Versailles

The Notre Dame

The Eiffel Tower

Bisous,
N

First, to finish up Paris.

Well, not exactly Paris, because the airport in Amsterdam is definitely worth noting. The signage is clean, crisp, colorful ..a minimalist designer’s dream. The bathrooms have orange toilet paper. Those cute KLM uniforms are everywhere. That blue. Sigh. Too bad KLM is all brawn no brains, because their brand identity is just SO good. Anyhow, if in Amsterdam, MUST go to chocolate bar. MUST.

A KLM bread/creamcheese treat? Beats peanuts for sure.

Back to Paris. In the States, it’s all about the plastic. Bags, cups, packaging, tampons… you name it, it probably comes in plastic. I can’t really explain what makes eating creamy yogurt out of a glass container or drinking ice cold milk out of a glass bottle better. It just is. And while it may seem like a waste to throw so much glass around, remember that the French are a bit ahead of our time in the sustainability department. Bring your own bags to the grocery store, or walk the walk of shame out the door.

Reuse!

What’s a vacation without Vietnamese food? We got a little home away from home with a little Little Saigon at a place we stumbled upon. Scouring the streets for Japanese, we were dumbfounded when, all that time, we had been standing in front of a Viet place.

I’m getting a bit nostalgic looking at the photos from Paris, but I can’t wait to show off what the villa looks like.

Next, the Arc de Triomphe, Notre Dame, and the Tour Eiffel.

Bisous,
N

Although, right now, three of five family members are very, very sick, which doesn’t speak very highly of our eating and seeing activities, does it? Dad has gout, Mom has a stomach that rejects absolutely everything, and Nick hasn’t eaten a real meal in two days. That’s saying a lot – this growing 13-year-old has a love for food that trumps all. If Aunt Monique is somewhere out there reading this, she’ll know what to do.

Now, the food.

The past 7 days, there were coffee-and-croissant meals, bread-and-cheese meals, Michelin-star meals, Are-we-in-San Jose? meals, and This-is-a-meal? meals.

The fun with food lies mostly in the discovery. Most deserve an S for satisfactory, few deserve superlatives. But once in a while you’ll find that hidden food gem that leaves you with the memory of the first, and the second, and the third bite because it was JUST that good. Since most places in Paris really are just that good, it’s important to be wary of your senses. Or face stone-cold food coma. Like I did. Hence, the lack of updating.

L’Epi Dupin

Across from the grocery/department store mega-plex Le Bon Marché is a little side-street Rue du Dupin, home of L’Epi Dupin, the refined side of gritty French country cooking. They started us off with a milk carrot purée, a flacky artichoke tartelette and a tantalizing duck confit pastry.

Nick had a silky red snapper with friend vegetables over a seafood sauce, while Mom and I shared a lamb with a vegetable/butter/honey glaze. The meat fell so gracefully off the bone. Dad had a lapin rôti, roasted rabbit, an image I’ll spare you of.

The dessert fared even better than the entrées, featuring a peeled peach with sesame-ginger crisp à la mode, a pineapple cocktail with coconut foam, and a gooey hot chocolate pudding.

Vin et Marée

In all sorts of ways, this dinner was an escapade. One, finding the place. Two, deciphering the Da Vinci code of a menu, with the non-english speaking maitre d’. Three, the food. Oh, the food.

The images speak for themselves.

More to come,

N

The Musée de Louvre is perhaps the most glorious testament to the French love of the arts (and the arts’ love for the French). It began as a fortress under Philip II in the late 12th century then – after multiple renovations, expansions and renovations again – became a museum for the masses during the Revolution in the late 18th century. The Louvre is known for its world-class collections, due to the resident King Franci I who began collecting art for the Royal palace in the 1500’s. And not just the art of the French – the works of the ancient Roman empire and the Italian Renaissance too.

Art was grand enough to appeal to the aristocratic senses, and  powerful enough to cross the political divides that existed between the European entities. The most renowned of all the Louvre’s acquisitions, the Mona Lisa, represents all that the Louvre is and was. Lisa del Giocondo is a woman, not of noble descent, not of distinguished royalty, who was eternalized in portrait by Leonardo de Vinci. Francis I  wanted badly to own a piece painted by the great Italian artist de Vinci, and he found what he was looking for in the Mona Lisa. Art for non-political purpose. Art for the love of art. Art for art’s sake. Très cool, if you ask me.

The day didn’t exactly start with the Louvre. For Boojie and Dad, tennis takes no vacation, so they walked to the Palais de Luxembourg for some court time. Meanwhile, on the other side of the sixième, Nick snoozed away his allergy and I ate du yaourt et des fraises with Mumsie. The Bulle brand is the best. Like little scoops of heaven.

Trekking toward the Louvre, I felt much obliged to a second petit déjeuner. Tasting Paris is just as important as seeing it. Un café crème et un macaron en vanille pour emporté, s’il vous plaît. Although, if given the choice, one should not take their coffee at Paul’s emporté, to go.  The rustic wooden tables, the leather-upholstered chairs, the smell of freshly baked pastries… ingredients for the ultimate lazy afternoon.

Marc Jacobs said that in New York, free time feels like failure. In Paris, free time feels like success. I know what he means.

But it may be that the grass is always greener somewhere else. Just as some Americans dream of Paris, Parisians dream of the US. They heart NY, a lot. The Vespas say so.

In my opinion, American bigger might be better in regards to toilets, sidewalks and washing machines, but les petits poulets rôti, the small rotisserie chickens slow-roasting en plein air, filling the street with the aroma of crackling butter and the unique French mélange d’herbes, prove that big gifts come in small packages.

The Louvre is the ultimate style contradiction. It’s old meeting new, private meeting public, minimalism meeting baroque. All of it makes for a striking spectacle.

Of all the Salon-esque, Académie des Beaux-Arts-type works, these four pieces were my favorite.

1. The statue of Athena Nike, landing atop a sailing vessel. 1,000 years old. Seriously.

2. The column capitals in the Roman/Etruscan art sculpture garden, previously a hunting and horse stable. Each column had its own thematic animal carved atop it. Rawr.

3. Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People. Recognize the pose of the Madame Liberté and the little boy? Our very own Statue of Liberty, a gift from the French, perhaps? Coincidence? I think not.

4. Decamps’ La Défaite des Cimbres. That landscape. Oh my whoa.

And because I had too…. here is Mona and her tourists, velvet rope, bullet-proof glass and all. Featuring none other than… Dad.

À bientôt,

N

Our apartment faces St. Andre des Arts in the 6th arrondisement, with the River Seine and Notre Dame to the north.

The rustic interior is has a Tahoe-lodge sensibility, but with the poise of Paris. My family of 5 sleeps in two bedrooms, two in each, and, being the fifth, I sleep on the couch. But I don’t mind that much, because my favorite part of the whole apartment are the brawny wood beams that hang above the living room and kitchen. Well, “kitchen”. Suddenly, my humble college abode doesn’t seem so humble.

Not even a power nap could save our jetlag, but the sweet smells and bustling sounds of the street below drew us from beneath our blankets to the delectable treats that awaited us. We took des boules, bulging scoops of gelato, to the road, then to the Seine. We hopped on a boat that took us to the city’s monuments – la Tour Eiffel, les Champs-Elysées, Nôtre Dame, Musées D’Orsay. We didn’t hop off though, because the jet lag took over and the hunger set in.

It wasn’t until 10 p.m. when the sun retired completely. We ate, as most French do, late. As the night progressed, more and more Parisians came out to dinner, and continued to party all night Saturday. This remarkably quiet Sunday morning is a perfect antidote to last night’s bruhaha.

If there’s anything I’ve learned in the past 24 hours, no matter what accomplishments are credited to the French – artistic, political, cultural, etc. – it’s their food putting the Triomphe in the Arc.

À bientot,

N

I’m abroad for the next seven weeks, hoping that the miracles of the Internet will keep me blogging until I’ve touched back in SFO. Miracles like in-flight wifi, free on this Delta flight. Though my middle seat allocation makes me uncomfortably close to my aisle and window neighbors. It hurts to blog under their peering eyes. Look away! It’s a SkyMall! The free wi-fi (almost) makes up for the endless list of grievances concerning Delta’s overwhelming lack of organization at the counter. Three kiosks, international and domestic, in the domestic terminal, together. Really now. I’m talking long lines that made grown men cry.

But, nonetheless, I’m making slow progress toward my destination of long-time affection, Paris. First, an apartment in the 6th arrondissement overlooking the croissant-abundant, cultural capital of Saint Germain. Then, I head to Rome to meet my UC summer abroad cohorts and spend the next six weeks prancing between our villa in Umbria, Rome, and wherever else our hearts desire. It’s not all play, though, it’s work too – drawing in the sights and scenery of the places that were once the epicenter of the Renaissance and the Baroque, live and in-the-flesh, all day. See? Work.

Should be a great ride.

N

There is a strange calm in between “Congratulations!” and “Welcome Freshmen!”. You’re supposed to grow up and learn how to read the course catalog and know what your future will be in a second. You’re supposed to have all this time to transition, prepare, relax. I guess it’s July 25th now, that time is half-gone and so far I only feel half-grown up.

Britt A, Britt B, Jess, Tess, Kerst, Sam, Bri and I went to Monterey, fresh out of graduation, to take advantage of the only weekend this entire summer when we’d all be together. A strange familiarity came over me when I was watching us setting the table for eight, buying groceries, cooking a meal, rinsing the dishes and wiping down the counters. Like maybe one day we would be doing this for real; piling on the bed to cuddle, dancing on the table tops, packing a day-trip sandwich lunch, and inviting all our friends over for a good cup of jello.

It’s been three weeks of Kevin carrying cardboard boxes, and slowly (but surely) the new home is becoming more livable and the old home is becoming …well, not. The move has been beautiful for the most part, but it’s also depressing having to let all the old memorabilia go. Every day feels like a vacation, like one of these days I’m going to wake up, pack all my bags, and go HOME – except home is here, on this hill, past the steep, windy road, twenty minutes from real life.

Each gas-guzzling trip to EV means a full SUV of crap back. It’s bittersweet that one home can’t be full without the other being empty.

These are shots from our first real day with the house, and even though they are really, really outdated, Kevin gave me daily threats about updating so.. HERE.