In Which I Am Considered an Expert of Sorts

Expat life has its glamorous and mindblowing moments.  And then there are days like yesterday when I went to the gym, did two loads of laundry, made a trip to the supermarket and the post office, baked brownies and made a lasagna, changed sheets, and had a parent teacher conference.  Not exactly the kind of life that gets you on the best seller list.  Fortunately, I will spare you additional boring details about my life and instead send you over http://www.wanderingeducators.com/  which yesterday posted an interview of...... me!  If you've been reading along here for awhile, you might find some of this repetitive.  ( But like I said, expat life has its dull moments.)  Thanks to Jessica Voigts of Wandering Educators for the opportunity.

Never a Dull Moment

You never know what's waiting for you when you head out the front door in the morning.  Yesterday, I saw:

A cherry tree in full bloom inside the courtyard of the Petit Palais.  No, spring has not progressed this far citywide.  My guess is that it's a good 10 degrees warmer inside the courtyard than elsewhere.  And if you haven't visited the Petit Palais, put it on your list.  The collection is a bit of mish mash but there are some amazing pieces.  Plus it's free.

Poulet de Bresse for sale at the butcher shop.  For 24 euros a kilo, you get to pay for the feet too.  But that is some fine chicken.

A fine equestrian show along the quai des Célestins by la Garde républicaine, I'm assuming as part of the ceremonies related to South African President Jacob Zuma's state visit.

All in all, not a bad day.

How Many Frenchmen Does It Take to Change A Light Bulb?

Just one but it sure helps if you have a crane.

This and That

An unopened jar of tamarind paste bought for some recipe, which one I no longer remember.  Half finished bottles of orange flower water and pomegranate molasses.  Three cans of sardines that I purchased mistakenly assuming they were anchovies.  Half a package of gelatin sheets.  A box of tapioca and a can of bamboo shoots left to me by departing expats.

What does this stuff have in common?  Well, it's all sitting in my kitchen cabinets or in the door of my refrigerator, and I've got about four months to use it up or toss it.  And I'm too much my mother's daughter (and she was a child of the Depression) to not wince at the thought of wasting good food.

The reality of our departure is becoming more vivid as the days pass. I'd thought about putting a countdown ticker here on my blog but happily as our exact date is not yet set, there's no point in having a depressing daily reminder of it.  In fact, I'm not sad (not yet),  just busy, both trying to take advantage of what Paris has to offer and to take care of all the practical details.  So if you have a good recipe that uses any or all of the above, send it my way.  We may be doing some pretty strange eating around here but at least we'll still be doing it in Paris.

Les Serres d'Auteuil

For the last day of February, Paris taunted me. The day started sunny with blue skies but by 10:00, it had all gone south. The sun disappeared and a damp chill swept in, sending me running for thicker socks, a warmer scarf, and the gloves that I had discarded last week. Fortunately, I'd already made a plan to visit the greenhouses (les serres) in the Jardin d'Auteuil, abutting the Bois de Boulogne in the lower 16th. Originally a huge botanic garden in the time of Louis XV, time and urban development gradually reduced the size of the gardens. But there's still plenty to see here, at least for the next year or so. The recent decision by the French Tennis Federation to keep the French Open (known here by its location, Roland Garros) in the city of Paris means that the gardens will once again be reduced in size, this time to make way for tennis courts and the foot traffic engendered by an international sporting event. (If you want to know more about the controversy, you can read all about it the New York Times story.)

So my advice to you is to get off your duff and make your way to Auteuil as soon as possible, or at the very least sometime this spring when the outdoor gardens will begin to bloom in earnest. What's more, entrance to the greenhouses is free and open 364 days a year (Christmas excepted) from 9:00 am to 4:45 pm.


And here's a hot tip: in the biggest greenhouse known as the Palmarium, there are tables and chairs just waiting for you to come have a picnic. It's strictly BYOB (and for that matter everything else too) but absolutely allowed. Doesn't that sound better than a cup of crummy Parisian coffee on a terrasse filled with smokers?

Les Serres d'Auteuil

Metro: Porte d'Auteuil

Free entry

Budapest

Budapest may not be anyone's idea of an ideal vacation spot in February but when unrest in the Middle East made me nervous about my original idea of heading to Morocco and my husband announced that he had to be in Budapest last week for a meeting, it seemed to be kismet.  It's a place that had been on my radar screen for some time, somewhere that we would be much less likely to take the time and expense to visit after our European sojourn comes to an end.  And the city did not disappoint.  In fact, in many ways, it charmed and intrigued me more than Vienna, the city to which it is historically linked, as someone told me, always Chicago to Vienna's New York.

Budapest's streetscape is a sprawling patchwork of crumbling 19th century grandeur, bleak Soviet era architecture, and a mishmash of what's cropped up, for better and for worse, since the fall of Communism in 1989.  There are broad boulevards, stone plazas, quirky statuary, and an idyllic city park.  And then there's the Danube, which separates the hills of Buda from the flatlands of Pest.   The city was bombed heavily in World War II.  Much was rebuilt and then neglected;  in contrast to the bright white limestone of Paris, many buildings are dark with soot and pitted by acid rain.  A few well managed rehabilitation projects suggest, however, that perhaps there's a brighter future ahead.

And for the tourist, there's plenty to keep one busy. Our two favorites were the House of Terror, the former headquarters of both the fascist and Communist secret police made into a chilling and compelling modern museum, and the Szechenyi baths. If you had told me two weeks ago, that I'd be enjoying a dip in an outdoor swimming pool on a day when the temperatures were hovering around 0 degrees Centigrade, I'd have told you that you were nuts. But with sunshine and a clear blue sky, an amazing Neoclassical setting, and a water temperature of 36 degrees Centigrade, it was hard to beat. Follow that with a hearty chicken paprikash and a nice glass of Hungarian red, and you've got a vacation. 





Four story collage of victims of terror at the hands of fascists (German and Hungarian) and Communists



Couldn't resist getting a shot of the "So Frenchy" sandwich.



I found this inscription on the window of an elegant restaurant enigmatic -- why only for those with small appetites?



Saturday and Sunday, we were treated to folk dancing performances on the plaza just outside the apartment where we stayed.



Through These Portals Pass

Doorways seem to be a big favorite for travel photographers.  Is it the visuals themselves or the imaginings of what's happening within that most enchants?  My guess it's probably a little of both.  Since so many other people are busy sharing their doorway pics, and because it's hard to capture a door in Paris without the image of a parked car directly in front of it, I've shied away from taking too many myself.  And as much as I liked this doorway with its spectacular caryatids (somewhat spoiled by their no parking signs), I realize now that it's a bit crooked.

No matter.  There's something that makes this doorway, somewhere on an obscure street in the 16th arrondissement, noteworthy.  Take a look at what's been carved directly over the door itself:

The inscription reads:

Lasse des vains espoirs et des bruits de la terreHeureuse d'oublier, l'une a fermé les yeux....

A son premier matin, sans effroi du mystère,

L'autre aspire à la vie en souriant au cieux !

Translated, we learn that this means:

Tired of false hopes and the sounds of the earth
Happy to forget, one has closed its eyes.
On his first morning without fear of mystery,
The other aspires to life, smiling in heaven!

A little sleuthing determined that the architect of this residence was Paul Sédille best known for his work on the Printemps department store.  As for the author of the verse or its significance at this location, I haven't got a clue.