastry). All we could find, however, was that being king for the day obligates you to buy the pastry next year for everyone else.<br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuTLsoe34vHHax8fsL9M-OekS84EI_z_au3jKBWYRAvau6omNMcNomVq1yk0S1_Fyk8HDMjBljez9h1_IQaknq6HCjgT4Ms9bT_0c6yrHMVjTl6kjq3HTpecZgAIV3p46k_Xt3dhqg9w/s1600-h/DSC02169.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422537053123259714" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuTLsoe34vHHax8fsL9M-OekS84EI_z_au3jKBWYRAvau6omNMcNomVq1yk0S1_Fyk8HDMjBljez9h1_IQaknq6HCjgT4Ms9bT_0c6yrHMVjTl6kjq3HTpecZgAIV3p46k_Xt3dhqg9w/s320/DSC02169.JPG" /></a> <span style="font-size:85%;">Our favorite bakery had the Galettes this morning, so we decided that we were game</span></div><br /><br />Guess who found the prize!<br /><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCON4U_Pg0FHUVbFfeFX-v3ZhF6R99kT6BwTQa0joItGhrUo_zEQs6u5QyFPrVHppS6UsPt9Ag2BVsk2MZRiBzcuCknGKNn9ymVgkouOtCqnagVJiarJjqhquMTZSQGJYFtqBydlO1Ww/s1600-h/DSC02195.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422537047703991842" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCON4U_Pg0FHUVbFfeFX-v3ZhF6R99kT6BwTQa0joItGhrUo_zEQs6u5QyFPrVHppS6UsPt9Ag2BVsk2MZRiBzcuCknGKNn9ymVgkouOtCqnagVJiarJjqhquMTZSQGJYFtqBydlO1Ww/s320/DSC02195.JPG" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> King for the day; our bakery still uses porcelain</span><br /><br /><br /></div>Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02639741551043308356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8969210237915788638.post-57441599410021862622010-01-02T20:57:00.004+01:002010-01-02T21:28:42.997+01:00When you just gotta go....<div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><span style="TEXT-DECORATION: underline" class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic" class="Apple-style-span">I started this post long ago (last summer) but between having troubles with the picture uploads (which Rolf fixed for me) and general malaise, it sat. Hearing that a friend spent her New Year's Eve shopping for toilets and then having plumbers in her house installing a new toilet, somehow made this posting seem more relevant again.</span></div><p><br />It is pretty amazing that you can fly half way around the world, and the airport terminal looks pretty much like any other airport terminal. But what really gives away that you are in a different country, is the restrooms.<br /><br />And specifically, the toilet.</p><p><br /><br />Here’s a pretty generic American toilet. Handle on the side of the tank, bowl full of water, a cycling magazine to read. [Hotel in Miami, earlier this spring.]</p><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376576198528511026" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHbdwYNYaHx3AZP0X-scCWJlFlQ0_vyei2mQbaCiJykW0rVFyz0Yu5A6R-DyuVH37GbGDGPKnMmThNdlZwxIKqZ7ZOTZEdRn8QfzMJsIk8Y5f_CPBxKaYMIX8ZML-Gu5DRsB1WZ6RJJA/s320/US+toilet.JPG" /> <p></p><br /><div><br /><a name='more'></a><br /><p></p><p>Disappointingly this year, the number-one-exotic-place Colombia had very non-exotic American toilets. [Cartagena airport]</p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHLGzX4dNDaMKgSqckNHnMTaYhmL-3a1lxMzFe-Zi7xBQ3_TAIJdSf2JeKHnhbt-3tMr_mJj7VkZlDz15Y2RUqKkVACvSAoegFzENQkijMTGtkwkKwU4wszUarJsSCxKfneDqecNj83Q/s1600-h/toilet+Cartagena+airport.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376576203144359250" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHLGzX4dNDaMKgSqckNHnMTaYhmL-3a1lxMzFe-Zi7xBQ3_TAIJdSf2JeKHnhbt-3tMr_mJj7VkZlDz15Y2RUqKkVACvSAoegFzENQkijMTGtkwkKwU4wszUarJsSCxKfneDqecNj83Q/s320/toilet+Cartagena+airport.JPG" /></a><br /><div><br /><br />European toilets are definitely different from the North/South American standard. A toilet in France has very little water in the bowl, and often two flush options-- light or super-flush. [a restaurant in Paris]</div><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBUgnZfTyFkk8oaXXRQJ3VMOtN8RMcnjk5k0n_rqIxCD1jSrAi2WdQpJakae4CHeizW-Ve7074bLpR6GdybkRxaXR5wfvWrN9WeUYKf-Ln4jKzbCLZIE6pt_kGzjDnhDpoVgWM5qkZrg/s1600-h/French+toilet.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376576208391157954" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBUgnZfTyFkk8oaXXRQJ3VMOtN8RMcnjk5k0n_rqIxCD1jSrAi2WdQpJakae4CHeizW-Ve7074bLpR6GdybkRxaXR5wfvWrN9WeUYKf-Ln4jKzbCLZIE6pt_kGzjDnhDpoVgWM5qkZrg/s320/French+toilet.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><br />Definitely strangest of the year were the toilets in Austria. Hole is in the front of the bowl. [Hotel in Vienna]<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOtFfvhFju17UDheR-a2kDe3GNWwKVHPeK5U9_2wIedQsmFtjdU1t5tTTr-DFBBp-UBJ77TlgFbQnLnzfNxslq7NaPu0hEbXF7vDTM7jVLMTPkATE6ncRkf1-xCZjyQmwXApDK8GXl5A/s1600-h/AT+toilet.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376576218628618642" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOtFfvhFju17UDheR-a2kDe3GNWwKVHPeK5U9_2wIedQsmFtjdU1t5tTTr-DFBBp-UBJ77TlgFbQnLnzfNxslq7NaPu0hEbXF7vDTM7jVLMTPkATE6ncRkf1-xCZjyQmwXApDK8GXl5A/s320/AT+toilet.JPG" /></a><br /><br /></div><div><br />Most fun-- toilet from our <a href="http://2yanksinparis.blogspot.com/2009/12/beer-run-brussels.html">Congo room </a>in the hotel in Brussels.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_lPjh-gFC36_5ntj0WVunmRMJ9VkHAvIFo6jrB_8lfurjfjuNRfFuznLMXM6eWMHUHkCs4vNxXIOvzVz9TD98S_5Lu4ZdwfSbOJU6zV3wiusOyJZpzWQlDsxOmRizAEAhlKwayWvZkKeO/s1600-h/Belgian+loo.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421874168281162290" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_lPjh-gFC36_5ntj0WVunmRMJ9VkHAvIFo6jrB_8lfurjfjuNRfFuznLMXM6eWMHUHkCs4vNxXIOvzVz9TD98S_5Lu4ZdwfSbOJU6zV3wiusOyJZpzWQlDsxOmRizAEAhlKwayWvZkKeO/s400/Belgian+loo.jpg" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><span style="TEXT-DECORATION: underline" class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span><br /></div><div><br />But the best toilets in the world, the epitome of toilets, the ne plus ultra, hands down, belong to the Japanese. The toilet seat sings and dances. Well, there may be dancing waters. It includes space command which controls: a bidet function; a heater for the seat; and for those who have a shy bladder, you can play flushing sounds. (To save water- apparently Japanese women are very shy about making toilet noises, and would otherwise really repeatedly flush while they go in public restrooms.) I’m not totally sure why you need a bidet in an airport or at the office, but just in case, you are covered. [my company’s office in Tokyo]<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxzO672xybYagbXwqfAV9JgdEtAx9lEVsY_4aF7rbKWZ4BJ70VvdNRD9bvXgcOL1e2urwXuZsiUYiLHoM8yd35UtH8hKyXVJX-6dl-e0-J4nlt_m8d7CK6JpcAnabubzI3l7g1oGhUlBXy/s1600-h/Japan+toilet+right+side+up.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403553720841969522" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxzO672xybYagbXwqfAV9JgdEtAx9lEVsY_4aF7rbKWZ4BJ70VvdNRD9bvXgcOL1e2urwXuZsiUYiLHoM8yd35UtH8hKyXVJX-6dl-e0-J4nlt_m8d7CK6JpcAnabubzI3l7g1oGhUlBXy/s400/Japan+toilet+right+side+up.JPG" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br />I love my Toto Drake [in our house in Philadelphia], but next time around, I have to have a toilet with a seat heater.</span></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02639741551043308356noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8969210237915788638.post-7878065706782285492010-01-02T12:01:00.011+01:002010-01-02T21:24:30.826+01:00Bonne année<div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO59XlpCd1Cpa-edcWQrbODdM_JySRxa5jRo7IN0BxWB3chOmU2SLjE35EvHb0e_MzkrzG2ugsmovgecCmJefaXWFyTOJ1GunaYe6nZNDtMR41df5ftLB02X_3Zg8tp0fuE5jVyjOvrU66/s1600-h/Xmas+tree+intact.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO59XlpCd1Cpa-edcWQrbODdM_JySRxa5jRo7IN0BxWB3chOmU2SLjE35EvHb0e_MzkrzG2ugsmovgecCmJefaXWFyTOJ1GunaYe6nZNDtMR41df5ftLB02X_3Zg8tp0fuE5jVyjOvrU66/s400/Xmas+tree+intact.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422205980856033666" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The rather Charley Brownish Christmas tree in our apartment building's lobby set a festive tone for the holidays.</span></i><br /><div><br /><div><div>As 2010 starts, we're comfortably reinstalled in our apartment in Paris. So comfortably, in fact, that other than going out in the (just barely technically) morning to buy bread and pastries, the only thing we accomplished yesterday was depositing impressions of our rear ends in the sofa cushions. Scratch that off my to-do list.</div><div><br /></div><div>Judging from the wall of dark windows in the building behind us, windows that were bright and afforded views of apartments full of feasting and company on Christmas Eve, New Year's Eve seems to be an evening to celebrate out. Indeed, there are myriads of options for dining out/partying in Paris on New Year's Eve. According to the US embassy in Paris, which sent us not just one but two emails warning that:</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman', 'new york', times, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Outdoor New Year’s Eve celebrations in Paris and other urban centers in France can be boisterous. Last year, U.S. citizens reported that glass bottles were hurled, extensive public drinking and drunkenness occurred, and sporadic fighting broke out in Paris around the Champs Elysees, the </span><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1262430823_4" style="border-bottom-style: dashed; border-bottom-width: 1px; border-bottom-color: rgb(0, 102, 204); cursor: pointer; background-image: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-attachment: initial; -webkit-background-clip: initial; -webkit-background-origin: initial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Champ de Mars</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">, and</span><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1262430823_5" style="border-bottom-style: dashed; border-bottom-width: 1px; border-bottom-color: rgb(0, 102, 204); cursor: pointer; background-image: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-attachment: initial; -webkit-background-clip: initial; -webkit-background-origin: initial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Trocadero</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">. Parked cars being set ablaze is also a fairly common feature of revelry in France, occuring even in upscale neighborhoods.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman', 'new york', times, serif;"><br /><a name='more'></a><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman', 'new york', times, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;">Having spent too much time in the last few weeks reveling, we stayed in, content to feast on wild boar and watch the fireworks and burning cars from our balcony. Except that there were neither fireworks, just the normal on-the-hour Tour Eiffel light show, nor vehicular bonfires. In fact, aside from the noisy elevator on the return of our upstairs neighbors at 3.30 AM, it was one of the more peaceful nights of sleep we've had in Paris. Only our trip to the boulangerie revealed that there had been more mischief than usual: broken bottles on the street and the glass door of a phone booth pulled off and shattered on the sidewalk.</span></span></div></div><div><br /></div><div>Most surprising was that the christmas tree in our building's entry lobby had been savaged-- there were broken glass ball ornaments all over the floor. Now, if our building were full of teenagers or college kids, I wouldn't be surprised. But we're among the younger of the residents, and perhaps the only renters, of the 15 or so apartments in the building. Most of our encounters with our uptight neighbors involve some nose raising and other shows of superiority on their part, so it's pretty funny to imagine one these snooty geriatrics wilding in the lobby on New Year's Eve.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHuXLsoHTUvJNwF5UuT-gWUSaBUm7HCnrpN1FcLT9NAg5Hq26dHnz-3K_9y0UJziL8wy5lVbBv48SSL8XIuGJoG0RUlNeOTmIVrtrJ7mMAGPHqRcM1WdOZndp5rcN5H8n3E0aofivCzIQ8/s1600-h/Defiled+Xmas+tree.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHuXLsoHTUvJNwF5UuT-gWUSaBUm7HCnrpN1FcLT9NAg5Hq26dHnz-3K_9y0UJziL8wy5lVbBv48SSL8XIuGJoG0RUlNeOTmIVrtrJ7mMAGPHqRcM1WdOZndp5rcN5H8n3E0aofivCzIQ8/s400/Defiled+Xmas+tree.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422205974707083474" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The defiled Christmas tree and just some of the glass in the lobby on New Year's Day.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div>I had mentioned <a href="http://2yanksinparis.blogspot.com/2009/12/bon-voyage.html">here</a> previously that I'd managed to permanently bond together, through the miracle of vapor lock, a pot and a bowl I was using as a double boiler. The best way to separate such a fusion is to heat the outer element while cooling the inner, so that the outer metal expands and the inner metal contracts. But the straight sides of the bowl meant there was so much shared metal wall that it wasn't possible to differentially heat or cool them, no matter what I tried. So I set it aside, intending to try creasing the inner bowl so that at least I could salvage the pot.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I needed to make yogurt this morning (the task that started this whole problem last month), and since the pot still had water in it, figured it should still work fine as a double boiler. I put it on the stove and cranked up the heat to bring the 3 liters of milk to 185 degrees and then set about helping Karen put the trainer-specific tire on her bike for a week of indoor workouts when the double boiler burped violently, spewing boiling water <i>all</i> over the kitchen. There was enough water on the stovetop that it shut itself off, it was on the counters, the floor, even inside the cabinets. Wow (or as they say here in France, <i>Waouh</i>)-- that more than made up for the lack of fireworks on New Year's Eve! Unfortunately, it didn't release the bowl, and since the milk was near its final temperature, I needed to baby it awhile. Once the milk was transfered to another bowl to cool, I put several cups of water in the double boiler bowl and set the burner on its max and gave it plenty of room. About 5 min later, the pressure in the pot blew the bowl, water and all, straight up into the air about 6 inches with a loud pop, sending water everywhere, again. The bowl fell back into the pot, but this time I was ready and managed to nab it before it resettled.</div><div><br /></div></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCnFw7M088XFx05ONSSXRHfmFheOzA7PSKf_GQt3Z8FyapVCv476lDnSTdaknmxMVQy9qaJBFzkJ4INfOoFip4Jz7gRMvQMSlguTDY1iN9mbeQp04GXrvvnspUzmauBvdlee4qgL1qdtfW/s1600-h/Double+boiler+separated.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCnFw7M088XFx05ONSSXRHfmFheOzA7PSKf_GQt3Z8FyapVCv476lDnSTdaknmxMVQy9qaJBFzkJ4INfOoFip4Jz7gRMvQMSlguTDY1iN9mbeQp04GXrvvnspUzmauBvdlee4qgL1qdtfW/s400/Double+boiler+separated.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422205968303333570" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The separated pot and bowl, just a little worse for the wear.</span></i><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>So despite the growing list of non-functioning things that will need attention in the coming weeks, we started 2010 with an unexpected win. And we wish everybody else a good start to a vapor-lock-free year full of wins, themselves.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div>Rolfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08655178481559856016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8969210237915788638.post-19131279152554045452009-12-31T13:50:00.004+01:002010-01-03T09:17:52.479+01:00A return to Belgium pt 2: Beer<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span></div><div>Though we'd vaguely discussed it before heading for Spain, we hadn't <i>really</i> planned to go to Belgium this past week. And so when Christmas Day rolled around, we had no hotels, no car rented, no logistical leg work completed to get us there.<div><br /></div><div>And though through the wonder of the internet we'd managed to take care of most of the details by the night of the 26th, we were still without a hotel for the next night near or in Brussels. Diegem, the location of the day's (late) races, is very near the Brussels airport, which is on the side of town we'd need to drive through to get to Anwerpen the next day. So it was a no-brainer to stay in an airport hotel for the few hours we'd actually be there.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I'd just read <a href="http://www.booksaboutbeer.com/">here</a> about a good new beer bar downtown that we'd somehow missed in our visit earlier in the month, and in order to pay a real visit, we'd have to stay downtown. So it came down to convenience and common sense vs. beer. Common sense never had a chance. I just hoped that the bar was worth the trouble.</div><div><br /><a name='more'></a><br /></div><div>In fact, the beer bar in question, Moerder Lambic Fontainas, made the decision one of the best moves we've made this year. A cool modern spot on Fontainasplein just north of the Aneessens tram stop, the bar has about 40 taps, including 6 hand pumps used for lambics and other spontaneous fermentation cousins (gueuze, kriek, faro), 4 different beers from De Ranke (XX Bitter, Guldenberg, Pere Noël, and Noir de Dottignies), several each from Slaghmuylder and Abbaye du Val Dieu, and 11 beers of the month. In US beer bars, beer on tap is highly valued. In Belgium, where many beers are made in a manner to tolerate and even benefit from some aging, the bottle is king. So this big collection of taps is really something. And if you can't find something you like among the 40-ish on tap, they have another 100 or so in bottles.</div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN8p9PPbFaUOuCQP8QNLf3XUudIlmVY4jnDSc5xrg-sU1YSS0044JsxHcIexcJwAqtKtJK40ZW5mwsl1lQFL4pQhniCo-Y6C8Lcchr2rgRxjaYOYfiwxx59MUFt1NuL1pdrz354q6aEu1C/s1600-h/Moeder+Lambic+menus.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN8p9PPbFaUOuCQP8QNLf3XUudIlmVY4jnDSc5xrg-sU1YSS0044JsxHcIexcJwAqtKtJK40ZW5mwsl1lQFL4pQhniCo-Y6C8Lcchr2rgRxjaYOYfiwxx59MUFt1NuL1pdrz354q6aEu1C/s400/Moeder+Lambic+menus.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421369325928656530" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The tap beer menus at Moeder Lambic are pretty amazing. It's kinda scary to think of ordering these by the liter.</span></i><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXA2FBqrwSyXoeUZJa0xsoDp2wFS-TsiL3j2wIiMkvc-wTCLCcBxMCmbj_7UApYWC-oxAhDejDokCS0DEr94ZW9vZ9DGNNNMmWWB8yV8UHRsDTMyxYgYkJ5HprwsbHRUKOKPJh2rkupHga/s1600-h/Moeder+Lambic+interior.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXA2FBqrwSyXoeUZJa0xsoDp2wFS-TsiL3j2wIiMkvc-wTCLCcBxMCmbj_7UApYWC-oxAhDejDokCS0DEr94ZW9vZ9DGNNNMmWWB8yV8UHRsDTMyxYgYkJ5HprwsbHRUKOKPJh2rkupHga/s400/Moeder+Lambic+interior.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421368930933234242" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The interior at Moeder Lambic proves that a good Belgian beer bar doesn't <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">have</span> to be dark wood or a cave. Note the glassware. Every brewery (and sometimes even a specific beer) has its own glass, which they take very seriously in Belgium. Even the bottled water comes with its own branded glass. When you offer 150-some beers, that's a lot of glassware.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div>We expected that the bar would offer only light food, so we'd had a big lunch before the races at a Thai restaurant (yeah, it was pretty much what you'd fear) in Diegem. But the food at the bar turned out to be a perfect dinner itself. A couple of quiches that came with big bowls of fresh salad vegetables (not easy to find good fresh raw vegetables in restaurants, let alone bars, in Belgium, or France, or Spain, or ...), and a platter of salumi (sliced chorizo, a garlic sausage, an ungarlicky salami, and a small but delicious piece of paté made with gueze) with good brown bread and -- be still my heart -- a substantial disk of the phenomenal salted raw-milk butter from Pascal Beillevaire. Great beer AND great butter-- are you kidding me? I'm having my mail forwarded there starting tomorrow. And while I've never really understood why people here use butter with ham or sausage, that didn't stop me from eating the sausages plain and using the bread as a vehicle for most of that mound of awesome butter.</div><div><br /></div><div>Beer-wise, I tried all 3 of their draft lambics (Drie Fonteinen, De Cam, and Cantillon), which were young but still fun and very different from each other, before a Val Dieu Noël and a very nice Bons Voeux from Brasserie Dupont. When Karen said the last reminded her somehow of foie gras, I wondered what she was smoking, but I'll be darned, even though it didn't taste overtly of foie gras to me, I could see the association. I was happy that it didn't remind of deep fried mystery meat kabobs, instead. Being a hop head, Karen enjoyed the De Ranke offerings. Our waiter, a friendly fellow with glasses that were missing 1 arm who apologized for his excellent English (damn Europeans and their linguistic superiority), also suggested a couple of saisons from Brasserie Jandrain-Jandrenouil made with American hops (amarillo, I'm guessing from the grapefruity taste description), but we'd hit the wall by then. No matter-- even without them, it was a great evening in a great new place.</div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidENzWQiv1aV0o6NmI1RI_MqVBw35rNcKBh7DQVbi4xNiaOwiqphhenai8noztEr3L6eeTz7K3gBMbx4GXyBF9yH4jloyaB4x-kIphLHhUSOjlOZvZu3WDuDPoyyIov1kL3PlraJ7vCgqT/s1600-h/Moeder+Lambic+bon+voeux.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidENzWQiv1aV0o6NmI1RI_MqVBw35rNcKBh7DQVbi4xNiaOwiqphhenai8noztEr3L6eeTz7K3gBMbx4GXyBF9yH4jloyaB4x-kIphLHhUSOjlOZvZu3WDuDPoyyIov1kL3PlraJ7vCgqT/s400/Moeder+Lambic+bon+voeux.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421368925845615810" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Funny Girl amused by the foie gras beer (Brasserie Dupont's Bons Voeux), which, before anyone says is being served in the wrong glass, was served in a glass branded for another of Brasserie Dupont's brews.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>And so it wasn't surprising that we left Brussels for Antwerpen a little later the next morning than we'd originally hoped. Being Monday, virtually all of the museums in Antwerpen were closed, so that left the impressive cathedral, the Grote Markt, St Paul's church/Sint-Pauluskerk, some meandering site seeing, and 4 beer havens on our to-do list. We started with a visit to Paters Vaetje for lunch, since it was just a couple blocks from our hotel and a few steps from the cathedral. The beer list was nothing like the night before, but there were some solid choices, including both an OK winter beer from De Koninck (local to Antwerpen) and the always excellent Triple Karmeliet on tap.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8UvxR72KKJcaZ24C5iTfk9BcigRSjcNh11D0fT9x0Dlx77mD6zEGljWSdcv5_yQBpJDh2x1Qep79_ad6IyDaSt-6JoVMUnclgSu8e3yvM8365rgyInU-wi-fIUXHG2ULIqmJP4kbt1ktU/s1600-h/Paters+Vaetje.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8UvxR72KKJcaZ24C5iTfk9BcigRSjcNh11D0fT9x0Dlx77mD6zEGljWSdcv5_yQBpJDh2x1Qep79_ad6IyDaSt-6JoVMUnclgSu8e3yvM8365rgyInU-wi-fIUXHG2ULIqmJP4kbt1ktU/s400/Paters+Vaetje.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421368754938270626" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Paters Vaetje from the loft. It was crowded when we got there, but I heard only Dutch. Lots of shaved heads in Antwerp.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFUwwmGbYJWtfRPIWDw6ipFlehwxpGgOsp-CaDOfKCALxsLvv0kPxDCtta4GiQ_eNj84Trvswc34NbtQk9mAEpA0NFlX2u7Rn8MXX3qzbHtwuNGmIr1BBKDlwik0s0TS8OR9EKfwvd5nlz/s1600-h/Antwerpen+cathedral.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFUwwmGbYJWtfRPIWDw6ipFlehwxpGgOsp-CaDOfKCALxsLvv0kPxDCtta4GiQ_eNj84Trvswc34NbtQk9mAEpA0NFlX2u7Rn8MXX3qzbHtwuNGmIr1BBKDlwik0s0TS8OR9EKfwvd5nlz/s400/Antwerpen+cathedral.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421373597437198290" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The cathedral is dedicated to the assumption of Mary, as the painting (amazingly, in Antwerp, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">not</span> by Rubens) high in the cupola depicts.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2eDD5KnRucQr0dAIYp5cBxE0HNGAwSbCDeI1BgMGOBYA_9hbBlM3Hc2r6ctiiJzKi5YBu3Xos5magcDuiqzZrydqln6kqBfHOTrLUArAYCcFz96i4I1TaNdmcPbhaj1k4FNGufS-RXTHD/s1600-h/Antwerpen+skating.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2eDD5KnRucQr0dAIYp5cBxE0HNGAwSbCDeI1BgMGOBYA_9hbBlM3Hc2r6ctiiJzKi5YBu3Xos5magcDuiqzZrydqln6kqBfHOTrLUArAYCcFz96i4I1TaNdmcPbhaj1k4FNGufS-RXTHD/s400/Antwerpen+skating.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421368751093882130" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Skating in front of town hall, around the statue of Silvio Brabo throwing the defeated giant's hand (Antwerpen means/sounds similar to "hand throwing"). The Gote Markt and Meir were crowded, but like the bar, mostly with locals. It's always great seeing the natives use these otherwise touristy areas themselves.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNjbl-WSddJxMNR3VgqJ2kzjyrU65GFBJeVdY68eAhO19nhHyTFsxBFvgDRTSGCghkLpc8A63SSCeNtjaMhH7qnPLwN2zLe5wB2qOKqdv-vZxbcNNQUg-HiNVs2IdKSZaUrxqS4giDjU7l/s1600-h/Antwerpen+guild+houses.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNjbl-WSddJxMNR3VgqJ2kzjyrU65GFBJeVdY68eAhO19nhHyTFsxBFvgDRTSGCghkLpc8A63SSCeNtjaMhH7qnPLwN2zLe5wB2qOKqdv-vZxbcNNQUg-HiNVs2IdKSZaUrxqS4giDjU7l/s400/Antwerpen+guild+houses.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421383458829574194" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div><i>The main difference between the guild houses in Antwerpen and Brussels is that the ones in Antwerpen were built behind a giant penguin.</i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjatsUz9ThWPYDgIZmjgUF0CYLX03YXhY-7qkolCzRc0YJfYhAhWLUUp6wNeTWScayTmO6vZpdXmzbEHHIQ8PDOj9qrmRzsrQWvi1hYY2mPudbmGAMqghCghrsxcVolPI7iRwRZE9_p5zKi/s1600-h/Antwerpen+Calvarieberg.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjatsUz9ThWPYDgIZmjgUF0CYLX03YXhY-7qkolCzRc0YJfYhAhWLUUp6wNeTWScayTmO6vZpdXmzbEHHIQ8PDOj9qrmRzsrQWvi1hYY2mPudbmGAMqghCghrsxcVolPI7iRwRZE9_p5zKi/s400/Antwerpen+Calvarieberg.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421368742991752274" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The bizarre artificial gotto outside the lovely St Paul's church.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div>'t Waagstuk, stop number two on the beer train, turned out to be closed for the holiday week but provided an excuse to wander through the neighborhoods north of the more tourist-filled center. The physical city of Antwerpen is very nice, with an interesting mix of architectural styles and feels. But wandering around those neighborhoods on Monday mid afternoon, the streets were completely and eerily deserted. Where on earth was everybody? The answer is that they were all out walking and shopping on Meir, the pedestrian-only 3-lane-wide shopping street that runs from town hall on Grote Markt to Central Station. It was <i>packed</i>. Though perhaps best known as a capital in the stodgy diamond business, Antwerpen has also become something of a fashion center, with young Flemish designers making names for themselves (for designer and shopping info, see <a href="http://www.antwerpisthenewparis.com/">here</a>).</div><div><br /></div><div>We'd have stopped to check some of that out, but we had to get to 't Oud Arsenal, where whatever Antwerpians weren't on the Meir had congregated for refreshment. It's clear from the way the place is set up that it's no stranger to crowds. There are a few tables along the perimeter of the room, but there's a lot of open space in the middle to accommodate standers. There were so many people in the place we almost turned around and left, but we were glad we didn't, because both the beer and the atmosphere were great. The clientele was mixed, with tables of older folks, especially women, drinking trappist ales and groups standing with glasses of Stella Artois. The bottled beer list is full of solid candidates supplemented with some beers of the season (eg, Kerstbier's Santa Bee) and modestly aged (2-3 year) beers of interest. We started with some of the aged Trappist offerings, a 2-year old Orval and the 3-year old Rochefort 8 and 10 degrees-- very nice, with deeper and more complex flavors than the unaged versions-- before trying the Achel trappist beers. I wish I'd tried the aged Troubadour Obscura, but that's life.</div><div><br /></div></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV5me4oys9q1NTZh-kz9EtDyTpF6wlah715egyO1Qo7rzGXKM6Y5o5RnOI6j20mu3aQfp06w2Ow6GNBPwsLYeUdV-DbxFFZq8j31Tb6B5mlTfUgCaCPCQnM22VikMN7wg3Bz8mk8V1xZY0/s1600-h/Oud+Arsenal+interior.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV5me4oys9q1NTZh-kz9EtDyTpF6wlah715egyO1Qo7rzGXKM6Y5o5RnOI6j20mu3aQfp06w2Ow6GNBPwsLYeUdV-DbxFFZq8j31Tb6B5mlTfUgCaCPCQnM22VikMN7wg3Bz8mk8V1xZY0/s400/Oud+Arsenal+interior.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421368736430216594" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">No tea party, this. These ladies at Oud Arsenal prefer beverages of the malty fermented variety</span></i>.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4w4pHoP7xyl1hE9pKOKpNRrRccpDWO-BDq0LgxzjQIvUGDLH7gmKtBcadZmSMfBlTNkawFxkBh5vUIIx3RrKU-Okhxpm5CdPwpREw0Kxb8rAW6pNew0SV7xpwioo4nfBgmisIsr5mTv0e/s1600-h/Oud+Arsenal+mystery+box.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 291px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4w4pHoP7xyl1hE9pKOKpNRrRccpDWO-BDq0LgxzjQIvUGDLH7gmKtBcadZmSMfBlTNkawFxkBh5vUIIx3RrKU-Okhxpm5CdPwpREw0Kxb8rAW6pNew0SV7xpwioo4nfBgmisIsr5mTv0e/s400/Oud+Arsenal+mystery+box.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421368734407438050" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A mystery box at Oud Arsenal. We pondered its purpose over some suds.</span></i><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>As we made our way through the beers, we managed to move to the only standing-height table in the room near the back. The restroom door was covered with coasters on which people from different places had written toilet/wc/restroom in their native languages: greek, japanese, swedish, etc. More mystifying was a wooden box with 48 numbered slots in it. I posited that it was for car keys-- they'd be safe there until one came back the next day to collect them, having taken a cab home the previous night. But then a fellow came over and excused himself (in English, for our benefit) as he placed a folded bill in one of the slots, so we took the opportunity to ask about it. It's actually a kind of bank. You put money in throughout the year (minimum of 6.50 euro-bucks a week, but as much beyond that as you wish). You get the amount you put in back in cash at the end of the year, and the interest it earns is given back to you in the form of good and services, though not, as I'd have hoped, in the form of beer. It's kind of like a social club for (48) regulars of the bar-- there was a list of events and who was hosting them above the box, and they include small trips, local outings, barbeques, etc. Cool idea, and the fellow who chatted with us was really nice, confirming that it's often the interactions that determine one's impression of a place. We'll definitely go back there if we're in Antwerpen again.</div><div><br /></div><div>We didn't make it to the last of our planned beer places, the grand-daddy of them all called The Kulminator, where there's an obscenely large beer list and it's possible to try, for a price, a large selection of seriously aged beer. They don't open until after 8.00 on Mondays, and we had dinner with the Yozells (including Westmalle triple, St Bernadus triple, and a couple of Corsendonks, so not too shabby), instead, which was more fun than another beer bar. Just another reason to make it back to Antwerpen, sometime.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Rolfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08655178481559856016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8969210237915788638.post-6135229835805903042009-12-30T21:23:00.022+01:002010-01-02T21:31:29.291+01:00A return to Belgium: Cyclocross<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span></div>We were (barely) back in Paris from Barcelona for Christmas before heading north again for Belgium. The week between Christmas and New Year's is packed with Belgian cyclocross races, starting with the World Cup in Zolder on the 26th, then races on the 27th, 29th, and 30th of December and the 1st, 2nd, and 3rd of January.<div><br /></div><div>Since we'd already been up to see a GVA Trofee race (<a href="http://2yanksinparis.blogspot.com/2009/11/day-at-races.html">Koppenberg</a>) and a Superprestige race (<a href="http://2yanksinparis.blogspot.com/2009/12/beer-run-brussels.html">Gavere</a>), Karen was eager to see a World Cup race, but we wanted to watch mid-atlantic super-junior Jeff Bahson-- who is attending the <a href="http://www.eurocrosscamp.com/">US cyclocross camp</a> in Izegem this year en route to riding the World Championships in Tabor, Czech Republic-- race in the deep fields in Belgium, and the juniors went off earlier than we'd be able to pick up a car and drive there. So instead, we drove up Sunday to watch the Superprestige Diegem, used the no-racing day on Monday to do some site-seeing in Antwerpen, and caught the GVA Trofee Azencross race on Tuesday before driving back to Paris.</div><div><br /></div><div>Since bike racing and beer are both important, there'll be a separate post on the non-cyclocross portion of the trip.</div><div><br /></div><div><div>Like all of our experiences in Europe, the 4 cyclocross races we attended in Belgium this year weren't quite like we had envisioned. Here's a list of things we expected at a Belgian CX race and actually found:</div><div><br /><a name='more'></a><br /></div><div><b>People</b>. Lots of them. In all shapes and sizes, but with a notable enrichment of the portly, smoking variety. And an even greater enrichment of the drunken, portly, smoking variety. Fortuitously, it seems most Belgian cyclocross-loving drunks are happy drunks.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Passionate cheering</b>. The pro men's race is a loud affair. The most passionate cheering is for Sven Nys. Other riders have their supporters and their support clubs, but even <i>they</i> seem to cheer Nys. Current world champion, and Belgian, Niels Albert has a lot of supporters but also a lot of detractors who don't seem to take to his high-strung personality. He created a stir when he complained about being harassed in races by Nys' more numerous fans, and at Azencross he couldn't help complaining that he'd had beer poured on him during the race. He shouldn't have to endure that, admittedly, but with such a large number of drunks at the event, some bad judgment is inevitable. Just ask Bart Wellens, former world champion and former perennial adversary of Sven Nys, who forfeited a win in 2005 after kicking, while riding by at full race speed, a spectator who had been throwing beer at him. Given <a href="http://theinnertube.cycling.tv/_Wellens-kicks-a-spectator/video/185110/2501.html">his excellent form</a> in executing the kick, he should have been awarded bonus points. After Nys, Czech Zdenek Stybar, having a breakthrough season and a non-complainer, seems to get the most enthusiastic support this year.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Beer</b>, which is consumed in very large quantities.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Frites</b>, which are consumed in quantities surpassed only by beer. Or cigarettes. Or schnapps.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Unintelligible race announcing</b>. Many Belgians, and particularly those from the Dutch-speaking Flanders region, speak several languages, including French and English, pretty darned well. Still, the races are being held in Belgium, and the vast majority of announcement is in Dutch (or Flemish, if you prefer). If you speak German and English, you can do a reasonable job of guessing what at least some of the commentary is, because there's some phonetic overlap. But even if you can work some of it out, the pattern and sounds of the Dutch from the excitable announcers often sound a lot like the silly made-up language two of my college roommates used to confuse people. This is good, because the strange-sounding Dutch is way more fun to listen to than the cheesy pop music that plays when the announcers aren't talking.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Cheesy pop music</b> over the loudspeakers, mixed with techno (Belgium <i>is</i> in Europe) and some oompah pop.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Mud</b>.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBvhwl6mtuhfICJfHpiPxksY3yNkrGtRMbrfw4fLpEa6d6TAyJoXVTnPfRNW9SnqVTRMBhP250WfVmmTpqxNoYAmovI0QCjsM8Q0DKSS14iGsPrI5mXtuyIFbAbK-XM3IXFoonuPcrUi33/s1600-h/Azencross+mud.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBvhwl6mtuhfICJfHpiPxksY3yNkrGtRMbrfw4fLpEa6d6TAyJoXVTnPfRNW9SnqVTRMBhP250WfVmmTpqxNoYAmovI0QCjsM8Q0DKSS14iGsPrI5mXtuyIFbAbK-XM3IXFoonuPcrUi33/s400/Azencross+mud.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421146628232589650" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">This happens to be at Azencross... ummm, actually Diegem... but it could have been pretty much any of the races we've been to this season</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Top quality racing</b>.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>And so here's a list of things that were different from what we expected from cyclocross races in Belgium:</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>People</b>. Hordes of them. I would guess the average crowd size for the races we've attended has been about 12,000. At Koppenberg, the venue easily absorbed the 15,000+ people reported to be in attendance, because the course wound through open fields with plenty of room to stand and wander. In all of the other races, the course has run along other barriers, whether they be property lines/fences/hedges/etc. And several sections of the courses, including the long straight sections connecting the various more technical areas, offer very narrow passage. Getting from place to place through the crowds can be a challenge, and at Gavere, there were sections of the course that were complete impassible by spectators by the pro men's race.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Beer</b>. You think of Belgium and beer, and you think of the amazing variety of high-quality brews. None of these is available at CX races. If interesting beer is your thing, skip the Primus or Jupiler at the race and a.) drink the hot spiced wine or schnapps at the race and/or b.) find a good beer bar afterwards.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Beer tents</b>. We expected to find beer tents, but we didn't expect to find frat parties raging inside of them. Packed wall-to-wall, ear-splitting music raging, there must be thousands of people at these races who never see a single rider pass by. No Dutch is necessary to understand the basic gist of the video <a href="http://www.gva.be/nieuws/sport/wielrennen/gva-trofee/aid890363/publiek-van-azencross-verkiest-bier-boven-nys-video.aspx">here</a>, at the website for the Antwerpen newspaper for which the GVA Trofee series is named.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeKjkErL4ZEh52ajD9X0w3bF7QnZiCEvogmOmZZwRwHT5mQcokJQuVNO2b_TY-esgerC7_Ydfmi7bOINA_vNeYZ5PNHr9okuf_1RzjVaeL6I94SpjhFOT5mXf5EGpsTl0nn1TvSGogN5Mr/s1600-h/Diegem+Beer+Tent.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeKjkErL4ZEh52ajD9X0w3bF7QnZiCEvogmOmZZwRwHT5mQcokJQuVNO2b_TY-esgerC7_Ydfmi7bOINA_vNeYZ5PNHr9okuf_1RzjVaeL6I94SpjhFOT5mXf5EGpsTl0nn1TvSGogN5Mr/s400/Diegem+Beer+Tent.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421148540386373170" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">One of the beer tents at Diegem, complete with a live band. To paraphrase a friend of my dad's who once commented about some late-night celebratory singing, its badness was only surpassed by its volume.</span></i> </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Planks or barriers</b>. Of the 4 races we've seen, only one (Diegem) has used them.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Cowbells</b>. Although ubiquitously associated with CX spectating in the US, I've not seen or heard even 1 in the races we attended in Belgium. Shouting (and, apparently, throwing beer) are the preferred methods of showing support, or lack thereof.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Waffles</b>. In contrast to the Christmas markets all over northern Europe, you can't get a waffle at a Belgian CX race. In fact, I haven't seen any sweets at all. Given the focus on fried foods at these events-- in addition to frites, only deep-fried hot dogs, deep-fried sausages, deep-fried hamburgers, and deep-fried mystery meat kabobs are available in most venues -- you'd think that deep-fried dough, whether doughnuts or funnel cakes, would find an audience.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJtEn71c_Sda4pIDsHIQH-SmBXBYev3FuqsEhQAKdYZpuQZAjZJ4oqwQ6hAjwbWg1lZzEpyVFIvU4nNH768NGNELmxkqTv6M7RLwA7ZEWNwYQwcCL38G0U6K8fafiiFGblbA39WhGZ1lrJ/s1600-h/Azencross+pig.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJtEn71c_Sda4pIDsHIQH-SmBXBYev3FuqsEhQAKdYZpuQZAjZJ4oqwQ6hAjwbWg1lZzEpyVFIvU4nNH768NGNELmxkqTv6M7RLwA7ZEWNwYQwcCL38G0U6K8fafiiFGblbA39WhGZ1lrJ/s400/Azencross+pig.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421146619351165170" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px; " /></a></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Azencross is the first race we've been to where there was a non-deep-fried food option: 3 roast pigs. It would seem they were popular.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Top-quality racing.</b> It's there, but in the pro men's races, you're often hard-pressed to see it (see "People", aka hordes, above). During the early races, you can move around the course easily and see the action pretty much wherever you want, spending quality time in the technical sections to see how people a lot more talented at 16 than you are at 45 ride the tricky stuff. But if you want to see the same up-close technical action in the pro-men's race, you'd better have found your spot a couple of hours before the start, especially if you're not tall enough to see over the 5-or-more deep crowds. And if you were in the beer tents, instead, you can maybe see the tops of the riders' helmets skimming along over the crowd in those sections or get a better view of a section with no technical interest. Like many sporting events, the best view of the race is really on television, and there are several jumbotrons at these big races where you can watch it in the rain with a few thousand of your friends. Which beats watching at home, because chances are you don't have a deep fryer big enough to cook mystery meat kabobs.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Sven Nys</b>' name. I've heard and used lots of variations in the US, but the announcer at Diagem pronounced his name as a single word with the same rhythm as the word "finesse." Not everybody says it that way, but however they say it, "Sven Nys" must be among the 100 most common words in Flanders. I believe it's actually the greeting they use on meeting each other, like bonjour or hola.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div><div>Finally, here's the low-down from this week's races.</div><div><br /></div><div>Race #1: Superprestige Diegem. At first glance, the Diegem course looked more like an asphalt crit than the a cross race. It's run downtown in Diegem, with the men's race running at night, and there's plenty of pavement in the course. But the unpaved sections hidden in parks below and above town, both sloppy and muddy after several days of rain and more during the races, provided plenty of slow grinding and technical challenge, no doubt made more difficult by the dark. The pro race came down to a duel between Belgian Niels Albert and Czech Zdenek Stybar, who finished in that order, with Sven Nys in 3rd until the penultimate lap, when, right in front of where we were spectating, he broke his derailleur hanger and gave up. He should have been watching the earlier junior race, when young Mr Bahnson broke his derailleur hanger somewhere in the same off-pavement section of the course on the opening prologue but had the presence of mind to skateboard his broken bike down the sloped pavement toward the pit, where he changed bikes and despite spotting the rest of the field several minutes, rode a good ways back through it for an impressive finish.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuW-ezDSvlgcwVDHdFAA2NfK5bA3Urn4HFzBTiyyyvciBVj72s34VNFyc2O55Orp4fXyqjwP-PDlU4YAjTjLIWW8h7w_HPxKeH-nmt-J_oLTkKvyR6DNzSWLZIH-yLbnW0cArlDX7miyFm/s1600-h/Diegem+JB.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuW-ezDSvlgcwVDHdFAA2NfK5bA3Urn4HFzBTiyyyvciBVj72s34VNFyc2O55Orp4fXyqjwP-PDlU4YAjTjLIWW8h7w_HPxKeH-nmt-J_oLTkKvyR6DNzSWLZIH-yLbnW0cArlDX7miyFm/s400/Diegem+JB.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421146825992645122" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Mr Bahnson working his way back through the field at Diegem.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg623od0Q_W2IYx3rm8M9l4iEFQEvSVKgzNFgkugiMiVcun21ZjpPY1vVQBv7KPKu5l2hXgW9d9TkjHLMOH4v3S2_EP0ZR3hJ-A70251V76emuUTWjw_8Z60u4UgofG8D5WFPDSCMx_6NQi/s1600-h/Diegem+Sven+Nys.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg623od0Q_W2IYx3rm8M9l4iEFQEvSVKgzNFgkugiMiVcun21ZjpPY1vVQBv7KPKu5l2hXgW9d9TkjHLMOH4v3S2_EP0ZR3hJ-A70251V76emuUTWjw_8Z60u4UgofG8D5WFPDSCMx_6NQi/s400/Diegem+Sven+Nys.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421146816910799234" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Sven Nys just before his derailleur hanger snapped on remount.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div>Race #2: Azencross, a GVA Trofee series race, just shy of the Dutch border. This is flat, flat land, and it was completely saturated by the recent (and continuing) rains. Though the area offered little in features for an interesting course, the race organizers built all kinds of crazy features to mix in with the slow grassy farmland slog: several flyovers, a set of stairs in a mud mound, a pair of mud hills, and most notably, a 9-roller pump track. Young Mr Bahnson looked strong riding to a 20th position finish in a huge and fast field, and after riding together for much of the race, Sven Nys bested Niels Albert and Zdenek Stybar in the last lap to win. It was cold, it was wet, and it was a mess. Ie, it was fun.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxs_3h7jzxXkbGKubWB2IXnBXfnssoJptKbhGveWSlQ4JB6zCViypfHHHxSxy1voVxKvv6U-7swCR68zetF9zCEAhYoBdscs3vnSoPblt0jYaWNF7Bq4c8m-kY2g88k2_oEbCZGtmYJjc_/s1600-h/Azencross+JB.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxs_3h7jzxXkbGKubWB2IXnBXfnssoJptKbhGveWSlQ4JB6zCViypfHHHxSxy1voVxKvv6U-7swCR68zetF9zCEAhYoBdscs3vnSoPblt0jYaWNF7Bq4c8m-kY2g88k2_oEbCZGtmYJjc_/s400/Azencross+JB.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421146632978968818" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 296px; " /></a></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Juniors in the mud hills where Niels Albert dabbed in the last lap of the pro race, losing contact with Sven Nys.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSdENQBCZDRzhmX1a1kGX0cNp9iXL03uQ5bHGjYQ8kBKFQQ_mbXj98Oi52mLmBrhPIGFWvANYFfVBA7f7DYjMCIvNxrAF9R18Uh2sA7va64OTB0p1kkyxvEiQEc7F4EWsRFV4rW51YgxMq/s1600-h/Azencross+pump+track+2.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSdENQBCZDRzhmX1a1kGX0cNp9iXL03uQ5bHGjYQ8kBKFQQ_mbXj98Oi52mLmBrhPIGFWvANYFfVBA7f7DYjMCIvNxrAF9R18Uh2sA7va64OTB0p1kkyxvEiQEc7F4EWsRFV4rW51YgxMq/s400/Azencross+pump+track+2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421146610250781394" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Juniors on the pump track</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhevGIRKFtdjRUEWWZ99a2mnFtF17IdYW-v5GFBvtWNSlsKS_tY1tTgJv6ywsmuXbOiQEnjqbbaiXriB51qlOl6Rj6M223ZdsX2exn7Lt95-g2ggm6kqQ0cwjfV4qD8RpzkXPZkLXq_gNML/s1600-h/Azencross+pump+track.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhevGIRKFtdjRUEWWZ99a2mnFtF17IdYW-v5GFBvtWNSlsKS_tY1tTgJv6ywsmuXbOiQEnjqbbaiXriB51qlOl6Rj6M223ZdsX2exn7Lt95-g2ggm6kqQ0cwjfV4qD8RpzkXPZkLXq_gNML/s400/Azencross+pump+track.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421146615000345298" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The pros on the pump track from our hard-earned vantage point.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe the most fun thing about it was that we met up with mid-atlantic cross racers extraordinaires Mike and Erica Yozell, with young Isaac in tow. Between watching Jeff Bahnson rip it on the course and talking/spectating with the Yozells, it was as close as we got this year to our usual 'cross experience at home.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Rolfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08655178481559856016noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8969210237915788638.post-7378254149767866942009-12-19T00:40:00.002+01:002010-01-02T21:32:35.602+01:00Bon voyage<div>Life 3000 miles from home has its ups and downs, and the last couple of weeks have been a bit trying. Whatever Paris mojo I'd had earlier this autumn seems to have disappeared, either because I'm just off my French game or because the lingering glow of post-vacances tolerance has finally been extinguished from the natives. Suddenly my French isn't good enough for anybody, anymore, and more frustratingly I'm doing stupid things like fusing together pots and bowls used as double-boilers (admittedly a foreseeable, apparently inevitable, occurrence, in my weekly yogurt making; I've applied heat to the pot while applying ice to the bowl to break the vapor lock, but there's so much shared wall length and relatively little wall thickness that the two vessels won't act independently. It's out on the balcony now for one last-ditch effort at separation, and barring that, it'll at least make an impressive impression in the hood of the next Frog to lay on the horn. Still, a crying shame, as I love my bowl and I'll have to spend money to replace Madame's pot...) and shrinking my favorite sweaters. So it goes.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjke_HiycEgb8v9ikaUEvbPZ9eLotHyrilM91iMKbsZk5SJGInRHlx538BJ5PP6yPlrSqtY0XY8Ej8zNpWfEpy-gNCl84ALuZzzO2o3mW8YnfLRuXeHyzCJ7laFOtbloXTK4-VdTxf8OAGt/s1600-h/Double+boiler.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjke_HiycEgb8v9ikaUEvbPZ9eLotHyrilM91iMKbsZk5SJGInRHlx538BJ5PP6yPlrSqtY0XY8Ej8zNpWfEpy-gNCl84ALuZzzO2o3mW8YnfLRuXeHyzCJ7laFOtbloXTK4-VdTxf8OAGt/s400/Double+boiler.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416722853601302850" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The ice-bound, vapor-locked pot-and-bowl double boiler that's soon destined for the garbage bin.</span></i><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; "><div><br /></div><div style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;">So when I had one of those baffling Paris exchanges at the market this week, it came as no surprise. I wanted duck breast, a pretty straightforward choice, given that I always buy from the same vendor, mostly because his magrets are better cleaned and plucked than many. But when I asked for one, he said he didn't have any more, despite the fact that we were both looking at several there in his case. Was this another "</span><a href="http://2yanksinparis.blogspot.com/2009/06/goldilocks-and-3-butchers.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;">crepine</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;">" incident, or did he just not feel like selling me anything this week? Turns out that I'd asked for </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;">magret</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"> de canard, and he only had </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;">filet</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"> de canard. They're both duck breast, so what's the difference? The magret de canard is the breast from a fatted (ie, for foie gras) duck, whereas the filet de canard is the breast from a non-fatted duck. Learn something new every week</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">.</span></div></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">Anyway, it's been birthday season here in the 16e, and usually we go out for a somewhat extravagant meal to celebrate them. But after all of the excesses of the last month, and with traveling yet to come, we decided to stay low key this year. But that doesn't mean there there can't be some playing with food. I particularly like getting to work with the same ingredients a few days in a row, to learn from mistakes, or at least try variations on a theme. Here's the highlights.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><a name='more'></a><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJDQNOAa3BY-xai8YmBalXYL48mRake_hj6ZKFZlxSaajwS6TkVwKhMMq-ZTgjn6WJ7BIYUWYJuJhGbwiSbojE0QcC3Mmya2UGpOVJy7yJT4q6Q6LsXj0GWTSjx5vPGflCYQkTs2W7HCfB/s1600-h/App.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 287px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJDQNOAa3BY-xai8YmBalXYL48mRake_hj6ZKFZlxSaajwS6TkVwKhMMq-ZTgjn6WJ7BIYUWYJuJhGbwiSbojE0QcC3Mmya2UGpOVJy7yJT4q6Q6LsXj0GWTSjx5vPGflCYQkTs2W7HCfB/s400/App.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416705296800275634" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Karen's birthday dinner: parsnip gnocchi with walnut sauce. I'm certain I've commented previously on the fact that parsnips and walnuts, like chestnuts and celery root, are made for each other. Karen laughed at me when I made the parsnip gnocchi a few weeks ago. Happy birthday, Funny Girl.</span></i><div><br /><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT3nCYwMQlA7fce0NQLINWBhySoTzIzk-mA2u0M2Zgtch-qtk90gdscF-wT50cjIqKT4pFJKUiiwwjSGYl-pwUd9pPkU2nFeMFvkjN6Ui3WE9ajLsqAoXHHHP2XA-zcRHLTc9AbPHkCeas/s1600-h/Main.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 305px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT3nCYwMQlA7fce0NQLINWBhySoTzIzk-mA2u0M2Zgtch-qtk90gdscF-wT50cjIqKT4pFJKUiiwwjSGYl-pwUd9pPkU2nFeMFvkjN6Ui3WE9ajLsqAoXHHHP2XA-zcRHLTc9AbPHkCeas/s400/Main.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416705289624212338" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Sometimes it sucks to have a birthday so close to the holidays. In this case, K had to suffer though the indignity of the uncooked portion of venison filet I bought for Thanksgiving, paired with her favorite sides of braised belgian endive (maybe the simplest and most delicious preparation ever: brown endive in butter, put lid on and turn down heat for ~45 min) and potatoes anna.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxYwoFWuxEK5IodJtDXimKt_zWj_c7DqTx6fJeR8JQ_WkEFsoXYjrNJKlBeAIPahc1FKYGxH-qy-xjLKPxkfrqIkSTpoZhY0xRsW0ykFtM03nQd5JwoauUk-WVN0l5wUYWkAb78McvOmSn/s1600-h/opera.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxYwoFWuxEK5IodJtDXimKt_zWj_c7DqTx6fJeR8JQ_WkEFsoXYjrNJKlBeAIPahc1FKYGxH-qy-xjLKPxkfrqIkSTpoZhY0xRsW0ykFtM03nQd5JwoauUk-WVN0l5wUYWkAb78McvOmSn/s400/opera.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416707573907393586" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 290px; " /></a></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The opera cake (dark chocolate, coffee, and almond-- how can anybody resist) from Gantier that she didn't get at Thanksgiving. Everything else was just foreplay. I'm OK with that. It's <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">that </span>good...</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2RwQfE_d32NOH-bIXuqxroBC-I_t6qtRzwZELCykP8mBJnKM58zRN9dKDhZdTnnZn_pukPhaZvTIFCGP6pg0m_Uji2TbizWsH1fh1l9TmgMo7cN_wGhHNTr50a4Ykn9_S7MpR-kx0PyLs/s1600-h/Venus.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 269px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2RwQfE_d32NOH-bIXuqxroBC-I_t6qtRzwZELCykP8mBJnKM58zRN9dKDhZdTnnZn_pukPhaZvTIFCGP6pg0m_Uji2TbizWsH1fh1l9TmgMo7cN_wGhHNTr50a4Ykn9_S7MpR-kx0PyLs/s400/Venus.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416705286557239730" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Funny Girl has a thing for Italian wines, especially from the Montalcino/Montepulciano area. Despite historical fondnesses for Beaujoulais and Bordeaux, we've recently figured out that her favorite French red wines come from the southern Languedoc/Rousillon region, where the intense sun and grape varietals play up the jammy "yummy" flavors. I think I tasted this wine, the last one bought at the Salon des Vins last month, but I'm not 100% sure I managed to pry the bottle out of her hands. She's surprisingly strong for an old broad...</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5zXr48LAqm4CjUMxNlDgsArUBE3R_LHtcE4qYXF6opmYCIBRd_t2-V0GJvwGZOIzKLlG1S1pLeqPx3htS5x8v1E6GqfQT7Vb2NHIHSy2v0kbEOkJ6lEqGO7q1O38CAxQya_scjqniOILD/s1600-h/Mushrooms.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 308px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5zXr48LAqm4CjUMxNlDgsArUBE3R_LHtcE4qYXF6opmYCIBRd_t2-V0GJvwGZOIzKLlG1S1pLeqPx3htS5x8v1E6GqfQT7Vb2NHIHSy2v0kbEOkJ6lEqGO7q1O38CAxQya_scjqniOILD/s400/Mushrooms.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416705287178554018" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">There have been lots of mushrooms available through the year here. Morels, girolles, cepes/porcinis. But right now it's black trumpet season, or as I first learned, black trumpets of death. Kind of like huitlacoche (the black fungus that grows on corn and used in Mexican cooking), they're black, dark, intensely earthy. And compared to their more glamorous cousins, cheap. So I bought 250 g and made a black ragu with creamy polenta. Man, I love winter.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8K1k8jal6Q3bHR2rHqvGRUE1tFYgDdaUiikgJg_Zk2JqiKpRsPG2uFt35VskSlL4h6sP-9Imx8pFFJtbcdT8sD1shpF1TBG4fshckmFXJsWMBGsP-K769-vVBhSbRXp4Fh8fyKFpoXEx7/s1600-h/Salad.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 279px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8K1k8jal6Q3bHR2rHqvGRUE1tFYgDdaUiikgJg_Zk2JqiKpRsPG2uFt35VskSlL4h6sP-9Imx8pFFJtbcdT8sD1shpF1TBG4fshckmFXJsWMBGsP-K769-vVBhSbRXp4Fh8fyKFpoXEx7/s400/Salad.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416705280060510450" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">For my birthday, a simple frisee salad with bacon (well, pancetta from Mucci). Love the bacon.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirU_NoTLGq-BwH7Yp3ewsU8QDipExT9ScD1uxIHoHe-ePNEHmVW6QN-x4tgKUh14rcn8ZsXe4A5A-yvmIMPlIPvQVgLBYK0ieCjXBuW5W9ntzPu0WlArm1k2A3Fk3QL_7vPQx5MXP-clI8/s1600-h/Bass.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 334px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirU_NoTLGq-BwH7Yp3ewsU8QDipExT9ScD1uxIHoHe-ePNEHmVW6QN-x4tgKUh14rcn8ZsXe4A5A-yvmIMPlIPvQVgLBYK0ieCjXBuW5W9ntzPu0WlArm1k2A3Fk3QL_7vPQx5MXP-clI8/s400/Bass.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416704240048696866" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And now that we have a good fishmonger, striped bass with sunchoke ravioli and saffron broth.</span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAh7FqGYQpWwzQGnKjMqzkQety3AFABI4hAHXhez037Lv5vErQlntPu7iTZNac3K-aGnIbA7fPoRl82ddUzlBdijfbtMJYaZObePH-XaOu4O_CqQAm7n12QwSC41C6pm-J5VtjWGjLZbW2/s1600-h/gnocchi.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 284px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAh7FqGYQpWwzQGnKjMqzkQety3AFABI4hAHXhez037Lv5vErQlntPu7iTZNac3K-aGnIbA7fPoRl82ddUzlBdijfbtMJYaZObePH-XaOu4O_CqQAm7n12QwSC41C6pm-J5VtjWGjLZbW2/s400/gnocchi.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416704229215502018" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Emptying the freezer before leaving for Spain: parsnip gnocchi with walnut broth (roasted walnuts pureed with chicken broth and strained, yet another way to make these two ingredients work together), mizuna, and crisp pancetta. Funny Girl's been busting on me about my complete lack of plating skills, so I tried to make it pretty.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2OjgafjZwdCOu_RbCRxNhBuoTtB63mjLCHx6fflWSRIZr_ls1l3tEKKRsKVhBi1FZe3oJlhpfdpHo41mszowRDHjSdYYC2TzsMnF5HAH0tSeTY6uopgNMe3PwlLFOToW3wiUIye_eMioj/s1600-h/Ravioli.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2OjgafjZwdCOu_RbCRxNhBuoTtB63mjLCHx6fflWSRIZr_ls1l3tEKKRsKVhBi1FZe3oJlhpfdpHo41mszowRDHjSdYYC2TzsMnF5HAH0tSeTY6uopgNMe3PwlLFOToW3wiUIye_eMioj/s400/Ravioli.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416704227114153122" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Sweet potato ravioli with browned butter, mizuna, and pine nuts. I never get tired of pa</span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">sta.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLSJJBgxDE6Lo5ZDGKyBmqds2599z4NrWtY6wQgvDYOEwy3d6hQs9Xd-gPvCJU5cc0PYT2z_gsvA3NSkCrREAcKAvrayZFsacRL5rTo8-yWEU_fXIvNU-NgcU0rwejWuxT3Tbi3NB7DOgU/s1600-h/filet+de+canard.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 301px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLSJJBgxDE6Lo5ZDGKyBmqds2599z4NrWtY6wQgvDYOEwy3d6hQs9Xd-gPvCJU5cc0PYT2z_gsvA3NSkCrREAcKAvrayZFsacRL5rTo8-yWEU_fXIvNU-NgcU0rwejWuxT3Tbi3NB7DOgU/s400/filet+de+canard.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416704222681505554" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00000000;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Magret, err.... , </span></i></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><b>filet </b></span>of duck with sweet-and-sour golden turnips and potatoes "boulangerie" (from the days when people brought crocks of food to the baker to put in the back of his oven). The sauce is black and nasty (in the good way) from the trumpets of death.</span></i><br /><br /><div><br /></div><div>Looking at the weather forecasts for the Mid-Atlantic, it seems the freakish December dusting of snow we got here in Paris the last couple of days will be dwarfed by copious white stuff in the next days at home. Riding the mountain bike in the snow is one of the great pleasures in life, so those of you drooling at the prospect go out and enjoy it enough for both of us this weekend!</div><div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div></div>Rolfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08655178481559856016noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8969210237915788638.post-13762410740910700262009-12-18T12:13:00.003+01:002010-01-02T21:34:17.059+01:00Beer Run: Brussels<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span></div><div><div>There are a lot of things one associates with Paris, but beer is probably not among them for most people. And for good reason. Despite the fact that there are a lot (hundreds) of breweries in France making interesting, even good, unfiltered unpasteurized beers in small batches, finding said beers in Paris is nearly impossible.</div><div><br /></div><div>Or rather, finding them <i>in a bar</i> in Paris is nearly impossible. One can always find them at <a href="http://www.caveabulles.fr/">La Cave a Bulles</a>, a beer specialty store in the shadow of the (still-crippled-by-strike) Centre Pompidou. The proprietor there, who shares both an amicable and enthusiastic personality and a fondness for tie-died t-shirts with the owner of one of my f<a href="http://www.homesweethomebrew.com/">avorite beer-related places in Philly</a>, will be happy to dispel the notion that Kronenbourg 1664 and Fischer, or the handful of barely interesting Belgian imports that are on tap everywhere in Paris, define French beer. Even so, in the 8 months we'd been in Paris, we'd developed a bit of a beer craving.</div><div><br /></div><div>And when you live in Paris and have a real beer craving, your best bet is to head for the border. If, like one of the members of my family, you think anything that isn't a generic by-the-book lager "tastes like mud," you'd best head east for Germany. If you like variety in your beer, however, or even just like mud, Belgium's a good bit more fun.</div><div><br /></div><div>We spent 5 days in Belgium in Nov indulging our interests in beer <i>and</i> mud, combining vacation, cyclocross Superprestige spectating, and (for Karen) work.</div><div><br /></div></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZGDr592oqYq1mnONa4ZzkFLiX_JNJ_fDdHr6wb6G5poHFNmX-NycK1jNW5GKz3iKyfFIT7fZcOxI3Wx99dA01CCbZRLHY7DHl1kXCY0DIhFmvcCTF4cGWZjB8e627iZrEqkA4oOL_f3mr/s1600-h/00--Moules.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZGDr592oqYq1mnONa4ZzkFLiX_JNJ_fDdHr6wb6G5poHFNmX-NycK1jNW5GKz3iKyfFIT7fZcOxI3Wx99dA01CCbZRLHY7DHl1kXCY0DIhFmvcCTF4cGWZjB8e627iZrEqkA4oOL_f3mr/s400/00--Moules.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416516694448921186" /></a><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">First things first: After getting off the train, we dropped our bags at the hotel and made a bee-line for Le Pré Salé, where Karen had the most amazing mussels of her life. They were so good, I rolled the dice and had not 1 but 2. Even if I'd wound up in the ER, it would have been worth it. The Duvel was a nice first beer, too.</span></i></div><div><br /><a name='more'></a><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-a3EebTk9o2oE4l5juW1cbv230fvYylDy535KBove2nKZ60a-4IEvr5Tr9iRLnZTmjL_dY9hifKtYsgBk4CPICgNNdnNkeiBL5pQfRn70wXpBN62RwMbJFKfiDrQ-PVZMPMOjSvQ02pvp/s1600-h/00--Congo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-a3EebTk9o2oE4l5juW1cbv230fvYylDy535KBove2nKZ60a-4IEvr5Tr9iRLnZTmjL_dY9hifKtYsgBk4CPICgNNdnNkeiBL5pQfRn70wXpBN62RwMbJFKfiDrQ-PVZMPMOjSvQ02pvp/s400/00--Congo.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416513455145765010" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We were in the Congo room at the <a href="http://www.brusselshotel.travel/">hotel</a>, where every room had a different theme. Thank heavens there was no Galveston room.</span></i><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBEaWEnBM_VUmH6gziklaezwfEEDcwvxVQImCUqirScxN2yz9gmXVO67wdmbb_3lnnIwvXd9Vlr68w2XS46TCmojWZYhaCzU_L4h7vdBfmTBRMTX62HrfKm3BS6Sn0nf-_ITP5jaYRgjML/s1600-h/01--+Mud.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 356px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBEaWEnBM_VUmH6gziklaezwfEEDcwvxVQImCUqirScxN2yz9gmXVO67wdmbb_3lnnIwvXd9Vlr68w2XS46TCmojWZYhaCzU_L4h7vdBfmTBRMTX62HrfKm3BS6Sn0nf-_ITP5jaYRgjML/s400/01--+Mud.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416512713180180754" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The mud part of the trip: the women's race at Cyclocross Gavere</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">.<i> Even the Belgian champion was having a rough go of it, with terrible chain suck on this last lap.</i></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEswnIDdaMXiAuHnQKeiRc0KZOUal2vBPIb-G6bsBmDtUl6AXG4e0JKYO1A6LDPWAObtYifPL_WLkaUwws2G41RerSc9TdoiNuJOzixpOqqhSs7rAqUZSQb3i3rFpchjPVZRu4yAxF4icQ/s1600-h/02--Mens+race.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEswnIDdaMXiAuHnQKeiRc0KZOUal2vBPIb-G6bsBmDtUl6AXG4e0JKYO1A6LDPWAObtYifPL_WLkaUwws2G41RerSc9TdoiNuJOzixpOqqhSs7rAqUZSQb3i3rFpchjPVZRu4yAxF4icQ/s400/02--Mens+race.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416512705631542338" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And the men's race a little later, when the 15,000-strong crowds made for SRO spectating</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFV3hlHEl15fdSKECVtmz3-oDHSSgazIFlvd6bL_DbMj8ut0bKgb6cuLFPKsNIY4g9q9a7P7USqNFb2N4_D2xu0ctp8mj4UDQ5Jf-6AseEXhF8geoCcWDwX3KfqjfnWtJOY90Pugeb7Ekw/s1600-h/03--Bike+parking.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFV3hlHEl15fdSKECVtmz3-oDHSSgazIFlvd6bL_DbMj8ut0bKgb6cuLFPKsNIY4g9q9a7P7USqNFb2N4_D2xu0ctp8mj4UDQ5Jf-6AseEXhF8geoCcWDwX3KfqjfnWtJOY90Pugeb7Ekw/s400/03--Bike+parking.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416512702732571922" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Sunday afternoon at the Gent train station, and this is one of 2 bike parking lots. </span></i> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6rGnxSmCEnyjf_VXeXEDgJJHc7o4LaG0ClrQZaxhcfEaEBDHyhx0WyA3B7HUxCIWeGS1BvT2cf_0d3cEB2GoJMmJRe1zQR6xpgwI_TXcPpAu5fcEN4lMyGXR6e6Q01yWNrW6-l_XEjaXz/s1600-h/04--Gent+station.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6rGnxSmCEnyjf_VXeXEDgJJHc7o4LaG0ClrQZaxhcfEaEBDHyhx0WyA3B7HUxCIWeGS1BvT2cf_0d3cEB2GoJMmJRe1zQR6xpgwI_TXcPpAu5fcEN4lMyGXR6e6Q01yWNrW6-l_XEjaXz/s400/04--Gent+station.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416512486878427026" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The inside of the Gent train station, where we had a Westmalle Tripel while waiting for our (ultimately cancelled) train back to Brussel</span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">s</span></i>.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Based on the beer offerings in the better beer bars and restaurants in Brussels, it's hard to believe that there are more breweries in France than Belgium. Though Belgium has somewhere south of 150 breweries, they produce an astonishing number of beers: roughly 700-800 regular production beers and well over 5000 when special occasion (holidays, etc) beers are included. Like France and the US, a lot of the beer drunk in Belgium is rather uninteresting lager-- it's certainly what's on tap at the bike races: Primus, Jupiler, Maes. But the variety of other offerings includes wheat beers, blondes, ambers, browns, dubbels, tripels, and christmas beers, all with different flavorings and yeasts to produce an astonishing range of tastes, and also lambics and their cousins, still spontaneously brewed (ie, yeast is wild and from the air, not a laboratory-cultured specimen, and so unpredictable and ever-changing). We worked our way through the whole range, and although I felt beery enough when we got back to Paris to worry I may have tried all 5000, we surely fell well short of 1%. Karen, a committed hop-head, loved the beers from <a href="http://www.deranke.be/">De Ranke</a>, whose XX Bitter and Guldenberg scratched her hop itch. Their Noir de Dottignies was an exceptional black beer, as well. My favorite brew was the 100% 3-year-old <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lambic">lambic</a> on down-draught (increasingly rare even in Brussels, a center of the traditional lambic brewing region) as an aperitif before lunch one day. Somewhere between cider, wine, and beer, sour and wild and smooth all at the same time. Sampling such a wide range of styles was most of the fun.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBfwgvjOE-tULQrHzmBqfAozyF2cOGsnlqWjNlhv37_leZ-avmy5vtD6kgN1syAp0oeikUuFM9wTyvyuDac9tEQVrMYjVc4jaqLYIQMcMzMLdXHXrmXyQse0akT575qIVEBsRiqMo6iDUf/s1600-h/07--Cantillon+gueze.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBfwgvjOE-tULQrHzmBqfAozyF2cOGsnlqWjNlhv37_leZ-avmy5vtD6kgN1syAp0oeikUuFM9wTyvyuDac9tEQVrMYjVc4jaqLYIQMcMzMLdXHXrmXyQse0akT575qIVEBsRiqMo6iDUf/s400/07--Cantillon+gueze.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416512474376724226" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A bottled lambic from Cantillon (whose brewery is in Brussels) at Poechenellekelder. The exceptional draft lambic was a couple of days later at </span><a href="http://www.bier-circus.be/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Bier Circus</span></a>.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGN6g9dCySLJILD6U174XiGBqU3Y8thRCpNkfv7fPm3mIss-pg7UuSnSz_T31amrgXkvo-dj9GuI7biQVGFa-A3GPRXZK-dhz2A8roOwBUjk5EbAvyr1GCdbXmwedoI_jWsuhDwNl0s7RS/s1600-h/08--+Christmas+beers.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGN6g9dCySLJILD6U174XiGBqU3Y8thRCpNkfv7fPm3mIss-pg7UuSnSz_T31amrgXkvo-dj9GuI7biQVGFa-A3GPRXZK-dhz2A8roOwBUjk5EbAvyr1GCdbXmwedoI_jWsuhDwNl0s7RS/s400/08--+Christmas+beers.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416512466726764930" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Still at Poechenellekelder, 2 Christmas beers: Kerst Pater and St Feuillien. We also spent an evening at </span></i><a href="http://www.laportenoire.be/"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Porte Noire</span></i></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">, which was great but too dark for pictures.</span></i></div><div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></span></span></div></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqFz7dNT8QRKihroy-NPQf0JRHa4RClkcOP4eI8nqbngIMInHwUCcsP2MML4DvjCh-zmtw3oG8Xhw_xvvtzIOo3vDSOyn2N-jd1TtCz-Kh2m3kgyJszkszVR3Oo1syKPTVy6-j8Roe_SPu/s1600-h/09--Lunch+tally.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 262px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqFz7dNT8QRKihroy-NPQf0JRHa4RClkcOP4eI8nqbngIMInHwUCcsP2MML4DvjCh-zmtw3oG8Xhw_xvvtzIOo3vDSOyn2N-jd1TtCz-Kh2m3kgyJszkszVR3Oo1syKPTVy6-j8Roe_SPu/s400/09--Lunch+tally.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416512134344676994" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Typical meal in Belgium, this one a leisurely lunch at </span></i><a href="http://www.spinnekopke.be/"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In 't Spinnokopke</span></i></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">: 2 orders of food and 6 beers.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgP82F0Lq-TrGjS0RKOYDHykPRBntziYDrwbG8NtgnVa0la6_pr_zJ8MVZMuMklk1PBWFylKenM_m8Aza91Z3kcvCg6-g5E0Xr3BBZyRG-7rJmh_Y8s0FU0R9T20iiKTLRx4UHDClYluBO/s1600-h/10--Night+street+scene.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgP82F0Lq-TrGjS0RKOYDHykPRBntziYDrwbG8NtgnVa0la6_pr_zJ8MVZMuMklk1PBWFylKenM_m8Aza91Z3kcvCg6-g5E0Xr3BBZyRG-7rJmh_Y8s0FU0R9T20iiKTLRx4UHDClYluBO/s400/10--Night+street+scene.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416512130634379698" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Ste Catherine's square at night, home of a then-under-construction Christmas market, apparently one of the largest in Europe.</span></i></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizsogaH9H9eGRKV0Zpc3qVzXuFucciZ4xI7enLHf94FTvgaCOqmLlIGKfAN7L4q7_26fHTeadHBxKUqIPWUTs9vZy6xV3t4NwaYpvB9CiamIDfXnczlrpMD7e3NUIir2rgCSP_nQ-I8lO3/s1600-h/11--La+Villette+Fl.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizsogaH9H9eGRKV0Zpc3qVzXuFucciZ4xI7enLHf94FTvgaCOqmLlIGKfAN7L4q7_26fHTeadHBxKUqIPWUTs9vZy6xV3t4NwaYpvB9CiamIDfXnczlrpMD7e3NUIir2rgCSP_nQ-I8lO3/s400/11--La+Villette+Fl.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416512123701594882" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We had a couple of dud meals at relatively fancy/modern places in Brussels. This is the menu for the best meal we ate, at <a href="http://www.la-villette.be/">La Villette</a> just off of Ste Catherine. Didn't get too far with this side...</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLUrDufHQ_GK2aUQeESW3vCFuNia0h1FtePjerjq2sVwls9EYNm0bvfI5LID9rMVbyP6b041_lehV-FZl4n4CY9tmiG509pKKwd4zg3BMYw-_0IR2y-himgDI9DRqhzhHf6i_UJLAeM9S_/s1600-h/12--La+Villette+Fr.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLUrDufHQ_GK2aUQeESW3vCFuNia0h1FtePjerjq2sVwls9EYNm0bvfI5LID9rMVbyP6b041_lehV-FZl4n4CY9tmiG509pKKwd4zg3BMYw-_0IR2y-himgDI9DRqhzhHf6i_UJLAeM9S_/s400/12--La+Villette+Fr.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416512122121409826" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">... but being an officially bi-lingual city, the other side was more familiar. The food was simple but excellent, and the atmosphere was a lot more relaxed and friendly than most places in Paris</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDxDOaZakUH8sebu7KafEZti82TsgRtdpcAFi6eimWNht7A9xs2fXViXoHGLku0WOHDyBphB4GipLrYOy06WslRtOgUYPaavHudRS6KtWsdaLqxtwBMT3BobN3O5UJIhZ1OuZ3HPjns7F5/s1600-h/13--Bugs.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDxDOaZakUH8sebu7KafEZti82TsgRtdpcAFi6eimWNht7A9xs2fXViXoHGLku0WOHDyBphB4GipLrYOy06WslRtOgUYPaavHudRS6KtWsdaLqxtwBMT3BobN3O5UJIhZ1OuZ3HPjns7F5/s400/13--Bugs.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416511799025419026" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The Musee d'Art Ancien housed amazing works by Pieter Bruegel the Elder, and even the bizarre works of Bosch were given a run for their money by this globe of beetles in the entry gallery.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Like the beer, the variety of architecture in Brussels was astonishing, especially coming from the Barron Haussmann theme park that is Paris. I've come to appreciate the consistency of style and color in Paris and the little details that make each building different, but the mixing of styles in Brussels was refreshing. Though the exuberance of the Grand Place is breathtaking, it was probably the number and variety of Art Nouveau buildings that most impressed, especially concentrated south of the main city in and around Ixelles, where Victor Horta, the Belgian architect often credited as the first to apply the developing decorative style to architecture, lived and worked. The remaining examples in the area range from exuberantly thematic designs to what appear to be later additions of art nouveau decorative elements to existing buildings. With the ponds and parks and rambling streets, it made for a great day's wanderings.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSVO9ZamdqBsMYmS6ZpO7-i9MqnpItvt1FIT_AzxPT0-Smb9Gx5Rim4zPaIBNMCtZKXc18s0FzdEwoqoJrDnAseCzcv2kSpfn_NjSIC1MCfu7ezQHU5Lldg-W-3WXGgynsio_nYWDIU76m/s1600-h/05--Guild+houses.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSVO9ZamdqBsMYmS6ZpO7-i9MqnpItvt1FIT_AzxPT0-Smb9Gx5Rim4zPaIBNMCtZKXc18s0FzdEwoqoJrDnAseCzcv2kSpfn_NjSIC1MCfu7ezQHU5Lldg-W-3WXGgynsio_nYWDIU76m/s400/05--Guild+houses.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416512478176511538" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The guild houses at Grand Place in Brussel</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">s</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">.</span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizm5qEev58AVb9s37l7vig3mgIx9MjURg6ASzWeXBr5TIHma41Sk1OqGhxZmMGzV959psvJfnb48MYbSF2pTnxxMAanQBK3kJbEq4eywalZV3QHRfwXkq9p3LUA9sYhHLO2tihNY_gQiSu/s1600-h/06--hotel+de+ville.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizm5qEev58AVb9s37l7vig3mgIx9MjURg6ASzWeXBr5TIHma41Sk1OqGhxZmMGzV959psvJfnb48MYbSF2pTnxxMAanQBK3kJbEq4eywalZV3QHRfwXkq9p3LUA9sYhHLO2tihNY_gQiSu/s400/06--hotel+de+ville.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416512476338371986" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">City Hall in Brussels, from the 1400s, the only part of Grand Place to survive pummeling by the pesky French in 1695.</span></i></div><div><br /></div></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh611HwZYORwSHwpngN_aSy5B3QajWOlklMxo6-9KCwuo8OXTIOda7O5YMAq43lI0tYCMqS4WaU94jp8REQ5CliAFooNF7BJY_QB5vG2OIQYZ5pQv2E-55oARfjLYNJDH1DvQrnZG2iqTFh/s1600-h/14--architecture.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh611HwZYORwSHwpngN_aSy5B3QajWOlklMxo6-9KCwuo8OXTIOda7O5YMAq43lI0tYCMqS4WaU94jp8REQ5CliAFooNF7BJY_QB5vG2OIQYZ5pQv2E-55oARfjLYNJDH1DvQrnZG2iqTFh/s400/14--architecture.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416511795814765554" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">One could never mistake this for Paris.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHMm8G7Ub__jOhOjlYmYDAhVoicZV_qfIHYlwuIyqjio5VNuRfnWU1RD_ploYhSlsj3F936bDDsNQms-h9zN8jpk9k9SL-M2meXuvwJPUmINiU7HLT74Y1G4Kmc-3sc5khdzIavy3r-aV2/s1600-h/15--AN+1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHMm8G7Ub__jOhOjlYmYDAhVoicZV_qfIHYlwuIyqjio5VNuRfnWU1RD_ploYhSlsj3F936bDDsNQms-h9zN8jpk9k9SL-M2meXuvwJPUmINiU7HLT74Y1G4Kmc-3sc5khdzIavy3r-aV2/s400/15--AN+1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416511791112322034" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Remarkable details in an Art Nouveau building.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEZg1rESO8vbWNFnLjkUCh9m6fLdYXhwRsKtdlx6_SKuQwayI35q4ARa7ImHrC6k74xZdZtoasKsC-8d0kPHK7iImj9VtlvbHTCwId1fZjecBC9YpjFOYGJ5zxSgaLA-AA8mH-dPXdOs94/s1600-h/16--AN4.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEZg1rESO8vbWNFnLjkUCh9m6fLdYXhwRsKtdlx6_SKuQwayI35q4ARa7ImHrC6k74xZdZtoasKsC-8d0kPHK7iImj9VtlvbHTCwId1fZjecBC9YpjFOYGJ5zxSgaLA-AA8mH-dPXdOs94/s400/16--AN4.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416511784704035346" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The mail slot in Horta's office/home.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisaRAsIKpZA3QuJEOpQkX_-VEHy6UAdNrJC-tWrjVB2plG0Pik_hnqvsI8HtpFwTo3zgA2dmrvtv7zWmFZmqxF_AX6_17RfOfcfVx9XMP3qmBodNz3NlFbvMag40z0N8wu3zTKVf87yzHG/s1600-h/17--AN7.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisaRAsIKpZA3QuJEOpQkX_-VEHy6UAdNrJC-tWrjVB2plG0Pik_hnqvsI8HtpFwTo3zgA2dmrvtv7zWmFZmqxF_AX6_17RfOfcfVx9XMP3qmBodNz3NlFbvMag40z0N8wu3zTKVf87yzHG/s400/17--AN7.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416511783209696306" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Some buildings were as much canvas as building.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; "><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2k21ypMmMl5FD97zGkuK6ZGAL2iqQNzl-HmQ4z-LvDIZOx0dcw-I6WvBCxh7R-hjEqq1iMAjCGjeAkHqOoTXUjTus55wjidhn-fpYUBXCB-jje8Qb3R9Evgf4z9HkDsZdibv7MPP82OwI/s1600-h/AN9.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2k21ypMmMl5FD97zGkuK6ZGAL2iqQNzl-HmQ4z-LvDIZOx0dcw-I6WvBCxh7R-hjEqq1iMAjCGjeAkHqOoTXUjTus55wjidhn-fpYUBXCB-jje8Qb3R9Evgf4z9HkDsZdibv7MPP82OwI/s400/AN9.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416527453689416866" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a></span></span></span></div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Loved the doors and windows in general, and especially the metal work.</span></i></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd3G553P7UxVna9OMxHZfabju4IM6JW_l4hfRiakmlnzrv0cRIe94ehAGFjC0cgubWvY3kvdiKsqLkbt58TIh8bbkza4XUXTNX0796TCgJ6Rhgy71OtlG0DDIKp9NzfERyXTDHlXdFyXqf/s1600-h/20--AN15.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd3G553P7UxVna9OMxHZfabju4IM6JW_l4hfRiakmlnzrv0cRIe94ehAGFjC0cgubWvY3kvdiKsqLkbt58TIh8bbkza4XUXTNX0796TCgJ6Rhgy71OtlG0DDIKp9NzfERyXTDHlXdFyXqf/s400/20--AN15.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416511523008221122" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Blending of Art Nouveau and the more traditional Flemish style.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNe94YP1NWHwSJFIAeQad3QdtHrLhnp2asoLubXy09dlgs6W__Rm6T14wGpEmrqmVpEgMt3sv1GFjsuEAuLXRG0aZE6YUgmUOFXq48x5IoIUihjg-79MTDqzuSYMQL9LQ7HsQ9gSohPyb5/s1600-h/21--AN17.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNe94YP1NWHwSJFIAeQad3QdtHrLhnp2asoLubXy09dlgs6W__Rm6T14wGpEmrqmVpEgMt3sv1GFjsuEAuLXRG0aZE6YUgmUOFXq48x5IoIUihjg-79MTDqzuSYMQL9LQ7HsQ9gSohPyb5/s400/21--AN17.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416511515512844258" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Big apartment building with restrained Nouveau elements, including a very stylized carved signature of the architect at street level.</span></i></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj9zcpZlK9Qj5sEPuGf8kymsifsW-mwsMuG5yF8Sp4q2gjPbfq87Lkzhn5tEteoOgg1l_LSLbK6-Db72cVSz6lu_4UPXFUbe3zEXBXpdoWnQotLm32UUy34WioelsgyXrXqRHfLZjV9sIh/s1600-h/22--AN18.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj9zcpZlK9Qj5sEPuGf8kymsifsW-mwsMuG5yF8Sp4q2gjPbfq87Lkzhn5tEteoOgg1l_LSLbK6-Db72cVSz6lu_4UPXFUbe3zEXBXpdoWnQotLm32UUy34WioelsgyXrXqRHfLZjV9sIh/s400/22--AN18.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416511505650621042" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Hotel Solvay, designed by Horta but no longer a hotel, available for interior tours by appointment.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>In short, no we'll have no problems with going back to Belgium. Cyclocross, beer, and site-seeing make a pretty good package.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Rolfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08655178481559856016noreply@blogger.com0