tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59416101846277133632023-06-20T23:08:27.957-05:00Quotidian AdventuresI've always loved the word "Quotidian," which means "daily." I'm reviving this blog, which began with my 2007 trip to Paris, because I'm headed back to Paris: this time, for the month of August 2010. Let the adventures begin! [Vickie Austin]Vickie Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13452632397196538080noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5941610184627713363.post-31014172482969238272010-08-30T23:30:00.014-05:002010-08-31T01:10:18.363-05:00Getting ready to "Re-enter"This week in Paris is known as "Rentree" (pronounced rahn-TRAY), the week when all the Parisians who have left the city in August come back home. Tanned from their month-long holidays in Marrakech, Morocco or the Cote d'Azur, the natives come back to the city in droves. You can feel the energy of the city change, the pace quicken. Buses are now crowded with people returning to work and the Latin Quarter is packed with students. College students travel in groups and young children getting outfitted for school shop with their mothers and grandmothers, picking over the school supplies.<br /><br />My own "Reentree" begins today as well. I will board an American Airlines flight back to the U.S.A. around noon, saying good-bye to this little apartment, to the neighborhood I've come to love and to Paris, the city of my dreams. Turning a dream into a reality has had its bumps, of course--I learned that Paris is not just the stuff of fiction and movies but a real live city with problems like any big city. There are the homeless, the street people, just like those in Chicago who work a corner, asking for a hand-out. Paris is known for its strikes although none occurred while I was here. And for the millions of people who are returning to work and to school, Paris isn't an ideal: it's just home.<br /><br />But what a home! While living here I developed a deeper appreciation for history, motivated by curiosity and a keen desire to know the chronology of events on how Paris came to be. My eyes are now trained to observe the smallest details of beauty. Granted, in Paris beauty is <em>everywhere</em>, from the lampposts to the curlicues and statues embedded in the facades of the apartment buildings. It's in the detail of the hardware on the doors as well as in the magnificent courtyards and gardens that seem to be around each corner. However, I live in Chicago, no stranger to art and architecture. All I have to do is be intentional about finding that beauty and I know it's there.<br /><br />One of the last books I picked up off the bookshelf of my host's home is a book by Thomas Moore called <em>Care of the Soul</em>. I've been enjoying blasting through novels while I've been here, giving my brain a much-needed break from non-fiction to engage in stories and good literature. But this book called to me and I'm so glad it did. Much of what the author writes about aligns with my journey here. I made these plans to come to Paris a year ago when my mother was dying. With her death came an urgency to fulfill on this dream I've had since I was a girl. Through my sorrow I received the gift of impatience, a drive to "get on with it." So as impractical as it was to take a month off, and fighting my inner demons who whispered "Selfish!", I booked a flight. Thomas Moore would say that I was taking good care of my soul.<br /><br />I've been nourished by the glory of Paris, the consumption of art on every corner and the rare opportunity to read, write and wander without thoughts of deadlines or time clocks. While it may take me a while to digest what I've learned here--and I relish the opportunity to sort and sift through these memories when I get home--I did have a few epiphanies along the way. While breezing through the last wing of Les Artes Decoratifs, a branch of the Louvre featuring the history of advertising, I was inspired by the work of one of the artists. A graphic designer, he had some early success but then fell on hard times. In spite of it all, he persevered, bought a print shop, kept producing. I heard a whisper that I took to be a gift: "Keep working." And through the joy of writing this blog, of remembering my first love of literature and after visiting the graves of the writers I admire, I heard a louder, more insistent voice: "Keep writing."<br /><br />My wish for you is that whatever your dream is, you'll have the opportunity to act on it. Fulfilling our dreams isn't without cost: there were mornings when I woke up with a start, wondering "What am I doing here?" I thought about my hiatus from work, the revenue I wasn't producing and the bills that await me when I return. I indulged in some worry and confided in an e-mail to my friend and mentor <a href="http://kristipeterson.com/">Kristi Peterson</a>. Her response woke me up: "Anxiety and Paris are not compatible." Duly noted. So I set aside my worries and devoted myself to being present, in the moment. That in and of itself was a valuable lesson. In spite of the cost (and there will be a cost), I hope you'll uncover your own dream and act upon it. As my dad used to say, "There's no time like the present."<br /><br />And I'm not saying "au revoir" to this gorgeous city. As I board my plane later today I'll use another phrase I learned long ago when I was that young woman studying French, my new-found love, in college. "A bientot." See you soon.Vickie Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13452632397196538080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5941610184627713363.post-33734915434507470332010-08-28T17:26:00.009-05:002010-08-28T18:57:02.783-05:00A Place for Ex-PatsSince arriving in Paris back at the end of July, I have found myself drawn again and again to the independent bookstore <a href="http://shakespeareandcompany.com/">Shakespeare and Company</a>, situated directly across from Notre Dame on the Left Bank in the Latin Quarter. The bookstore is named after the original Paris bookstore owned by Sylvia Beach, a home base for ex-patriates like Anais Nin, Henry Miller, James Joyce and of course my boyfriend Ernest Hemingway. Owner George Whitman carries on the tradition of a bookstore that caters to English-speaking ex-patriates, offering a lending library on the entire second floor and often serving as a type of hostel for starving artists (mostly writers, I would suppose).<br /><br />While August is slow in Paris, Shakespeare and Company has held some events this month and we joined a group of book- and music-lovers this past week for a literary salon featuring Alice Shyy from <a href="http://thenotewell.com/">The Notewell </a>for a topic called "Book Music." The concept was intriguing: Alice shared music that has been written <em>about</em> books or music written <em>for</em> or <em>to</em> books, to complement the plot of a book or to be listened to while reading (hard for those of us with ADD). She shared a remarkable playlist with kudos to her housemate Iris for her suggestions, and Alice introduced us to a new band we loved named Magnetic Fields. They wrote a song called "The Book of Love" and you must listen to it (<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jkjXr9SrzQE">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jkjXr9SrzQE</a>). I think it'll be the newest song in my wedding song repertoire.<br /><br />I've visited Shakespeare and Company for a variety of reasons throughout the month: to "show it off" to my visitors, to hear the English language spoken and to buy books. I'm bringing home a copy of Pearl Buck's short stories, published in the 1940s, and inside it I found an old Paris Metro ticket stub stuck in the pages as a bookmark. Silly, I know, to buy books while visiting abroad. I'll probably leave some of them in my host's bookshelves as others have done for me.<br /><br />There's something about the smell of books, the feel and heft of them, the sight of them stacked all the way to the ceiling, that both excites me and calms me. A new book (even a "new" used book) is a new world waiting to be opened. I confess one of the reasons I don't read much fiction is because once I start a book, I usually can't put it down and this wreaks havoc with my schedule. Much of the joy of this visit has been having the time to read novel after novel, like goodies from the <em>chocolatiers. </em>And, as with chocolate, when reading a good book I have very little self-control.<br /><br />I've thought a lot about the evolution of books with the advent of the Kindle and other hand-held electronic book products. There are folks who swear by these technical miracles that hold hundreds, even thousands of books within its "pages," deeply appreciated by flight attendants and corporate road warriors who no longer have to schlep heavy books with them on their flights. Still, when you're sitting in a corner at Shakespeare and Company, surrounded by stacks and stacks of books and people who love them, it's hard to imagine a world without books.Vickie Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13452632397196538080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5941610184627713363.post-74481969109287523422010-08-26T02:10:00.007-05:002010-08-26T03:18:42.053-05:00A word about "Les Femmes Parisiennes"Just a word about the women in Paris--they're gorgeous. That's a generalization, of course... it's a huge city and not ALL of them are gorgeous. But there's something about the women here. It's not just fashion. Certainly not all of them are wearing "haute couture" (high fashion). I would say that it's more in the way they carry themselves, the way they combine simple things that, when put together, look fabulous. That and good genes.<br /><br /><br />The other thing I've noticed is that fashion is important to all women, from the very smallest of girls--especially the three-to-four-year-old set--to the elderly women. The little girls <em>slay</em> me. They are all dressed up and wear accessories including darling shoes, something in their hair or a hat and often a small handbag. Many of them are pushing their own strollers accompanied by <em>maman</em> or a nanny. They are more "put together" than most grown women I know. And women in their 60s and 70s still dress with flair, age-appropriate but with special touches like a small gusset at the flare of their trouser or jackets that are cut to flatter. They aren't trying to be trendy: they're setting trends of their own.<br /><br /><br />And <em>les jeunes filles</em>? The young girls? Quite darling, of course. On their feet they wear very high heels or low ballet flats--nothing in between and nothing that looks remotely practical, yet they manage to carry it off with <em>panache. </em>(Come to think of it, I have seen a lot of podiatrist shops around.) The summer look is lots of linen. Lots of combo looks, as I mentioned... a cute bouffy skirt combined with a lacy chemise layered by a simple top with a sweater or oddly cut jacket and capped off with the ubiquitous scarf which French women seem to come out of the cradle learning to wear. The fabrics are different, the cut of the fabric is different, in short--it's a different look. And it's smashing.<br /><br /><br />I've also noticed that a girl can be wearing old jeans and a casual top but in her hair she may wear a phony flower or a large bow and it still looks put together. Think Carrie Bradshaw in "Sex and the City."<br /><br /><br />Lest I neglect the men-folk, the men, too, have their own distinct look. I don't know the exact definition of "Euro trash" but some of the men I've seen might be examples of this: handsome, kind of Johnny Depp-looking... rumpled jackets, a 2-day beard growth, hair unkempt (or styled to look that way) and perhaps some fabulous eyeglasses, the likes of which we can't get in the U.S.A. Taken individually, these qualities typically might add up to a homeless guy. Put it all together and Voila! You have the handsome Frenchman.<br /><br /><br />There are, of course, exceptions to every rule. But I am bold enough to say (and I'm not the only one saying it) that the French have that certain <em>je ne sais quoi </em>that communicates style, ease, joy and a nonchalance in the way they dress and look. This morning, my friend Leanne and I are off to <em>le Musee National de la Mode et du Textile</em>, part of <em>Les Artes Decoratif </em>(which is all part of the Louvre) to do more research on fashion, style and fabric. I'll be wearing a scarf casually draped around my neck, just so.Vickie Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13452632397196538080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5941610184627713363.post-88041922157713889002010-08-22T15:19:00.008-05:002010-08-24T05:10:13.753-05:00It's a beautiful day in the neighborhoodI came to Paris not just to savor the sights, the arts and the culture (which indeed I have) but also to enjoy just living in Paris--hence the name of this blog, "Quotidian Adventures." A month is long enough to begin to feel like more than a tourist. Trips to the grocery store, the laundromat, the bank--all of these have given me a small sense of belonging. As Mr. Rogers used to sing, "It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood..." So here are some descriptions and photos of the street where I live:<br /><br />To get to the apartment, you come in through a large door, entering the password on a keypad. One of the delights of Paris is the big doors to the courtyards of people's homes and apartments. At 12 Rue Arago, the door is red, right between a men's clothing shop and a podiatrist. The door opens up to a foyer with mailboxes and a winding staircase up to some of the other apartments. Past the foyer is a courtyard with a garden. Then, to the right is the staircase. The French are very "green" so the lightswitches are on timers--hit the lightswitch to the right and up two flights to the apartment.<br /><br />While the apartment is small (about 270 square feet), it's the perfect "pied-a-terre" for someone who wants to live and experience Paris as something other than a tourist. The neighborhood is in the 13th arrondissement. The numbers of the "arrondissements" begin right smack dab in the center of the city on the Ile de la Cite (sorry, no accent marks) and snail around in a circle all the way to, I believe, the 20th. We're on the "cusp" of the 13th and the 5th, which is walking distance to Notre Dame if you're feeling energetic. Otherwise, the quicker option is to take the bus--the No. 27--and get a view of the streets as well as enjoy hearing people speak French.<br /><br />The neighborhood is truly that--a neighborhood, not a tourist destination. Daily chores like shopping for groceries or going to the bakery (boulangerie) are a treat, an opportunity to see all the curious products and packaging so different from our own and a chance to practice my halting French (much to the amusement and/or annoyance of the locals). Ordering my morning croissant or baguette at first made me very nervous and I wasn't always able to find the right change. Now I feel more at ease with the ladies in the boulangerie and this morning even called out, "See you tomorrow!" The woman reminded me in rapid-fire French that they are closed on Wednesdays. Oh, yes, I said, and asked a question which had been puzzling me: Why Wednesdays? I think she said that it's something that the "prefecture" ordains by neighborhood. Note to self: research that one.<br /><br />Another choice experience has been using the laundromat or "Lavorama" (I'm assuming it's Lavorama but the last "a" is missing, so it could be otherwise). Figuring out the directions on these front-loading washing machines and how much money to put in, where to put the soap and how to work the dryer has been part of the adventure. Now it's old hat and I, like the woman sitting next to me, load my clothes in and grab a book and begin to read with a watchful eye on the progress of my wash.<br /><br />I feel privileged to have an "insider view" of living in Paris this month. My friend Leanne has arrived so we're exploring new sights... she's been here before so we can skip the typical destinations and dig a little deeper to find museums, restaurants and shops that aren't always on the tourist's agenda. I'll let you know what we find.Vickie Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13452632397196538080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5941610184627713363.post-44050446449320520812010-08-19T15:02:00.008-05:002010-08-19T15:44:30.898-05:00Sunny in ParisThis week was filled with rain and cold--the Parisians all had their jackets and heavy sweaters on. Mon dieu! My Midwestern loved ones are being baked in a Chicago heat wave so I couldn't complain to them... but I confess I spent the early part of the week huddled under a comforter with my fuzzy socks on, reading novels and watching French TV. I didn't bring any foul weather gear and certainly no coat or jacket, so I decided to lay low.<br /><br />But yesterday (Wednesday) the sun came out and so I ventured forth. The Metro is plastered with advertising for an exhibit for Willy Ronis and I've had that on my list since I arrived. Willy Ronis is the famed French photographer best known (at least in the U.S.) for his photo of an exhuberant little French boy running down the street holding a baguette of bread. I had to do some research because I had never heard of the "museum" where the show is being held--it's at "Monnaie de Paris" which is, essentially, the Paris mint. The building, across the Seine from the Louvre, is part industry, part social conscience and part musuem.<br /><br />What it <em>isn't </em>is air-conditioned, and the rooms were packed. Thank goodness I have my "Woman of a Certain Age" fan that I whipped out to get through room after room of stifling air. For once, the Parisian women were jealous of ME. The exhibit honored the 100-year mark of M. Ronis' birth--he died last year before he could see this wonderful collection.<br /><br />His photos capture the labor movement in Paris in the 40s, his travels to Holland, Germany and England, and unforgettable moments in Paris's history right up to 2000. The reflection of light on cobblestones at night, lit by a streetlamp; the creamy softness of a woman's skin; the harshness of factory work with miles and miles of cotten being woven--all these photos gave me nostalgia for a time I never experienced and places I've never seen. And isn't that the role of the artist? To transport us?<br /><br />This led me to think about the wonder of being an artist. What an honor! And what a joy, to be able to wake up every morning with the "job description" of capturing life as it is, as you see it, as you want others to see it. Whether it's photography or painting or writing, or any other genre, the artist has the responsibility of capturing some kind of truth. But I know that life as an artist is not without its risks. Being an artist takes great courage... and great faith.<br /><br />And it doesn't hurt to have an agent.Vickie Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13452632397196538080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5941610184627713363.post-43522421799954410912010-08-16T13:05:00.008-05:002010-08-16T14:53:31.980-05:00Advertising, Paris-styleFrench advertising is an art form in itself. The Metro is filled with ads, big ads framed in gilded gold in each of the stations and smaller posters plastered along the walls in the underground labyrinth that connects one station to another. There's a haunting ad sponsored by the Bridgette Bardot Foundation, showing a golden retreiver, healthy and surrounded by two laughing children on one side of the ad while the other side shows a gaunt, starving dog lying listlessly on a vet's table. "Pour lui, l'amor... pour moi, la mort," it says--"For him, love... for me, death," and there's a website address for donations to the Foundation.<br /><br />And there are, of course, the familiar icons of advertising known around the world. Coca-Cola is everywhere. So is McDonald's--there's one right down the street. I took this photo of the McDonald's on the Champs-Elysses where the golden arch was a curious echo of the larger Arc de Triomphe in the background. You'll see a Starbuck's now and then but they are not nearly as common as they are in the States. And not nearly as crowded.<br /><br />One of my favorite ads was one I saw in Montmartre when we were tramping up and down the cobblestone streets looking for an art supply store for my husband. This ad was on the outside wall of a pharmacy and it was for a hand sanitizer. You can see by the photo it shows a lovely blonde girl looking askance at the hairy hands of what appears to be a wolfman and the bony hands of a mummy, clinging to the same pole in the car of the Metro. [I'm no germaphobe but I know just how she feels and whenever I get home from riding le Metro, the first thing I do is wash my hands, even if there haven't been any wolfmen on my line.] I laughed out loud and snapped a shot of the ad.<br /><br />I was thrilled to see an ad for Kenya down in the Metro station, having so recently worked on a project with Heartland International and a group of Kenyan entrepreneurs. I had no idea that Kenya was a destination for French tourists, yet there it is--"Jambo!" it says, with the colorful dress and happy faces of the Maasai people. Then there's the TV ad I heard for Marakech in Morocco as a vacation spot. I immediately started humming the old song from the '60s (or was it the 70s?) "Marakech Express."<br /><br />Maybe it's because of my years spent in marketing, but I find the advertising both jolting and refreshing. Sounds like an ad.Vickie Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13452632397196538080noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5941610184627713363.post-12333596671791318252010-08-13T02:45:00.013-05:002010-08-13T04:07:30.535-05:00Sex and nudity. Murder and lust. War, madness and mayhem. Conspiracies to overthrow the government. We've got all that, and more, here at the Louvre.<br /><br />If anyone thinks art is boring, think again. The Louvre is filled with 35,000 pieces of art that encompass everything from Adam and Eve getting thrown out of the Garden of Eden to hundreds of depictions of the crucifixion. There are galleries of primitive sculptures of babies at their mothers' breasts to courtyards filled with marble renditions of Roman conquerers. Rows and rows of crown jewels, looking for all the world like props in a play. Happy families and not-so-happy families caught by the painter's brush in everyday scenes. Beauty and horror. In short, the history of the world.<br /><br />To try to describe the Louvre is nearly impossible. Think canvases as large as mobile homes. Ceilings as high as any cathedral. Gallery after gallery of art catalogued by artist, by century, by geography. Mind-boggling in its scope, the Louvre reminds us who and where we are: tiny specks, privileged to be part of the human experience captured in time throughout the centuries. And thanks to those who thought ahead to collect this art, put it under one roof (thanks, Napoleon) and catalogue it with captions for those of us who weren't paying close enough attention in history class, we have the opportunity to view it--well, at least some of it--during one exhilarating and exhausting day.<br /><br />While much of Paris quits to the south of France and the Riviera for the month of August, the rest of Europe and beyond considers it their invitation to visit Paris, specifically the Louvre. The place was packed. English and Germans, Italians and Russians, Japanese and Chinese, Aussies and New Zealanders, even the odd American--we were all there to ogle the art but part of the fun was watching each other. Funny, in spite of language barriers you can tell by the body language what's happening. A fussing infant, a truculent teenager, the "I'm-not-going-to-tell-you-again" speech from a parent to an older sibling bent on disturbing the sleep of his baby sister... watching the family dramas play out in other languages was almost as much fun as observing the art.<br /><br />The Winged Victory has her own showcase at the top of the first staircase and she draws a crowd. People stop dead in their tracks to take photos, causing a four-person pile-up. Venus de Milo and the Laceworker by Vermeer are two of the other large attractions but the biggest of all is the Mona Lisa. Mona has her own room, her own bullet-proof cover and a couple of guards at both sides to boot. People push to the front of the ropes to get a good view and in spite of the hundreds of warnings not to use flash, the room lights up like the red carpet at a Hollywood opening. To my credit, I followed the rules so many of my photos came out yellow and blurry but as the wife of a former museum curator, I can't help it--rules are rules.<br /><br />Different cultures have different concepts of personal space so I tried not to take it personally when someone jabbed me with an elbow or pushed past me to see the major pieces. In America I think we have a bigger physical "bubble" around us than most cultures, so this feeling of being pressed in might be unique to us. Still, I was struck by the paradox of being transported by this timeless, priceless art and yet piqued by the lack of consideration of others intent on getting their (flash) photos. Before we got to see all 35,000 pieces, it was time to go and it was with some relief that we headed downstairs for the "sortie" (exit) and a cup of that strong, delicious espresso I've come to love.Vickie Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13452632397196538080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5941610184627713363.post-7340026230576922352010-08-12T01:13:00.007-05:002010-08-12T02:27:31.187-05:00Tackling the LouvreToday we're up bright and early in order to tackle the Louvre. "Tackle the Louvre?" Did I really say that? As if the Louvre was something to be conquered, attacked and vanquished? Well, in a way, it is.<br /><br />Yesterday we went there and stood in a very long line. Turns out, it was the wrong line. This was the line for the people WITH tickets. The other line, the one we were supposed to be in, wound around the building--and by building I mean acres of palace, which it once was. The lovely woman in front of us caught us before we ducked out of line and recommended we go to the tourist bureau, down the street on Rue de Pyramides, where we could get tickets much more quickly. That we did, and tucked the tickets away for today.<br /><br />That left us with time to continue our exploration of the City of Light. We'd been to Montmartre the day before, enjoying a picnic lunch at the fountain right below Sacre Coeur, the beautiful church that sits on the highest hill overlooking all of Paris. Yesterday's lunch was in the Tuileries following our aborted trip to the Louvre, and it occurred to me that there were people around us, locals, having their own lunch breaks from work. I wondered, do the Parisians ever tire of all this beauty? Would it ever be routine to be surrounded by plazas, monuments, ancient sculpture and priceless art? I doubt it.<br /><br />Another destination for the day was Harry's New York Bar & Grill, known as a frequent hang-out of Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald and the gang. The bar is also allegedly famous for 1) being the origin of the invention of the Bloody Mary by a bartender who was helping his patrons overcome their hangovers and 2) being the place where George Gershwin wrote the melody "An American in Paris." There was an article on the wall from the <em>New York Post</em> validating the origin of the Bloody Mary story but alas, the piano bar downstairs was closed so we couldn't confirm the story about Gershwin. We ordered Bloody Marys and toasted Gershwin anyway.<br /><br />Earlier in the day on our way to the Tuileries for lunch we walked through the Place Vendome. This is a huge square that boasts high-end shops and the Ritz Carlton, known in the guidebooks as the former home of F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald and the place where Coco Chanel died. It's also known as the place where Princess Diana was staying with boyfriend Dodi Fayed on that last fateful visit to Paris. I was still ruminating about the loss of Princess Diana when we immediately ran into Woody Allen, coming within two feet of him and his entourage. Mr. Allen looked like he was scoping out the plaza for a movie. His people hustled everyone across the street where I managed to take his photo, then had a sudden, stabbing thought... does that make me paparazzi?Vickie Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13452632397196538080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5941610184627713363.post-47014946013052253142010-08-09T17:53:00.004-05:002010-08-09T19:26:19.437-05:00I'd like a side of art with that artEverywhere you look in Paris, there's art. Maybe it's "kitsch," the kind of art you can buy on the quai (pronouced "kee") where street vendors line the edges of the Seine River selling predictable sketches of the Champs-Elysees or phony oil paintings of the Eiffel Tower. But more than likely, it's the real thing. The real Renoir. The real Monet. The real Picasso.<br /><br />Today my husband Bill and I went in search of the real Picasso, following the map to the Musee Picasso in Le Marais district--not an easy place to find. Paris streets tend to turn into other streets or run out altogether, so it was a jog right, a jog left and a few windy streets before we found the museum. Much to our dismay, it was closed for renovation, with a sign that said "We hope this doesn't spoil your trip to Paris." Well, for a moment it almost did... but then we stopped and had lunch in a local park, a lunch of turkey and goat cheese on a baguette which Bill had made before we left for our excursion, and we regrouped. Modern art--that's what Bill wanted to see. So after downing our sandwiches we headed for the Centre Georges Pompidou.<br /><br />If Parisians hated the Eiffel Tower upon its debut, imagine the natives' disdain for this crazy-looking structure, built in 1977 "from the inside out," all pipes and scaffolding and see-through walkways. The view from the 5th level is spectacular--you can see all of Paris. And then, as if that view isn't enough, there's the art. We did, indeed, see Picassos and more. I learned about cubism and the Fauvre movement from my artist husband, who told me that "Fauvre" means "wild beast" because that's what people thought these artists were when they began using wild colors. We saw interactive art, light art, feminist art and furniture art. We saw sculptures, video and pulsing slide shows. Even the coasters in the gift shop looked like art. Thanks to Bill's fine arts education, I learned some new things about modern art and came away with my head stuffed full of new images and ideas.<br /><br />I admit, my idea of art is more traditional, more... romantic. What appeals to me is the art that's all around us. Everything from the lamp posts' iron work to the faces and sculptures carved into the buildings and the bridges seem designed to please the eye. Everywhere you turn there's something new to see and admire. And the churches--oh, the churches! Built for the glory of God, each one is a museum in itself, filled with paintings, sculptures of the Madonna and Child and frescoes depicting the life of Christ, carvings that told the story because most people couldn't read.<br /><br /><br /><br />Modern art, Gothic art, street art--perhaps all of it pales next to Flea Market art. Le Marche aux Puces St-Ouen is the weekly flea market (or, as we said in Phoenix, "swap meet") held on the outskirts of Paris each weekend. I couldn't wait to share this with my Bill--after all, we spent most of our brief courtship and our subsequent 32 years of marriage roaming flea markets, swap meets, antique stores and (let's call a spade a spade) junk shops. I'd read about this flea market in an issue of <em>Vogue</em> years ago and had dreams of visiting it again. Sadly, the prices that were once a bargain are no longer to be found. Bill found just what he was looking for--some prints--and I bought a sparkly Paris pin, but only after some bargaining with the vendor. And isn't negotiating the finest art of all?Vickie Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13452632397196538080noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5941610184627713363.post-89110921652141364552010-08-06T19:18:00.004-05:002010-08-06T20:02:51.391-05:00Dizzy in ParisWas it the champagne, a gift from my son and his girlfriend to celebrate my birthday? Was it the lights and sounds of this city, everything from the flickering light show of the Eiffel Tower at night to the sound of the accordian being played by a roving musician on le Metro? Or was it the art of Matisse, Renoir, Monet, Manet, Van Gogh and Rodin that had me so dizzy?<br /><br /><br /><br />This city is like a meal, too good to pass up one single course but there's a cost to gobbling it all up at once. Sensory overload, I think. Ernest Hemingway called it a moveable feast and wrote a book by the same name. Groaning, I am beginning to see what he meant... and it's not just from too many chocolate croissants and fabulous cheese plates. There's too much! Too many amazing statues to ogle, too much art to absorb, too much history to comprehend.<br /><br /><br /><br />So instead of the Louvre today we tackled only the Musee de l'Orangerie, the small (ish) museum tucked away at the far end of the Jardin des Tuileries. Here you can see two oval rooms filled with murals, the famous waterlilies by Claude Monet, as well as a very select collection of impressionist and post-impressionist art by the likes of Matisse, Picasso, Modigliani and Dernier. I love this museum... it's on a scale I can handle. Yesterday we relished the Musee d'Orsay, a former train station that was converted to a museum in the 1980s, a collection which boasts some famous pieces that you'd recognize--among them the dancers of Degas, the can-can girls of Toulouse Lautrec. No photos allowed in the museum, though.<br /><br /><br /><br />I can see I'll have to pace myself if I want to make it through the month. Between the elaborate architecture, the priceless art, the crepes sucrees (those are just the ones for dessert) and the wine, I'm in danger of dying of excess. But what a way to go.Vickie Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13452632397196538080noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5941610184627713363.post-48522448930474397642010-08-04T10:16:00.013-05:002010-08-04T11:24:46.756-05:00When Books Come AliveWhile in Paris I'm staying in a lovely apartment that is stocked with not only all the comforts of home but a generous bookshelf filled with books on Paris and some novels. I picked up <em>The Devil in the White City</em> by Erik Larson, a book based on the true accounts of the World Exhibition held in Chicago in 1893 interspersed with a grisly tale of a serial killer. The plot links Chicago and Paris because of the desire for the Chicago organizers to "out-Eiffel Eiffel" with a structure to rival the Eiffel Tower, created for the previous World Exhibition held right here in Paris. [This turned out to be an ingenious device created by a young man named Ferris who invented a large wheel capable of carrying people around the wheel to dizzying heights.]<br /><br />And so it was with new appreciation for La Tour Eiffel that we visited that structure once despised by the Parisians who nicknamed it "The Giant Asparagus" but which is now a universal symbol for this beautiful city. Comprised of 12,000 pieces of metal and 2,500,000 rivets, the Eiffel Tower is a draw for people all over the world. We heard half a dozen languages spoken, including some very incendiary expletives from a woman who tried to bargain with a souvenir vendor, to no avail.<br /><br />A boat trip further expanded our knowledge of the glorious history of the city and we glided under bridges built in the early 1600s, admiring the sights on both sides of the Seine. After the cruise we walked along the river and, having just read <em>The Day Diana Died</em> by Christopher Andersen, I had to lead my son Will and his girlfriend Yesenia to the spot on the Pont l'Alma where people go to honor the memory of Princess Diana. The statue, a replica of the torch held by the Statue of Liberty, has become an informal shrine to the late Princess who was killed in an automobile accident in 1997 in the underpass below. You'll find notes and flowers there in spite of no official sign.<br /><br />Later we wandered off to an area by le Jardin des Tuileries, across from which is a very high-end shopping district. The fashions in the window are a form of art themselves and I was reminded that Paris is the place for haute couture. Ooh la lah! Valentino, Versace, Dior, Chanel... the saints of fashion all lined up in a row.Vickie Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13452632397196538080noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5941610184627713363.post-83812563460460309662010-08-03T05:17:00.004-05:002010-08-03T05:52:32.748-05:00Spirits in ParisWhat is it about cemetaries that draw us to them? The sense of history, the beauty of the monuments, an eeriness combined with a strange comfort of continuity among generations... all of these are present and more at La Cimetiere du Pere-Lachaise. (Please excuse the lack of accent marks--I can't seem to find them within this blogging format.) This famous graveyard, profiled in dozens of movies, hosts the bones of literary greats, politicians, French dignitaries and, probably the most highly-profiled for Americans, Jim Morrison of the Doors. You may remember Mr. Morrison died an early death while visiting in Paris.<br /><br />We didn't get to see Mr. Morrison's grave yesterday because the skies opened up and we got drenched in a downpour, caught without our umbrellas. We headed for cover, any type of cover, and ended up squeezed in a tiny open mausoleum compliments of the Chevreaux family who didn't seem to object. What first seemed kind of creepy was actually delightful, avoiding the rain by enjoying the hospitality of a family long gone. The downpour subsided enough for us to head out of the cemetery and back to "le Metro" (Paris' wonderful subway system) and on our way out of the cemetery we noticed we weren't the only ones who ducked for cover under an open crypt.<br /><br />Before the rain began we did find our way to one of the graves I'd wanted to see: that of writer Colette. This dream of mine, to live in Paris, was planted long ago as a young student of literature and Colette was one of the many writers and artists I'd admired along with Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald and the ex-pat writers of the "Lost Generation" in the 1920s. This schoolgirl fascination with all things Parisian resulted in voracious reading and I loved Colette, a brave woman ahead of her time who made her living as an artist--not an easy thing for anyone to do but especially a woman writer in the early 1900s. To see her grave gave me a complex rush of feelings, nostalgic for a time I never experienced, honored to pay homage to her and sad to see her name, all alone, on the gravestone.<br /><br />Pere-Lachaise is filled with elaborate sculptures, engraved lines of poetry, old photos cast on stone and miles and miles of family history, all of which I wanted to know about. The rain chased us away but we'll be back. We still need to honor the spirit of Oscar Wilde, the famous playwright whose last words on his deathbed were reported to be "Either this wallpaper goes or I do!"Vickie Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13452632397196538080noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5941610184627713363.post-57060995345542461512010-08-01T03:26:00.004-05:002010-08-01T03:49:05.676-05:00Sunday at Notre Dame CathedralMy son Will and his lovely friend Yesenia arrived yesterday via train from Lyon where they were attending a week-long cooking class compliments of College of DuPage in Glen Ellyn, IL. I was so happy to see them! And so happy to have someone to talk to after three days of only speaking broken French with politely tolerant natives.<br /><br />I spent the day walking from my apartment into Paris, enjoying the Ile de la Cite (sorry, no accent marks) and having a cafe and chocolate mousse before heading over to the Gare de Lyon, what seems like the world's largest train station. While waiting for Will and Yesenia's train to come in, I walked along the Quai (prounounced "kee") and admired all the books and prints in each of the little kiosks that are draped along the side of the Seine. I was startled to see a swimming pool for children and their families right next to the river. People on the boat tour waved to me as I peered over le Pont St. Michel, one of the many bridges connecting the Left Bank (Rive Gauche) to the Right Bank (Rive Droit).<br /><br />This morning we're headed to Notre Dame for services which the Internet says are offered six times on Sunday.Vickie Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13452632397196538080noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5941610184627713363.post-65753963098431168782010-07-30T12:14:00.007-05:002010-07-30T13:28:03.271-05:00Je suis ici! (I am here!)Day Two<br /><br />I'm here! "Je suis ici," as they would say in Paris. My French is, alas, more than rusty. Yes, I got good grades in college French--thirty + years ago. Oh, well... the French give you points for trying.<br /><br />Yesterday was spent mostly recovering from the flight. Although the flight was pleasant, the landing left me feeling a little wobbly. I took my time, remembering my last visit to Charles de Gaulle airport meeting up with friend Diane Demrick. She'd be proud of me for traveling much lighter this time. <br /><br />I found my way via le Metro and Bus #91 to the apartment on Rue Arago without any trouble. What a lovely place to live for a month! In spite of knowing better, I slept, then took a long walk going one way on Rue Arago. I watched a little TV, all in French of course, and caught the tail end of an episode of "Law & Order." My body may take a while to catch up with the time zone. <br /><br />Today I ventured out and walked the other way, managing to massacre the French language at the Pharmacie, the cafe' and the marche' where I bought some groceries. Then I stopped in at the phone store and asked about my voicemail, which I am distressed to learn I cannot access without some serious roaming charges. Between the shopkeeper's broken English and my faulty French, we agreed I should visit the Orange Store which is at Place d'Italie. I had just had an early dinner of crepes and Duvel at Place d'Italie so I know where to go tomorrow.<br /><br />The thing about traveling is that you feel like such a dufus. Everything is so... foreign. The money. The language. The neighborhood. The map. But that's why I came, oui? To learn. Traveling takes you so far out of your comfort zone, it has to be good for you. I sat at an outside cafe' and watched people coming and going, meeting friends for drinks, picking up spouses from work, kissing each other hello and goodbye (both cheeks, of course) and was amazed at the variety of people. As I'd observed before when visiting in 2007, even the smallest children are tres chic.Vickie Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13452632397196538080noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5941610184627713363.post-75357195453785731652010-07-26T08:56:00.004-05:002010-07-26T09:10:51.872-05:00T Minus TwoLeaving for Paris in two days--yikes! My plans for preparation have been sidelined by a flooded basement, but not for long. I'm balancing cleaning debris with creating a Paris punchlist so I don't forget anything. <br /><br />I'm getting recommendations on Paris doings from friends and friends of friends, which is very comforting. I must say I've questioned my sanity from time to time about this trip. Although I've said this trip makes up for missing my junior year abroad, there's no one from a university to set up the curriculum for me. Oh, never mind--that's what I do for a living.<br /><br />Do I have any expectations? Yes. That my brain will be scrambled because that's what travel does. Travel scrambles your brain so your neural networks start taking a different route to work. Then, once our brains are scrambled we can see new possibilities for ourselves and our work. My plan, if I have any plan at all, is to be open to new ideas that will cultivate my business and the business of my clients. I'm not sure what that will look like but I'm creating it will happen. Just like that--a declaration.Vickie Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13452632397196538080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5941610184627713363.post-88144754504302694032010-06-14T06:56:00.003-05:002010-06-14T07:00:56.870-05:00Venturing forth... to WisconsinYesterday I experimented with travel by heading up north to friend Leslie's son's graduation party. I chose an alternate route on my way home, heading south on 31 instead of staying on Interstate 90. That's about as adventurous as I've been geographically. I did find the Grenzows' home handily thanks to Mapquest.<br /><br />The greenness of Wisconsin and the neatly packaged farms brought me back to my childhood in Milwaukee and even in Maine where we would venture forth as a family to explore the flora and fauna of whichever state we happened to reside in. I suppose that was one of the many benefits of moving around a lot as a kid--I got to see a lot of countryside. Wisconsin makes me think of camping and camping makes me think of... well, frankly, it makes me think of the Ritz Carlton. That's where I prefer to "camp."<br /><br />Blogging is like keeping a diary only everyone can read it. To make proper use of this technology, I ought to ask a question, so here goes: Do you like to camp? If so, why? And if not, why not?Vickie Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13452632397196538080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5941610184627713363.post-58880048738353479532010-06-13T09:47:00.002-05:002010-06-13T09:54:22.767-05:00Sunday AdventureToday I'm headed up to McFarland, WI, to celebrate the high school graduation of Peter Grenzow, the son of my oldest "BFF." Leslie Grenzow (nee Proctor) and I grew up together for some years in a two-flat in Milwaukee and we broke all the roller-skating records on our block the old-fashioned way--with the kind of skates that are clamped to your shoes and then a strap around the ankle. We kept our skate keys on a string around our necks. <br /><br />I'm still amazed that my "girlfriends" are graduating children from high school AND college... and that my nieces and nephews are having babies of their own.<br /><br />Leslie and I have a ritual rendezvous: several times a year we meet in Richmond, IL, which is half-way between our respective homes in McFarland and Wheaton. Richmond is a quaint little town filled with antique shops. We hit the shops, have lunch, hit the shops again and hug goodbye until our next rendezvous. She and I had a standing date on the morning my dad passed away and I kept the date--who better to console me than my oldest friend? I drove up for her dad's funeral and it was my great comfort to be in the kitchen with the "church ladies" as we cleaned and dried dishes after the reception. <br /><br />Today will be a celebration, and I'm honored to be a guest.Vickie Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13452632397196538080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5941610184627713363.post-76766877622393837982010-06-12T15:25:00.002-05:002010-06-12T15:34:22.847-05:00Getting ReadyI've decided to revive my blog, "Quotidian Adventures," in preparation for my trip to Paris in August. Granted, "quotidian" is a word not everyone knows but this will give people an opportunity to use the dictionary function on their computers. Besides, it says exactly what I want to do: record my daily adventures.<br /><br />My adventure has really already begun. I have an apartment rented in the 13th arrondisement (thank you, Jackie Sloane) and my ticket is purchased via frequent flier miles (thank you, John Kenney). Son William and his girlfriend Yesenia will be joining me in Week 1, along with my husband Bill. All will be with me to celebrate my 54th birthday August 6.<br /><br />These past three years have brought blogging a long way... some would say it's required of all small business owners. I was ahead of my time, then lagged behind. Thanks to the contribution of Joy Meredith (www.joymeredith.com), I'm getting back on track with my social media. Am I the only one who sometimes thinks it's <em></em>anti<em></em>-social media?<br /><br />Before I head off to Paris, I'm visiting North Carolina next week for the 3rd annual Energetic Women Conference. If there's anywhere I belong it's among other energetic women. These women, however, are actually professionals in the energy field: energy engineering and operations. Love those women engineers!<br /><br />Then my travels take me to Phoenix for a week where I'll be in residence as the new Director of Alumni Affairs and Marketing for the Walker Center for Entrepreneurship at Thunderbird. I'm excited about spending the week there, talking to the folks at the Center and on campus about the possibility of doing a research project. My idea is to do a survey of those who attended Thunderbird's executive MBA program (executive master's in international management in my day) and get feedback on how many of them began as entrepreneurs and how many of them became entrepreneurs. Not looking for a causal effect but more to see how the program may have contributed to alumni who, like me, launched a business following graduation. That should be fun.<br /><br />I know that blogs are supposed to be interactive, so let me ask this question: If you're an entrepreneur, do you have a desire to "go global?" Or are you global already?Vickie Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13452632397196538080noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5941610184627713363.post-58167330770336275652007-08-25T10:51:00.000-05:002007-08-25T11:08:14.605-05:00Back at the Blog...It's August and I'm back. In order to answer my question about "Where do I go next?" I joined the blogger group for Empowering Women Network (<a href="http://www.empoweringwomen.net/">http://www.empoweringwomen.net/</a>), a group of fabulous business women, and am learning more and more from Heidi Miller (<a href="http://www.heidimillerpresents.com/">http://www.heidimillerpresents.com/</a>) who is leading the charge for EWN's blog. I'm part of a brave group of pioneers helping create EWN's blog and I want to revive <em>this</em> blog as a platform for communicating with clients, colleagues and friends.<br /><br />I lost an opportunity to blog while in Taipei, Taiwan, on business for ModusLink, but God knows I tried. While in my gorgeous hotel room, I had no trouble logging on from the five-star hotel Grand Formosa Regent Hotel, but when I linked onto my blog, it showed up in German! I couldn't figure out how to switch the language--French, yes, and Spanish, OK, but I couldn't even fake my way through German (much less Mandarin Chinese), so I had to laugh and sign off. I guess that means CHOICES Worldwide really HAS gone worldwide when my blog shows up in some random foreign language. (I'll have to ask Heidi about that one.)<br /><br />My next mission: to let people know I even <em>have</em> a blog. According to Heidi, who is a corporate spokesperson with amazing technical skills and known as EWN's Podcast Princess, blogs are an ideal format for creating two-way conversations. And people can't respond if they don't know I'm here... so I'll get cracking on that. In the meantime, check out my contribution to EWN's blog and if you're a woman in business in the Chicago area, please consider joining us. EWN is one of the most powerful women's business groups I know.Vickie Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13452632397196538080noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5941610184627713363.post-83345439427574599652007-06-23T08:36:00.000-05:002007-06-23T08:53:39.192-05:00Blogger Etiquette?Frankly, I'm stumped on how to proceed as a blogger. I have blogging friends I admire--among them Barry Moltz, author of <em>You Need to Be a Little Crazy, </em>one of the best books I've ever read on starting your own business, and Francine Hardaway, the irrepressible doyenne of opinion based in Phoenix and Half-Moon Bay. Francine's facility with technology inspires me and I'm looking forward to her conference coming up in November, the Second Annual Entrepreneurship Conference in Phoenix. And of course there's my hero, Tom Peters, whose blog was one of the first I'd ever read.<br /><br />So now that I've documented my trip to Paris, do I continue with random thoughts? How to balance the personal, since this feels like a diary, with professional, since I'm inviting others to read it? I'm clearly going to have to do some more research on the art form of blogging itself.<br /><br />In the meantime, I'm back in the swing of things in Wheaton, IL. My clients John Kenney and Kristen Diamond from ModusLink were in Chicago this week and we had a great day at my office space in downtown Chicago (compliments of HQ Global), reviewing our presentations and discussing the format for taking the sales training program to Asia.<br /><br />Kristen came up with the brilliant idea to create three "tracks" so the participants can rotate through our sessions in order to accommodate getting each of them videotaped for presentation training. The Asian sales force, like the European one, is comprised of people from all parts of Asia, so we can't do a "one size fits all" approach. This is a very exciting project and I am forever indebted to John for inviting me to collaborate with him and his team.<br /><br />This afternoon I'm heading off to my husband Bill's school, Esperanza, for their cake-walk and carnival. I'm looking forward to meeting his co-workers and students. He teaches special education to high schoolers at this alternative school and has a quiet fortitude about making a difference with these kids. In the meantime, I'm enjoying my morning coffee, watching the much-needed rain outdoors, admiring the two dogs lounging on the couch like bookends (we're "baby-sitting" our daughter's dog, Jake) and feeling only a modicum of guilt about missing my aerobics class due to a sinus headache.Vickie Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13452632397196538080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5941610184627713363.post-57145435098320561922007-06-08T11:40:00.000-05:002007-06-08T12:12:06.735-05:00Back Home AgainFlew back home yesterday and am feeling the effects of jet lag as well as Claritan D after suffering a major allergy attack the evening before I left... but I'm unpacked and back in the office now, trying to remember what I was doing before I left. Time to check e-mail, voicemail and catch up on all things not Paris-related.<br /><br />Brought <em>mon chien</em> Peanut with me to work today and the first thing I did was walk with Peanut, my office-mate Jeff and his beautiful daughter Grace to the coffee shop down the street. I have to go through re-entry carefully (like a space shuttle) so it seemed a good idea to begin my day with a trip to the local cafe. Jeff brought his cat to his office because they're trying to sell their home, so between the dog on my side of the office and a cat on his, we have the animal kingdom covered. The joy of being self-employed! There's been more than one time that I've thought of going back into the corporate life, only to remember I can't bring my dog and dismissed the idea summarily.<br /><br />The trip back was great--John, my client, bless his heart, upgraded my ticket to business class. It's a whole new world for this business traveler. I needed an in-service just to figure out how the chair, which reclines into an almost-bed, and the individual TV worked. A kind gentleman, Jon, was my seat mate and because his work causes him to travel extensively, he was my tutor throughout the flight. Between the attentiveness of the flight attendants and the copious amounts of food (I passed up most of the unlimited offers of champagne and wine, having consumed more than enough on my travels), it became clear to me that business class is the only way to go. I kept thinking of the line from an old song, "How you gonna keep 'em down on the farm, now that they've seen Paree?"<br /><br />Due to aforementioned allergy attack, I didn't have the opportunity to post my last blog from Paris at the Sofitel, where our meetings went well and I got to know the sales team. My presentation was Wednesday morning and the team was generous in participating in the interactive portion... I asked each of them to think back to early memories of when they knew they were good at selling.<br /><br />Every one of them had a great story to tell, from featuring eggs in a county fair-like competition and winning (didn't have a chicken so he went out and bought the eggs) to setting up a home business as early as six years old. One gentleman set up a team of friends whom he sent out to do chores, and he collected the money a la Tom Sawyer (can you say "override"?) The group proved not only that they were gifted from an early age but that necessity is often the mother of invention--and, more importantly, innovation. It will take me a while to get the sound of the lilting French, Irish, English, Scottish and Dutch accents from my head.<br /><br />It was with sorrow that I left beautiful Paris and in going through my e-mail, came across a quotation cited by a woman who has an ex-patriate blog of her own... she quoted Ben Franklin, who was known to say, "Everyone has two countries; the one in which he was born, and France.” Now I, too, have two countries.Vickie Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13452632397196538080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5941610184627713363.post-86941187579499780012007-06-04T17:51:00.000-05:002007-06-04T18:08:22.105-05:00Later that evening...I’m in the transition between the vacation portion and the work phase. My colleagues from the States are not yet here, so I ate dinner by myself in the restaurant, reading a book and chatting with the wait staff. Everyone is so kind about letting me stumble my way through a sentence, correcting me gently but cheering me on with their eyes. It’s true that if you try to speak the language, it’s appreciated.<br /><br />Worked on my presentation tonight, taking into account the recommendations of my local advisor, Sophie Mottin. Sophie is a saleswoman with the company, based in Orleans, and she was kind enough to give me an overview of the team + some suggestions about my PowerPoint presentation. I made some changes and tried to see the words and phrases through the eyes of someone who isn’t American. For instance, I took out references to the Boy Scout motto and high school, although I know there are European equivalents of both. I think being here these past few days has helped me see where I made cultural assumptions (I knew the Boy Scout reference wouldn’t fly when I wrote it but also thought it would work for the North American sales force, which it did).<br /><br />I keep having flashbacks of all the people I saw on the Metro this past week. Diane and I both observed the flair with which people (especially the women, but men, too) dress. Even the littlest child is dressed with a certain “je ne sais quoi”—casual ease, seemingly careless but it comes together like high fashion. The little girls wear jewelry and carry handbags. Women dress in layers and everyone, it seems, even the men, wear scarves artfully wrapped around their necks. The young girls, jeunes filles, are wearing brightly colored tops that look like dresses worn over black leggings. Most everyone is thin and a lot of people smoke.<br /><br />One thing I noticed is that people rarely talk on their cell phones, especially when they’re sitting with other people. They enjoy each other’s company, facing the street in the cafes so they’re sitting side by side, which is what Diane and I learned to do. That allows you to watch people as they go by while talking and drinking and eating. Such a civilized country! In Chicago three out of four people are walking down the street talking on their cell phones, and it isn't unusual to see someone take a call while sitting across from someone at lunch. Now I know why Hemingway and the gang adopted this country as their own.<br /><br />On Friday we climbed to the first level of the Eiffel Tower... Diane thought the sign that said “escalier” mean escalator, but it means "stairs." I should have known. At the second level, after catching my breath, we took photos, admired the view of Paris and stopped into the restaurant to see if we could have dinner, but apparently they are booked weeks in advance—mostly, it seemed, with large tours. We sat at the bar and had a glass of wine and when I asked the gentleman bartender in my tortured French what Kir is, he gave us a complimentary drink of Kir and champagne. What a treat! It tasted almost like a Pom-tini. I love zee French.<br /><br />Then we got more tickets and waited forever for the ride to the next level--the view from the top was magnificent. When we came down, we took the boat cruise and watched the light show on the Eiffel Tower from the Seine. We had to wait until nearly after 10:00 for the sky to get dark enough to enjoy the lights, and so by the time we took the Metro home, it actually closed on us while we were making our last connection! We walked the rest of the way home.<br /><br />Other kindnesses: on the first day when we came from the airport via the Metro, I was struggling on the stairs (more stairs!) with my two suitcases, and two gentlemen stopped to help me. Diane laughed to turn around and see me come up with stairs without my bags, followed by two men carrying one bag each. She told me later that one of the men held up two fingers with a look of disbelief and said “Two.” Yes, I packed two bags, too much and next time will find a way to stuff everything, including my laptop, into one carry-on. Diane only brought one suitcase and managed to cram in an amazing amount of stuff. But, did I mention, I love zee French?<br /><br />In fact, I almost missed her at the airport because I waited for her in the baggage claim area. Our flights were less than an hour apart and I watched everyone from Miami come and go. When I approached the man from the airline, who had told me the flight was coming in, he thought I lost a bag. “Non,” I said, “mon amie!” I lost my friend! He looked her up in the computer and said she hadn’t checked any baggage, so I wandered out into the terminal and called her on her cell phone. We found each other within minutes and had our first of many café stops in the airport.<br /><br />We had a television in our room which we didn’t even turn on until the last night we were there, and what should come on but a French-dubbed episode of Law & Order: Criminal Intent. My addiction for Law & Order follows me to France. Right now I’m watching CNN, channel surfing between the one English-speaking channel (two, really, including Bloomberg which has limited entertainment value) and the movies which I can discern the plots of based on my limited vocabulaire and the acting. Last night I couldn’t sleep so I watched a Clint Eastwood movie that had dubbed French subtitles. A good way to learn French, according to the waiter at the Bistro Amelot, next door to our hotel, Les Jardins de Marais. My eternal gratitude to Bev and Bob Jones from church who recommended our hotel.Vickie Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13452632397196538080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5941610184627713363.post-35525883091774704592007-06-04T11:02:00.000-05:002007-06-04T11:20:17.061-05:00Paris Journey, Parte DeuxThe first phase of my journey here in Paris is complete, and Parte Deux begins. I said goodbye to my friend Diane at the airport this morning (kissing on both cheeks as is the custom) and then checked into the nearby Sofitel Hotel where we are having our sales training meetings this week. I expect John and Kristen will be in any moment if they aren't already here.<br /><br />My original intention with this blog was to enter comments each night as my trip unfolded but, alas, that was not to be. The Internet connection at the first hotel was only available for WiFi, and I needed a cable connection... that's when I ventured forth to the business center (see previous entry) and encountered my first international business adventure--a French keyboard! I'm now hooked up via my own laptop but shall make this short, as I've been catching up on e-mail and am not sure what the end result will be in terms of local phone charges.<br /><br />Just a few highlights from Parte Une:<br />--Diane and I hit as many cafes as we could and did our level best to boost the local economy which, thanks to the exchange rate, isn't in need of much boosting. We hit the ground running on Day One and went directly to Notre Dame cathedral in Isle de la Cite (sorry I can't add those wonderful accent marks via this keyboard). We averaged three destinations per day and got in as much coffee (me) and diet Coke (her) as we could consume along with delectable pastries and ample meals.<br /><br />--As fascinating as the sights are the people! For the most part we were welcomed enthusiastically and I was able to practice my feeble French, although I said to Diane more than once that I wildly overestimated my ability to communicate and was beyond humbled. I seem to have forgotten all my verbs. (And all that Spanish I learned in between got in the way.) But people-watching from a sidewalk cafe, in the Metro, walking down the street, was the most enjoyable of all sports. <br /><br />--Of course the usual sights, Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, the bridges, the Louvre, the Musee d'Orsay, the Musee d'Orangerie, were all amazing. We saw the Mona Lisa, Winged Victory, Venus de Milo, murals of Monet's waterlilies and other priceless, famous pieces of art, so much it made my head spin. It's hard to look at Whistler's Mother and not see her on one of those commercials on TV that brought her to life.<br /><br />--The food! From the bread to the meats and desserts, we had so much wonderful food that I'm not sure all the walking truly did compensate for the input. But the chocolate tartette I had on the second day (or was that the first?) was as close to heaven as one can get.<br /><br />--We went to church Sunday at Notre Dame cathedral and attended the Mass which was, of course, said in French. The majesty of the cathedral is impossible to describe, and I thought of our organist at home, Bill Crosbie, as I listened to the organ reverberate through the nave. There were many faithful in attendance, participating in the service while the hum of tourists continued in a circle around us. The Affirmation of Faith, while said in another language, was comforting and familiar.<br /><br />I'm off to connect with John and make some revisions to tomorrow's presentation. I feel blessed beyond measure to be here and thrilled to be accessible by e-mail again. There may be a Blackberry in my future after all.Vickie Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13452632397196538080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5941610184627713363.post-78795798255063214372007-06-02T17:51:00.000-05:002007-06-02T18:18:35.440-05:00Je suis ici!We arrived in Paris on Wednesday and I am just now getting to enter this, my first blog entry from abroad... and it will be very short because this keyboard at my hotel is in French and the keys are not in the same places! And that's a really big deal when the "a" is in the wrong place because there are a lot of "a's" in English. Also, the comma isn't where it's supposed to be.<br /><br />Ah. well. that's the beauty of international travel. Teaches us to be flexible.<br /><br />France is, of course, incroyable... that is to say, incredible. Today we visited the Sacré-Coeur and I lit a candle for my friend Sheryl in her memory. Diane loved Montmartre where we walked the cobblestone streets along with a thousand other tourists, enjoyed the sunshine on the steps of Sacré-Coeur, ate ice cream in what was possibly the best ice cream shop in the world and had a glass of wine in an outside cafe, sitting admiringly across from the store where we had just bought a bag full of souvenirs. Then we ventured on to the Arc de Triomphe by Metro, having just bought a 2-day pass (we learned our lesson last night after having to sweet-talk our way into the station since we had no change and our credit cards wouldn't work). Got off two stops past the Charles de Gaulle stop where we should have gotten off and backtracked a bit, coming up the stairs to be knocked out by the view of both the Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower, which we visited yesterday.<br /><br />So tonight we had dinner in a restaurant on the Champs-Elysées, a lovely repast of pasta and mostly people-watching. The people are amazing! Beautiful people--polite, genteel, patient with someone like me who brushed off her college French and can't resist using it. The waiter tonight took our photo and made sure he got the Champs-Elysées in the picture, too. In watching all the people, the women in particular, I vowed to Diane that when I come back home, I promise to take more fashion risks.Vickie Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13452632397196538080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5941610184627713363.post-34165230988638020012007-05-31T11:17:00.000-05:002007-06-22T19:20:06.443-05:00Dateline: ParisDateline Paris, 9:17 a.m., Thursday, May 31, 2007—Je suis ici. J’arrive. I think that means, I’ve arrived. I’m actually only as far as the baggage claim at the Charles de Gaulle Airport, called Roissy, but Paris it is, so I’m officially declaring my mission accomplished. Going through customs was a breeze, although there was a very funny que to go through, zigging and zagging our way to the kiosks where the customs agents were awaiting us, unimpressed and giving new meaning to the word blasé.<br /><br />Now I’m waiting for Diane to arrive from Miami. In the meantime, I’m reading the huge signs for the Cannes Film Festival (sponsored by L’Oreal because, no doubt, they’re worth it), the perfume billboards and listening to the rapid-fire French dialogues around me. Far from the language lab of 1977… from my college French textbook conversations that I can still recite verbatim (“La neige est belle aujourd hui; si on allez faire du ski?” Translation: “The snow is beautiful today… would you like to go skiing?”) A lovely couple from the plane smiled as they passed me with their luggage and said, “Have a good trip,” to which I replied, “You, too,” then belatedly, sensing something in them that hinted at more savoir faire than the typical American, “Or do you live here?” The woman smiled and nodded, Yes. “Je suis jalouse,” I countered. Haven’t even gotten out of the airport and already I’m jealous of any American who gets to live here.<br /><br />The plane ride was uneventful, surprisingly like every other plane ride only, of course, longer. Read one of my Paris guide books from the library called “The Irreverent Guide to Paris.” It’s very funny, wickedly written and I can’t wait to use it when we plot our next few days. Watched two movies: “Miss Potter” with Renee Zellweger and “Dirty Dancing.” Oy vey, that was a throwback. Hard to believe it was such a hit with such a corny script, but it was fun to watch them dance and to marvel at Patrick Swayze’s muscles rippling.<br /><br />I sat next to a gentleman from Beirut who lives in Australia… he struck up a short conversation and I learned he’s in Paris to visit his niece. He was very, em, ripe and I caught a whiff of him from time to time. After reading a book in Arabic, he put the regulation airplane blanket over his head and fell asleep, spilling over into my seat with his elbow. Even a gentle nudge didn’t move him. I finally got up and walked around a bit, checked in with the flight attendant to see if she knew anything about Di’s flight from Miami which was delayed, and by the time I got back to my seat, he had shifted. I don’t know why but I was very surprised when he strapped on a clerical collar upon landing. Would I have thought of him differently if I knew he was a priest?<br /><br />There’s a café upstairs but if I exit, I can’t get back in, so I’m waiting instead. I could go for a strong cup of coffee right now… it’s 2:35 a.m. Chicago time, and now I’m getting used to looking at my dual-dial watch in its respective time zones from the other side of the Atlantic. I think of my boys, asleep, Peanut munching contentedly on one of my quilts, no doubt. I know they’ll be fine without me but I worry that they won’t talk to each other, won’t buy any food except bread and milk, won’t survive unless I’m there to keep their world spinning. Silly, really. They’re both grown men. And Bill—how did he get by for 31 years without me?Vickie Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13452632397196538080noreply@blogger.com0