Since I decided to take a summer break from the French classes, I was very happily busy this week visiting some really interesting museums. Three of the most beautiful were located in mansions that were built or bought by the aristocracy during the 1800’s to house their magnificent art collections of mostly 17th and 18th century art. Once again, so much of Paris is about the pendulum swing between the aristocratic class of kings, noblemen and financiers that amassed such great wealth that money was no object and created the most beautiful and stupendous architecture, both hard and landscaped; then the pendulum swung back during the revolutions of the masses, and suddenly it all belonged to everyone.

The particular mansions and collections that I visited --- the Jacquesmart-Andre, the Marmottan (with the largest collection of Monet in the world --- that I could have stared at all day) and the Nissim de Camondo were all bequeathed to the Union Centrale des Arts Decoratifs(Central Union of Decorative Arts). What a beautiful experience --- to actually get to walk through the “house” practically exactly as it looked --- with all of the furniture, artwork and gardens intact.

Yet with all the beauty, there was a sadness at the Nissim de Camondo museum. It was the story of a wealthy Jewish family, originally from Constantinople, that came and created an unbelievably opulent life in Paris on the Park Monceau as the first generation; the third generation’s head of the family was Moise (Moses) who built out the mansion and collected the art. After his short lived marriage to Irene, who left him for an Italian Count (the drama of the royal romantic entanglements here in French history really put People magazine to shame ---it’s not surprising with their history, that the French think it absolutely ludicrous that what went on between Clinton and Monica Lewinsky is a reason to impeach a President,Moise was left to raise his two children Nissim and Beatrice. As a young twenty something Nissim died in combat during WWI; Beatrice who married and had two children moved from the mansion, where Moise then lived a very grief-stricken lonely life until he died in 1935.

In 1944, during the German occupation, Beatrice and her family were deported by the more than willing French police to Drancy, with a reputation as one of the worst internment sites, and later died in Auschwitz. How sad it is that the family only enjoyed the mansion for barely three generations, and then they were all gone.

By a really weird coincidence, on the way to the Marmottan museum, I was reading a book on the subway about the history of Paris. I was on the chapter about the Jewish deportations when I read that the first stop for them was a city outside of Paris, named the Cite de la Muette (the Quiet City). It was a complex that was half built before the German occupation, meant to be a model Parisian suburb. Instead, for several months it became an internment site with over 7000 people living there, in a space meant for 700. In any case, I realized at that moment that La Muette was the subway stop to get off for the museum. As I walked out of the subway and through a gorgeous park, a chill ran up my spine. I flashed on a train station in Prague that Maury and I had visited some years ago, and the guide, very innocently saying, that as a child he had watched from a platform above, the trains filled with Jews being deported to the camps. Oh my God, I thought, chances are they used this subway for transporting the Jews as well. As I dug deeper, it turns out that the place that the Jews were taken to, eventually leading to 25% of French Jewry being killed, was not the La Muette subway station, but the complex by the same name. In any case, it was real reality check on just how tenuous one’s life and one’s possessions can be. In the most beautiful of places, where one feels as safe as can be, the most horrible things can happen.

For some reason the past week, other subway experiences jumped out at me as well. The homeless, who can be found on subway benches sleeping facing the wall with their back turned to the platform, are virtually ignored. There are also gypsy women who are dressed all in black shrouds, who literally prostrate themselves face down on the pavement for hours with a little Dixie size cup in front of them (when I first saw them, I thought it was a pile of black drop clothes) that people glance at and walk by -- I’ve never seen one cent in the cups; the wandering musicians that step into the subway car schleping their amplifier and microphone and give a heart filled howl of a song, and when finished, walking up and down the car with an open hand are met with stone filled, silent expressions; and the musicians that are really good, like the seven piece band & vocalists that are belting out Russian songs (one of which was part of the hora music mix at my son Max’s wedding) in the subway tunnel leading from one station to another, don’t even get the time of day from anyone. Talk about no guilt about not taking “care” of the street people. I guess that’s how the Paris populous is “taught” had to deal with them --- just completely ignore them and pretend that they’re not there.

Also, having heard for the 100th time about pickpockets on the subway, especially teenage kids under the age of 14, that for some reason, it is nearly impossible to prosecute here, all teenager are now suspect. I’m holding onto my purse across my chest for dear life!

We also went to a couple of French movies this week, in a beautiful theater called La Pagode (the Pagoda). It was a great way to practice our French sitting in a theater that is part of a rather huge Pagoda that dates back to the 19th century when it was bought, deconstructed and brought back to France by Monsieur Morin, a director of Bon Marche ( a beautiful department store here), as a gift to his wife. Now that is what I consider a great gift to show ones love and affection! And I’m sure it won’t surprise you that there was no snack bar at the theater, so nobody eating or drinking inside, except for Maury and I with our few dry roasted Trader Joe almonds --- non, non, non (as opposed to oui, oui, oui) as they say here in France, people had their expressos or little glass of mineral water before the film, in the beautiful attached garden to the theater.

I have also had a lot of fun this week doing my own investigation of French cheeses, which number here anywhere from 250-500, depending on who you ask! French cheese production is classified under four categories, fermier (single farmhouse cheese), artisanal (cheese produced in small quantities combining milk from local farms), cooperative (local milk producers joining together to produce big quantities of cheese) and Industriel (using milk from all over France making cheese factory style. Once processed, they are fresh (not aged), soft with a natural rind, soft with a washed rind, pressed, pressed and cooked, goat, blue and processed (blended). You get the idea, it’s terrifically complicated.

Fifty six cheeses are classified, protected, and regulated under French law.

So with my checklist of 56 in hand, telling me what region it came from, what type (cow, goat or sheep) --- sometimes, of course from only a specific type of cow, goat or sheep) I went to a nearby "fromagerie" to see how many I could identify. Thank goodness it was really crowded so no one really noticed me lurking around staring intently at this beatifically displayed case. It didn’t me long to realize the chunks of Monterey Jack, Chedder and Swiss that we have eaten such copious amounts of, probably don’t even qualify for last on the list of the Industrial category!

I was never much of a cheese eater, but I certainly am now as Maury and I sample through cheese from the different regions of France. And I certainly have a better appreciation of the cheese plate at the end of a fine meal here, which is a course all on its own, complete with the pairing of the best wine and bread to bring out the taste of all three.

Stay tuned! Chocolate is next on my list of delicious ways to spend the afternoon in Paris!

After a two week break to be with friends and family in Agoura Hills, NYC and Philadelphia, we came happily back to ave Marceau and the quiet beauty of Paris in August. “They” weren’t kidding when they said that “everyone” goes on vacation during July and August. In this respect France lives up to its reputation. Though there are a lot of people about the major tourist hotspots, by and large we have noticed a drop in about half the people on the streets and the Metro, and many of the restaurants and stores are closed.

As I alluded to before in past blogs, it’s really interesting to be in a place where leisure/vacation time is an integral, accepted and expected part of ones time, especially during the summer. As Cesar (our house agent) told us yesterday, “blue collar take off in July, white collar in August,” --- he was packed and ready to go on vacation today for two weeks with his family. So far the weather has been absolutely lovely, without the expected heat wave, that is also famous in Paris in August.

An aha moment that we realized this week was that here in France, is that we get literally no junk mail. We assume that the cost of mailing catalogs and other advertisements is prohibitive, as well as “it’s simply not done,” but in the 10 weeks since we arrived, we have received exactly four pieces of mail. Two were from the bank with our individual pin numbers for our debit cards; one was from the immigration office with paperwork and an appointment date for an interview and one was an insurance policy that Maury arranged while here. Aside from a few FedEx deliveries with some stuff I shipped from the U.S., our “personal mail” is now all electronic. It’s strange to find an empty mail box day after day. Maury commented that the one day we can remember that happened in Agoura, we were sure that something was wrong at the post office!

Another similar system that is in place, are with very high gas prices and highway tolls that keep cars small and extremely gas efficient and highways beautifully maintained. It’s all about economics, I guess, and having a homogenous and obedient populous that accepts it!

Maury is continuing with his French classes and is deep into it, with the seriousness and intensity definitely ratcheted up this month. I’ve decided to take a break and concentrate on get to know Paris with a deeper study of its culture and history (i.e. spending a lot of time in museums and cultural events) and concentrate on my writing.

I have thought for some time about the intersections of Judaism, Israel and environmentalism and am attempting to put some thoughts down on paper. It seems a little disconnected to be in Paris doing it, when my usual haunts are my foundation projects on the west coast, east coast and Israel which I define as my true “center” --- but of course, I’m not complaining! Paris has been a spot of great inspiration for so many, and I can certainly feel it as well.

Part of my inspiration to do so, came from a book I recently completed, “Writers in Paris: Literary Lives in the City of Light.” Particularly the 100 years from around 1840-1940, it’s clear that the space and place of Paris became a moment in time almost unequalled in literary output that had such huge ramifications on not just the style of literature --- whole movements such as Dada and Surrealism, for example --- but the wild and wooly behavior that accompanied it was absolutely without borders ---they fought for each other on obscenity charges, they slept with anybody and everybody, they critiqued each other’s work with impunity. They did it all with complete abandon, melting into each other endlessly in cafes, restaurants, theaters and artist’s and music studios and political rallies in and around the core of Paris. Perhaps this is why so many of their stories use as context, not just the streets of Paris, but the specific buildings, because this is literally where their inspiration came from, feeling at the core of something extraordinary. They accepted each other in all of one another’s craziness, bound together in their own world defining a new type of freedom of expression. Time and time again the book described how such famous authors (in no particular order) such as Emile Zola, Marcel Proust, James Joyce, Gertrude Stein, Ernest Hemingway, James Faulkner , Samuel Beckett, Henry Miller, Simone de Beauvoir , Jean Paul Sartre and dozens and dozens more felt magnetized to come to Paris ( a la Close Encounters of the Third Kind) as young, and more often than not penniless, feeling that they had a story to write. Their impact is still felt today, as many of their homes and apartments are now museums, which I look forward to exploring.

Sadly, World War II and the German occupation, like so much else, put an end to this era, especially for the American writers of the 1920’s-30’s that found their voices here as writers.

Another recent inspiration was a book I read by Henry James (another writer that came to Paris for inspiration as a young man), “A Little Tour in France.” It was originally published in 1884, about a six week tour James made in the south of France. It was absolutely a delightful book, where his descriptions of where he’d been and what he’d seen (mostly antiquities and castles) were so descriptive, and yet so moving at the same time. This to me, is travel writing at its best.
In a detailed description of the Pont du Gard as an example of the Roman proclivity to “overshoot the mark, and I suppose a race which could do nothing small is as defective as a race that can do nothing great,” he concludes with this sentence:

“When the vague twilight began to gather, the lonely valley seemed to fill itself with the shadow of the Roman name, as if the mighty empire were still as erect as the supports of the aqueduct; and it was open to the solitary tourist [James] sitting there sentimental, to believe that no people has ever been, or will ever be, as great as that, measured, as we measure the greatness of an individual, by the push they gave to what they undertook.”

Bastille Day was really something last Wednesday! The day began early for me. I love the morning light and quiet in Paris --- so I had gotten up early and thought to get up and read for awhile as the day began. A short while later I heard some noises and voices on the street. I stepped out onto our terrace to find the whole length of street had become the staging area for the most amazing variety of army tanks, representative of the French Army motorized troops.

Since World War I the parade has been held on the Champs-Élysées, the first occasion being the défilé de la Victoire (“Victory parade”) led by Marshals Joseph Joffre, Ferdinand Foch and Philippe Pétain on 14 July 1919. Maury and I spent a few hours roaming around where many of the troops were milling around and staging in full dress uniform, including 140 horses all dolled up, ready to lead the parade! Marching down that grand boulevard, with the magnificent Haussmann buildings on either side, it truly has to be one of the most beautiful settings for a parade in the world.

As we sat in a café with tourists having coffee and croissants, the whole scene unfolded. The nervous and excited military personnel --- this probably constitutes the largest military parade in the world, with every mounted, dismounted and motorized troops represented, including schools and academies. The crowds of thousands streaming by to get a view further up on the Champs Elysees --- the French show up to the parade 45 minutes before the parade walking as if they are taking a stroll in the park with no extra equipment --- I didn’t see a single folding chair, igloo filled with food, umbrella, blanket or any of the accouterments you see at the Rose Parade, much less blurry eyed people who had spent the night on the curb saving their spot; nobody stops for overpriced coffee and croissants as we did --- they already had breakfast at home and will probably go there for lunch after the parade; it was quiet, it was orderly; and the only document, I mean the only document that was being handed out by these lovely volunteers with a welcoming “bonjour” was a two page program listing the order of the parade participants. I didn’t see a single street vendor, a single flyer or a single advertisement. Ah, I said to myself, another example of it is “simply not done” in France.

Deciding to avoid the crowds we walked back to our apartment to watch the parade on T.V. and I’m glad we did. About 15 minutes into it, the sky opened up and there was an unexpected downpour. A friend who was there told me that there was absolutely nothing to do but stand there and get drenched. So they did. Meanwhile at Ave Marceau we were having a ball, especially when I realized it was directly in the flight path of all of the military aircraft in the parade. So I got an up close and personal view standing on my terrace. The parade ended with a helicopter fly past and the airdrop of 8 paratroopers, also, what felt like right outside my window. I must say, even for a peacenik like me, it was really impressive.

Later that evening, we went to a small and intimate jazz venue to listen to a Caribbean vocalist from Boston named Lyambiko. It was a great way to end the day with a drink and beautiful soul filled music. For all of the crowds, at this the biggest community gathering in Paris, we only really felt “crowded” on our way home from Jazz, at 12 midnight, when there was traffic after the finish of the fireworks. And the next morning, there were as many people on the Metro as usual, going to work.

A word about the food in Paris and the French who are "all" thin. Well first of all, they're not. Parisians come in all shapes and sizes. However, there is a certain percentage of the populous that does look the picture of French elegance that we equate with Paris. They’re thin, they’re natural, they’re sophisticated and clearly take a lot of pride in looking like that and spend a lot of time grooming that look. Lotions and potions to stay looking young is a huge industry there, as are spas.

The food is just one piece of the picture, but obviously a huge one. So while they are obsessively checking the scale to make sure it never deviates, they simply don’t have the same anxieties and issues around food that Americans do. Something I have learned, even the short time that I have been here, is that there is a world that exists out side of America that doesn’t have food issues because it simply is not a part of the culture. They eat everything, but in small portions, having never been exposed to the super size world of fast food and Costco; there is a cultural discipline about what they eat when --- coffee and croissant for breakfast; small salad or sandwich for lunch; appetizer, main plate and cheese or dessert for dinner with maybe one small roll and one glass of light wine. Most restaurants are only open from 12-2 for lunch and 8-10 for dinner, which is generally when everybody eats. And when you’re done, you’re DONE. The overall sense is that, except for little cups of espresso, they don’t snack in between meals.

I don’t think the word “binging” exists here, much less “dieting.” In fact, from what I can see, the whole weight loss industry (from weight loss programs to self help books, from health food supplements to exercise equipment informationals and every thing in-between) is practically non-existent here. One never feels judged, but I think the typical French person is truly stupefied by the obesity epidemic in America.

You seldom see anyone eating or drinking coffee or other beverages on the street; there are few to none sidewalk vendors or junk food; in the market and bakeries everything is portioned and packaged very small. For exercise they walk all day, and while they walk, they talk, they shop, they stop to chat with friends; and they take the Metro, which on an average day is going up and down several flights of stairs. They think of the gym, jogging and other extreme exercise as a form of torture, and besides, how do you stay looking well groomed all day if you need to spend hours at the gym sweating? And why would one need a personal trainer to motivate you to tell you to look good? You just do because why would anyone want to look bad?

I must say for me, it’s been a great blessing to experience this different perspective. It takes me back to a childhood in Los Angeles, where in my family we had the same cultural and social values around moderation in food that the French do. I can’t remember a single adult or kid for that matter, who was overweight, except for my “zaftig” Grandma Sophie, who by today’s standards would be considered average. Nobody went to the gym, they walked, or they went to Rancho Park, our local community park to play tennis and golf, while the kids kicked a ball around. Or they took a long walk on the beach or a hike in the mountains. Or they went for a sail and had a cocktail on board afterward.

It really makes you stop to think how so much access to so much excess over the last 30 years can have a very detrimental effect physically and emotionally on a society and culture. And how much time is spent judging ourselves, each other and our community around that focal point, rather than what brings joy and beauty and happiness into our lives.

Also something else I noticed here living in France is that when asked about what I do, and I say community education, they are puzzled by the word “community.”

One Tunisian-French woman we met through our English-French conversation group, who for years had been a translator at the U.N. and UNESCO said that it was a word that kept coming up in documents, but she never could really figure out what it meant. In America charitable giving has become completely integrated into the economy as a source of support for picking up the slack that the government doesn’t provide, and providing recognition of the power of individual citizens helping one another. This is especially true for religious organizations that are woven into the culture as providers for social support. I believe it to be an extraordinary conduit to the betterment of our society and to international global betterment as well.

In France they pay much higher taxes that go to social help, museums, universities, hospitals, etc. so in essence, citizens there do not feel a sense of personal responsibility to “give back” in that way, nor are they ever asked. Obviously, it creates a whole bureaucracy on who gets what and who is the individual government official or committee that is deciding that.

In comparison, I came home yesterday to a mountain of charitable requests, brochures, newsletters all geared to tug on your heartstrings and make giving a personal experience. I was thinking that it does make life, at moments, a lot more difficult and challenging. Rather than knowing your income is your own, there is a certain amount of pressure and guilt that you should be giving a portion of it back to society. But I certainly feel honored to take the challenge, and the depth and gratification it brings to me and my thinking of what it takes to build a sustainable society and to recognize the value of individualizing that experience.

It feels a little strange to be back at my desk at home after our seven week adventure. But I've got my scrapbook close by to share with friends and remind me where I've been; I've got my blog to continue connecting my thoughts from here to there; I've got my ultimate French Practice and Review book to keep my eye on the ball and my list of French singers whose CD's I want to order. So the adventure
continues!

In my last blog Maury and I had just finished running our errands on the Champs Elyssee, which has to be one of the most significant and historically known streets in the world. Two weeks later there are bleachers, grandstands, carnivals and all sorts of other tumult lining the street with the approach of Bastille Day this coming Wednesday.

Bastille Day (Fete de la Bastille) commemorates 14 July 1789, when the disenchantment with Louis XVI’s monarchy, the aristocracy and church had led to acts of civil unrest reaching their tipping point. Several hundred Parisians marched to the Bastille Prison and killed the governor, an act that triggered the French Revolution and ended the monarchy. With it came the declaration 'liberte, egalite, fraternite' – freedom, equality and brotherhood. So it’s expected that thousands of people will turn out to watch the procession and military bands as they make their way along the Champs Elyssee, a little similar to the crowd at the Rose Parade. After dark, a huge fireworks display lights up the night sky from around the Eiffel Tower and parties go on all night long in clubs, pubs and restaurants around the city.

So the advice of our guide Antoine notwithstanding, that the best place to watch the parade is at home in front of the T.V., and sitting in the comfort of a café down the block from our apartment to watch the fireworks, it should be a lot of fun and provide a nice finish what will soon be seven weeks here in Paris.

I think I’m ready for a break from our French classes --- as excited as I am about the festivities, I’m excited that it’s our first vacation day from school --- YAY! And the excitement in the air here is really infectious! It’s obvious to us that it wouldn’t be that way if there wasn’t on some basic level that the vast majority of the populous loves being Parisians and a part of a larger culture of France. Though it is evidentially changing --- most of the population has the option to stay in the same career all of their life and not have to worry about ever getting fired, health care is free, and by way of the vast public transportation system, people are continually roaming around and integrating into each others neighborhoods, which adds spice and variety to life.

The main topic of conversation is the country wide protest that the retirement age in being raised from age 60-62. We were told by one particularly chatty cabdriver to expect massive strikes in September that could virtually bring to a crawl all transportation systems and government in the country, over this issue. If the expectation and entitlement that a citizen should be allowed a life of leisure after age 60 is enough for the unions to shut down the country, it’s obvious leisure is as strongly valued as work here! It should be really interesting to see how that plays out!

As foreigners here, though one always feels welcome as a guest, it has struck us time and time again that for people that grow up in Paris, there is a deep connection to their city, and their fellow Parisians. You simply don’t get the same sense as you do in Los Angeles or NYC, where so much of the foundation of our cities is the daily and deep influence of immigrant populations, coming to a new place, continually defining themselves in a new persona. It’s who and what we are, and what we recognize as part of the extraordinary evolution of a liberal democratic capitalist system that depends endlessly on the global infusion of new ideas and transformations from other cultures. But that, combined with our country being such a vast place, does not lead to a necessarily homogeneous patriotism to national holidays, much less a group “think” on any topic --- on the contrary, we pride ourselves on our individualism, while at the same time continuously transforming ourselves by thinking of our next move, both emotionally and logistically. It really makes you wonder how much of the stress in our lives is caused by the nagging worry and fear that what we have, even our essential identity of who we are and where we came from, that is at the very core of our identity, is somehow endlessly being questioned and demanding re-definition of ourselves as Americans.

There is of course here the issue of the Moslem population, and African immigrant population who came here as “workers” and now are demanding integration and equal rights. From the little we have heard and read, the French are really rather confused what to do with a part of their populous, especially in Paris, that are living here for many years, but prioritize their very strong and deep tribal identities over the principles of equality through liberty, equality and fraternity in what is essentially a secular society. We say there is a separation of church and state in the U.S., but when you realize how much of the conversation and thinking is on the subject of how to integrate religion into the society, you realize that we strongly embrace as a principal of individual civil liberty people’s chosen faith. Here the society doesn’t even want to enter into the conversation.

Of course, all are free to practice their religions here, but within limits. Religious institutions, whether they be Jewish, Christian or Moslem, (except for the churches like the Notre Dame that are major historical monuments which are endlessly flowing through with tourists) all have very low key presentations of themselves in very modest facilities. There are private religious schools, but they are not recognized by the government, nor are any universities run by a religious group. So people that choose a religious or extremely ethnic life are knowingly choosing to be outside the rest of the population. For example, there is one mosque that we visited, the only one that was officially built by the government in 1920, to honor the Algerian population that fought in WWI. It’s quite beautiful with the traditional minaret, however it is forbidden to have call for public prayer from it! And a whole side of the mosque is a beautiful restaurant café famous for everyone in the city to come and enjoy the garden, the food, the drink and to sit, read and contemplate.

As coincidence would have it, we live in an area filled with Lebanese restaurants, including what is considered the best in Paris, two steps from our building. When we go to eat there, I feel as if we are the two JAIs (Jewish American Israelis) in a sea of Arabic speaking people, including women all wearing their head scarves and modest though modern dress. It’s not really that different that in the area where we go to school, seeing men walking with their yarmulkes, and traditional women in their head coverings. I honestly feel equally comfortable in both. As a person comfortable in a secular society, I feel as if I fit here in Paris. In other words, people respect you and the fact that you are not French or Parisian, but feel under no obligation to change their society in order to fit your special needs or to make you feel recognized. There is an expression here in Paris, when presented with a different tradition other than the norm: “it simply is not done,” and that is the end of the conversation. This covers everything from when you’re in a restaurant not getting up to use the restroom during a meal to not expecting a smile from anyone on the Metro.

As a side note, there is no official census in France of religion or ethnicity. This was deleted from the census after WWII when the government was forced by the German occupiers to give over a list of Jewish residents, which resulted in the death and deportation of 75,000 French Jews. They were also 125,000 other French citizens who died by similar categorizing by the Germans. We visited a very moving monument in all of their memories.

Also, it’s not just the disinterest on a person’s particularized perspective on themselves about their religious or ethnic history that exists here; there is no illegal immigration, so there is absolutely no question that those that choose to be here illegally will be immediately deported (however there are issues with the status of illegal workers who marry a French citizen and have children born here); that if you don’t speak French, there is no translator provided for you in court or any other governmental agency; that you never run into a sales person, waiter or any service person that is interacting with the public while they are still “learning French”; without becoming a full citizen here, you can’t obtain a work permit and no one will hire you otherwise, etc., etc, etc. These observations make it very interesting of how a secular homogeneous population is created and sustained.

We continue to enjoy our weekend field trips. One was spent in the lovely area of Reim, in the heart of Champagne, as in G.H. Mumm Champagne. What a brilliant marketer that man was! He took what was originally considered totally “inferior” wine because of its bubbles, and turned it into the drink of royalty. We spent an incredible afternoon touring the champagne caves, literally kilometers and kilometers of where they keep the bottles while they age. The surrounding countryside was absolutely beautiful as we drove through the fields and ancient villages. It is astounding to realize that virtually all of the industry and area was destroyed in WWII, then rebuilt and replanted again to its former glory.

And we got an interesting history lesson as well in Reims, where the champagne caves are located. It happened to be the very spot where Germany surrendered to the Allies and General Eisenhower. To stand in the war room that was the location of the Allied headquarters with the original giant maps plastering the walls, and the seats labeled with who sat where at the final surrender, was a real reality check on the absolute futility of war. So much destroyed, 60 million lives lost, only to end with the signing of a declaration on a simple piece of paper; and suddenly all the “warriors” are transformed back into regular citizens. The visual to me of the German generals, simply walking down the stairs of this simple building in a simple town in the countryside of France, to I suppose, the train station to go back to their “regular” lives in Germany, was almost to much to bear, when you think of the devastation that would be felt for generations and generations to come.

And last weekend we totally enjoyed ourselves on our first TGV (the high speed train rail service) ride to the Normandy/ Brittany coast in an area called the Emerald Coast. The beaches were beautiful, the town where we stayed called St. Malo linked with the famous French pirate era, is a magnificent example of a walled port city still thriving. What I particularly enjoy about the weekends is also discovering the wine and foods that are special to the particular region. French food is actually very distinctive and at the end of the day, very similar foods from the soil and sea of the region, featured over and over again, with the chef’s own particular variation. In this particular region, they are famous for their omelets, leg of lamb, and local seafood, most notably mussels, where I think we probably saw at least 1,000 consumed! Mt. Saint-Michel is a magnificent pre-Romanesque church located on a rocky islet in the middle of tidal causeway has for a thousand years accommodated visitors and pilgrims. I have truly never seen anything like it. A promenade along the mountain coastline of a city called Dinar with ancient stone steps leading to private villas overlooking the ocean, was spectacular. What a totally relaxing and lovely spend the weekend. It’s a pleasure how clean and billboard and advertising free everything is!

And watching those oh so sassy and sexy beautiful French women ordering around their nervous husbands and boyfriends trying so hard to please! I love it!

As Maury and I were roaming the Champs Elysees today doing our “errands,” it is really quite astounding to us how much we feel a real part of the neighborhood. The end of this week brought several milestones --- the end of the first month of instruction in French (Stop one: the bookstore to pick up our first books in French to practice reading); having a comfort level in communicating with sales people in French (Stop 2: pods for the Nespresso machine); preparing to move on to the next class in French (Stop 3: Israeli salads for the school “pic-nik” tomorrow to celebrate the end of the month); knowing how to order food in French and actually get what you ordered (Stop 4: a delicious juice, coffee and dessert break in a lovely space just a few minutes from where we live) and now home to arrange renting a car and planning out a nice trip outside of Paris for the weekend.

We had a blast last weekend visiting Honfleur in Normandie. Its 8, 000 inhabitants are called Honfleurais. The town is especially known for its old, beautiful picturesque port, and houses with slate-covered frontages, painted many times by artists, including in particular Gustave Courbet, Eugène Boudin, Claude Monet and Johan Jongkind, forming the école de Honfleur (Honfleur school), part of the Impressionist movement. Sainte-Catherin Church in the center of the town has the largest church made out of wood in France. It’s amazing to think that the town was actually established in around 1000; more amazing still that the population has remained the SAME for many of the years following until today, and the port is still a functioning one.

So there were lots of tourists, but we didn’t feel so. We were welcomed at the Hotel L’Ecrine by John Claude, a dapper old gent waiting to welcome us in the parking lot as we pulled in. The hotel was a house, fully decorated in the French antique style, absolutely lovely with a beautiful garden to match. The dinner we had of turbot, vegetables, wine and cheese sitting watching the sun go down, was beautiful enough to make you cry. No wonder the Impressionists found Normandie to be place of such beauty.

We also attended the past week Zorro “le musical” at the Folies Bergere, which was established in established in 1869 in Paris, France, and is a music hall which was at the height of its fame and popularity from the 1890s through the 1920s. It’s still in business, with the décor unchanged. We had so much fun watching the singing and dancing going on onstage! When we stepped outside onto Rue Bergere for the intermission at around 10pm, it was still light, but with the most magnificent light on the buildings --- they looked a whole different color than when we see them during the day, attending school close by. It was the most Parisian scene, with people sitting outdoors at cafes on all corners surrounded by the same buildings that stood at the time that the Folies were established. I’ve noticed from the reading that I am doing by authors who wrote about Paris, everything is contextualized by the street of where it is happening. I literally read with a map of Paris nearby, since the street names have never changed and all still exist. The Rue Bergere is a street that has been named in countless stories of Paris.

We both agree how much less stressful it is in one’s life to have public transportation --- we hopped on the Metro and were home within 15 minutes. You do need good walking shoes and knees to go up and down lots and lots of stairs, but it is a great way to get around.

Another terrific experience is the walking tours that we are taking --- so far to the Marais, the Latin Quarter and yesterday to Notre Dame and the Saint Chapelle and Conciergerie. We certainly have come away with a deeper understanding of the meaning of “revolution” and the deep instinctual need for men to feel their individual freedom. One day a palace for the royalty and their religious cohorts; the next day, (1793-4 to be exact), the site of the revolutionary tribunal, that changed the palace to a prison and proceeded in one year to behead 2700 people of royalty and connection to royalty or religion presumed to be an enemy of the revolution. We were really surprised to hear that the guillotine was actually used in France until September 10, 1977 to execute the torture-murderer Hamida Djandoubi. It was still then considered to be the most humane way to put someone to death!

It’s only by luck that 1/3 of the churches built in France before that time still remain,

including Notre Dame with its magnificent structure and stained glass windows, which was seriously proposed to demolish and use for other building projects.

Aside from the actual walking tour, Maury is getting a real kick out of our guide, Antoine, who is a very clever and bright young guy. Amongst other things Antoine likes to order for lunch is, blood sausage (boudin noir in French) made with pig’s blood, fat and onions. Evidently, sausage making tradition in France has lasted well over 2000 years. I’m telling you, what goes on in the menus here in France puts our simple Mediterranean / kosher style diet to shame! Just to see what is coming out of the kitchen of your typical bistro or brassiere is a real experience.

Then you have your simple pubs, like the one we stopped in to see the world cup game, when the owner and single bartender is so busy making a sandwich for himself, that he forgets about the customers! So we sat in this open air restaurant, a bookcase here filled with books for the patrons to read, a pool table there, a small piano here and felt like at home, watching the game with a group of kids from a Latin country, I think. So the drinks took a few minutes, but really the bartender expected people to come and sit for hours, which they usually do with never any pressure to leave. It is a well known tradition here that the restaurant doesn’t close until the last person leaves and there is never any pressure to.

We continue to see what an extraordinary difference it makes when people live together in close quarters and politeness is a part of the culture. For us, it’s the “simple” things that happen daily that continuously define France for us --- you never walk into a store or restaurant without someone addressing you with a bonjour madame, monsieur; you never leave without a merci, au revoir. People are patient to wait in line here even if it takes a few extra minutes for an elderly person while the merchant walks around the counter to place their purchases in their cart for them; on the subway, no matter how crowded, people never push and manage not to touch each other and speak in whispers so not to disturb; the guide we meet weekly to take walking tours around the city, will sit and have a drink with us at the end and spend an extra hour, just so that he can walk us to the subway or train door to make sure we don’t get lost going home; on the subway, everybody is either reading the paper or a book (not magazines for some reason I don’t yet understand); boys and men of all ages (including the coolest looking teens you’ve ever seen ---all thin-tight jeaned-tight tee-shirted-perfectly styled hair carrying their skateboards) hold open the door for me and let me go before them.

So, so far, so good. To be continued.

We’ve committed to going on a trip outside of Paris on Sundays, and last Sunday we visited Giverny, Claude Monet’s country home and gardens, which were beautiful!

There was also a really lovely medium sized Impressionist museum close by, with some significant pieces by other Impressionists artists. What a roudy group of twenty-somethings they all were, totally involved with the sea, sun, river, parties and nature around them! I think in the last few weeks I’ve gotten such a deeper understanding of why this art resonates so with me --- it’s all about recognizing the beauty in everything around us and the value of the “impression” or feeling that one gets at a particular moment of recognition of the simple beauty of existence.

We followed the visit by a typical Sunday lunch in a restaurant in a small city called Vernon. I was so satiated with wine, fish, vegetables, French bread, cheese, salad, and dessert that I could barely keep my eyes open on the ride home. So I came back and took a nap! Why not?

After 2 weeks/ 40 intense hours / studying and immersion here in the streets, our French is progressing pretty quickly. At the moment it’s really providing the focal point and a structure for our day, along with 1-2x/week walking tours of Paris, with a wonderful guide named Antoine. I am also planning this week join a few of the American-French organizations here that also have English-French conversation get-togethers several times a week as well as trips and events around the city. Next weekend there is a big literary event at a bookstore called Shakespeare and Company (located in the Latin Quarter) with authors, readings and dramatic presentations at the square next door. So there is lots and lots going on here.

And of course, everyone here is wild about the World Cup. The first game we hung out at the Trocadero, which is a huge public outdoor space with a huge outdoor screen to match. We saw the second England-USA game in a pub, where all of the 20-30 something Americans were all going absolutely berserk anytime the USA came close to scoring.

It’s pretty amazing how just a few weeks ago we were in Agoura, which for me is all about being in a sunny wide open green space with room to roam around in our lovely luxurious cars and homes and restaurants and stores and beach. Here it’s all about being out in the commons, in close proximity to people everywhere. I’ve quickly realized that in a dynamic and healthy community, where people respect other’s space and boundaries, it creates a real sense of excitement, stimulation and creativity. Rather than watching t.v. and movies, I’m sitting at cafes and watching people walk by. I feel as if I’m watching my very own French movie and making up my very own script in my head! Crazy, but very entertaining!

There is also a great value put on here on tradition and the thought leaders that built the city. Guess who lived in a room in the building where we do our banking with all of the latest technology? Marcel Proust, a very famous French novelist! The plaque on the front of the building says so!

Yesterday was an incredible experience walking through the Marais, which means swamp in French.

In the 14^th century it was an area built “outside” the walls of Paris and one of the few whose architecture has been left untouched since the 17^th century. It’s an example of so much of Paris and it’s depth of history --- originally built as a stone structure on the first floor, meant for commerce, and the upper floors from abobe and wood, it remains so today. Starting out as the poorest part of town, it’s obvious it always had character; the royalty chose to build their residences there, distinguished by their all stone structure and cobblestones that remain today; the beautiful church of St. Louis; the huge Plaza that remains an island of green. In recent years, until the 1970’s --- the area was known for its cheap housing, a large gay community (which until 1981 was actually illegal in Paris) and rather run down; a remnant of the revolution when the royalty was beheaded and their palaces turned into factories.

But, in what I am convinced gives a city its vitality and dynamism, it has now become re-gentrified as one of the most expensive areas to live in Paris, with beautiful upscale shops and restaurants in the original spots for commerce.

My favorite was a store called Izrael, the most beautiful spice and condiment store I’ve ever seen. I think we can be pretty sure that one thing urban dwellers of big cities will always love is the excitement of shopping and entertainment!

An interesting note: there was quite a large Jewish community from eastern Europe in the Marais before WWII. Many died in the Holocaust as one very poignant memorial told us. The Jewish street of shops of then, are now the sites of Jewish commerce of the Jews who emigrated from Algeria and Tunisia. As our guide told us, “the fish has now been replaced by falafel.”

Another interesting pattern has emerged here around public protest. We’ve seen three examples. One, at the site of the Paris Opera at the Bastille there was a large public protest of illegal workers, mostly from western Africa, demanding work permits; outside our window on weekend morning there was a group of Spaniards demanding from the Spanish embassy the right to vote in their country’s elections; and at the Marais, a group of students that had squatted in the vacant and very large residence of an elderly apartment owner, with the protest that 100,000 poor people can’t find housing in Paris, how dare she not rent her space to them!

I’ve gotten this sense that while people want their voices heard, it’s almost unheard of (until the riots of the immigrant populations that live in the outer districts of the city) that they become violent and destructive. I could be wrong, but I do sense that that the populous appreciates the culture and depth of this place and though they may be angry, respect it. Maury and I are going everywhere on the Metro. I haven’t for a moment felt uncomfortable or unsafe --- on the contrary, we’re surprised how quickly we’ve settled in and feel at home and how calm and quiet spoken people seem here.

Of course, going out to eat every evening at these unbelievable restaurants is something that would be “enough” on its own! I thought I was a decent cook until I came here! Even the “simplest” meal is Music, like Maury likes to say! Let’s put it this way ---I have saved and am scrapbooking every receipt from every restaurant we’re going to, which lists everything you just ate. When I feel like taking a break I look it over and start smiling from ear to ear. Of all of the French verb conjugations and words we are learning, these are my favorite so far: Saumon sir lit roquette (salmon with a red sauce) at the Risto Pizza Romano; couscous legumes et poulet (couscous with vegetables & chicken) at Chez Berbert, a Moroccan restaurant; the filet de hareng (herring filet) at the Allard; the gazpacho with sorbet of tomato-basil at Chez Georges; the Salade nicoise at Le Chaillot; the list goes on and on.

We also took our first day trip out of the city (about 18 miles) to Auvers-sur-Oise, a lovely city that looks the same as it did when Vincent van Gogh and other Impressionists artists such as Cezanne and Pissarro, developed this form of art. We literally walked the steps of Van Gogh’s last two months of life, when under the care of a Dr. Paul Gauchet, Van Gogh roamed the town during June and July of 1890, painting at a pace as if he was possessed, two paintings a day!

Only in his 30’s, he was sick guy with what is now considered bi-polar disease, as well as epilepsy. In any case his true genius seemed to be hyper focused at this period. The poor guy actually worked himself to death from exhaustion. He found a gun at the Ravous Inn that he was staying in, and one day snapped, trying to commit suicide in the wheat fields of one of his most famous pictures. So we walked and we talked the afternoon away, including a picnic lunch by the river, in a town unchanged since it was built. We ended our day at the wheat fields, just as they looked then. The sky was the most incredible color blue, as deep and rich as I’ve ever seen. I felt as if I could have stayed there for hours just looking and hearing the “silence.” No wonder this space has inspired so many famous artists.

That moment said so much to me about avante garde art and how important it is to support it, even if it seems strange and bizarre at the moment as may be the artist themselves. What greater expression of a person than when they create something so unique that it has never seen before? If not for the wife of his brother Theo, van Gogh’s art would never have survived; for years it was considered worthless. Now the Ravous Inn is trying to fundraise 35 million dollars (and that’s cheap --- a picture of Dr. Gauchet was sold for 85 million dollars!) to purchase just ONE picture to display in the room in the Inn where van Gogh lived and died.

That evening when Maury and I went out to dinner at around 10pm and were sitting outside at one of the countless small tables all over the sidewalks here, I looked up at the clouds and sky and there was the exact blue of Van Gogh’s pictures. There was a modern convention hall in one direction, an old stone building in another, the Seine River running by and all of these beautiful people drinking their wine, murmuring conversations in French. It feels like we've been here two months, not two weeks!