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Christmas Day, Pipeline Wave Worship, Northshore, Hawaii

Have you had the pleasure of a Hawaiian Holiday?

A vacation is an opportunity for reflection.

We spent most of Christmas Day 2016 taking in famous big waves, known as The Pipeline, on the Northshore of Hawaii.  We are recovering from the shock of what seemed like  The End of Me.  My illness was no mere cold or common headache.  The late-stage cancer that I had out danced, out laughed, and out treated (with top technology) while not skipping a beat caught up with us.  Our family and friends (thank goodness) rallied around us.

Last year, at this time I was in a hospital bed unable rise, walk, and mumbling absurdities.  We were facing the abyss.  Yet, I was unready to leave.  “I don’t want to die,” I growled decimated in the sticky hospital bed.  Scrappy, I clung to life even though my body was no longer hospitable to my soul.  At one point, I was chasing what would-have-been my last breath, and without competent nurse intervention it would have been my premature end.  The doctors had asked my loving husband to, “Bring the kids in to say goodbye.”

He refused.  Instead he stood up to the medical establishment, with my Oncologist’s backing, and demanded they keep treating me.  I am very fortunate in that my choice of husband has never disappointed.  Seventeen years of happy marriage behind us,  I keep learning what it means to be loved.  Now, I know what it means to be loved beyond youth, past good looks, and to the brink of the grave.

In January 2016, almost a year ago today, I was released from the hospital.  They let me go home with the tacit understanding I’d die there, soon after.  My husband, had other plans.  Almost immediately, he carted (wheelchair required) half-dead but happy me to a Mexican restaurant so I could pretend to drink and eat.  Most importantly so I could see people and be among the living.

Photo: © H.C. Kolb, 2016 Almost exactly one year after being near death in the hospital, Frau Kolb is loving life.

The Pipeline in Oahu, Northshore, Hawaii:

Flash forward to yesterday, Christmas Day, 25th of December 2016: we celebrated the day by watching professional surfers on the beach in Northshore, Oahu, brave the colossal waves.  This is the famous, Pipeline, of waves which every surfer dreams to conquer.  Yet, no amateur would dare go out there.  It is too dangerous!  These waves were deemed, “Unsurfable!”  by Hawaii Authorities up until the 1950’s, according to Joe Kaiser, a future film star, who has surfed Oahu’s waves since early youth.

Joe Kaiser generously gave me the history of Surf Culture, in a nutshell, as we watched professionals do the impossible.  Joseph Kasnetzkov, who I call “Joe Kaiser,” for the majestic color of his gorgeous ocean blue eyes, and whose local friends and fellow surfers call, “Joey,” because they have known him since he was too little to be Joseph.  As it rings out on the beach, the diminutive form of Joseph, “Joey,” is steeped with affection and trust.

“Not too long, ago…”  Kaiser smiles, “Surfing was associated with the idea of beach bums.”  The general public had an image of surfers as drug users who loafed and lazed, catching waves and allowing their lives to revolve around the ocean’s whims. “That changed.”   He continues, “Surf master Kelly Slater elevated the image of surfers by becoming a model of spiritual development.  He does not party.  He meditates.  He surfs.” Besides, Kaiser goes on, “He dated Pam Anderson,” when he was twenty.

Here is an excellent short video, by Hartmuth C. Kolb, of an elegant professional surfer managing a Pipeline way with finesse:

The prizes for winners soared.  Surfing, a Hawaiian innovation, became a truly an international sport, attracting competitors from around the world.  Brazil (Gabriel Mendina),  France (Jérémy Florès) , and South Africa (Jordy Smith) have all produced world champions. The sport enjoys growing sponsorship and popularity as Red Bull, Billabong, and Quicksilver are among the many leading youth brands that support the sport.  Glamorous locations, the allure of doing what others dream of doing, the glory of sports mastery, with all the bedroom doors athletic achievement opens, are all enticements to youth, calling them like sirens out at sea.  Many leave the shelter of traditional education and, “go the home school,” route to chase the dream of surf glory.

Women of The Waves:

A little research into the sport leads us to discover a surging sea of women surfers, champions among them.  In Iran, recently, women have taken to the surf with all its political and social implications of freedom, this is a daring act.  They wear fully covering clothing but they are athletes, none-the-less.  On can only admire these strong women.

The world has fewer professional female surf champions. Names of beauties on boards pop-up, but the one that touches my heart is Lisa Anderson.  She is an inspiration on a surfboard.  She fought her way from being a Florida runaway to an international champion wining titles and fame, surfing through pregnancies, competing with men.  Her story shakes you of notions that surfing is a privileged sport and points to the possibility of surfing as a life saving endeavor.  However, the prizes for women tend to be smaller than those awarded to men and sponsorship more difficult  to come by.

The Hawaiian Hero:

The current world champion, Hawaiian, John John Florence is a pleasure to behold; taught by his mother to surf before he could stand.  His physical beauty, Adonis curls and cherubic features, make him an adornment on the waves.  In Northshore, a rural community, on the country side of Oahu, with a heavy stream of international tourists descending upon it, large hand written signs celebrating the local hero abound.

The world of surfing gives us much to contemplate in terms of human achievement and potential.  Technological advances and daring innovators lead the way world to bigger and bigger wave surfing, one is inspired to think that every up and down in life is there for us to learn how to face life’s oscillations with a spirit of adventure.  In Hawaii, close to nature, untouched mountains and inviting warm seas spirituality takes on a new meaning, with new shimmering depths.  Yet, the potential dangers of surfing: broken necks and slashed limbs, shark attacks and other hazards not publicized are part of every serious surf aficionado’s concerns.

In conclusion:

Here in Oahu, one feels inspired by the sport and the beauty.  Thus, compelled to think about the perpetual, the enduring, issues that define life.  We mediate on what makes living a delight.  Artists paint seascapes and mountain portraits, attempting to capture the spirit of Aloha.  Musicians compose music to honor the Hawaiian spirit.

How do we integrate all that thoughtful and healing creativity into our day-to-day lives?  What better question for our family to dive deep into the depths of contemplation on a Christmas/High Holiday day?

Best wishes to everyone!

(Thank you for reading Talkinggrid.com all the stories here, at this time, are written by artist, Frau Kolb from New York, a long term Southern California resident.  If you like this article, this ad-free web-site; note that comments, donations, and shares are encouraged. )

Peace!

 

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May in Manhattan

Miraculously, I managed to pop into Manhattan twice in one month!  My first visit, the city had burst into color.  Cherry blossoms, tender pinks dominated the street trees.  Yes!  It was a beautiful visit, spent mostly on the Upper West Side.  That trip was gratifying.  Yet, on my more recent journey to Manhattan in May, I spent time in intimate discussion, closeness with two of my favorite people in the world.

The Mysterious Madame L., a beauty with a superior mind, and Mr. Constantine Finehouse, concert pianist.  In town to participate in a clinical trail at Memorial Sloan Kettering, Hospital. Seeing my little Columbia University fellows, my comrades on extensive romps all over Manhattan, now grown up and immersed in their respective professions, one in the Law and the other in Music, is heartwarming.  I came back to The West Coast ready to cope with the reality of my cancer complications, medications, and DRAMA.  I returned ready to take action to stop the cancer progression which would soon threatened my life.

On The Go!
On The Go!

The trip to New York City was altogether healing and I managed to cram a good amount of art viewing, with a visit to The Metropolitan Museum of Art, and into the embrace of my dearest friends. Madame L, graciously, invested days into lounging in my grateful company at one-hotel-or-another on Lexington Ave.  Champagne in no short supply… We had a great time, as usual.  Reading, agreeing, and finding beautiful details to savor.  We ate and walked, talked and listened.  We reveled in the BLISS that is pure friendship, understanding. Yet, I was tired.  Fatigued.  Anxious and ill, very ill. She made everything better by being with me.  We barely noticed that I vomited, after every lavish meal.  Together, my inability to move, became lounging rather than aching.  Thank goodness, Madame L was there, keeping me company, sharing secrets, and showing me how flowers grow between cracks in city streets, the poetry of small gestures, and the beauty of sacred pennies (rusted with time and invested with meaning), AH!  I love you, Madame L.

 

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However, It was the Male Muse’s, Constantine Finehouse, who made my day with Cuban Lunch from a quick, bright, restaurant across the street from Memorial Sloan Kettering, Hospital.  He had the right idea bringing his car and making sure I had food that speaks to my heart before retiring back into the hotel room’s spacious king sized bed.  We slept.  Exhausted.

In the evening, the gallant Finehouse, concert pianist out of Boston, very cool dude, went out and returned with chicken soup and the nastiest but most welcome “New York,” Cheesecake.  What a thoughtful human!  What a friend!  He drove all the way down from Boston to take care of me on a vulnerable day of medical treatment.  (I had no idea at the time that soon, I’d consider myself sprightly in comparison to my current shape.)https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Constantine_Finehouse

Best Friends
Best Friends

The city, ever vibrant and packed with much to do was a backdrop to the intense days of conversation and camaraderie.  One’s school chums, those met while picking up polish at Columbia University may be the very best remedy for whatever deficiencies in brisk, ardent, and inspiring connection which have  afflicted my sensitive soul, lately.  Mutual understanding is so precious a gift, exchanging it makes us rich.  My New Yorker and Bostonian buddies, The Mysterious Madame L & the favored Mr. Constantine Finehouse, revered concert pianist, and long-term Talkinggrid supporter, made copious amounts of time to connect and cocoon with a very willing me.  Ah!

Good times were had, dinner at Amelie on 8th street in the West Village, where that atmosphere was very French, followed by desert at one of my favorite places, since my teenage years, the utterly charming Cafe Reggio in the West Village!

 

At the Forager with lovely young woman, a new friend... more news later.
At the Forager with lovely young woman, a new friend… more news later.

Saturday Brunch at The Forager, recommended by Blossom V, artist based in New York.  There I met up with a young writer, a woman of talent and enormous appeal.  We ate and then Madame L. returned to fetch me, and we returned to the gentle sweetness that is our very comfortable and sincere friendship.

I took time on Sunday morning to PoP into The Bliss Spa on Lexington, so close to my hotel for some Spa Time at The Bliss Spa, where I enjoyed the eucalyptus scrub, with viccii shower, and lemon sage mini-massage.  Patricia, a former Cruise-Ship Entertainer, had a light touch and a warm heart, making me feel much better, for a moment.  (Running out for a quick scrub is a must if you want to remain feeling, open and receptive to the beauty that is living, especially, on a whirlwind weekend spiked with medical drama, trip to New York City.

The Shield she wields looks like it has a big crack down the middle.
The Shield she wields looks like it has a big crack down the middle.

 

Astoundingly, Madame L.  and I managed to hit The Pompeii Room at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, one of my absolute favorite places on Earth, before tripping into, “China: Through the Looking Glass,”  a smashing, throbbing homage to the cult of cut, fabric, and history in the superb Fashion Exhibit that will knocked my porcelain socks OFF! In a few steps,we crashed  into another world, each room was inspired and dark, lights focused on the embroidery, so tight as to bogle the mind, far away from the mundane, and into the temple of commerce where The Image of Fashion Design as a route is loudly tooted as a glorious path to personal salvation.

On Saturday Evening, I poured myself into a fine new knit dress and rolled west to Broadway, on my little black mule sling-backs, balancing, because I had tickets to see, Wolf Hall Part Two, “Bringing Up The Bodies,” the play is by author Hillary Mantel, a gem. The acting was stand out and the lead, an English stage actor, Ben Miles, carried the character of Thomas Moore rise to the height of power in the possibly unfair beheading of our eternal  beloved bad good girl, the controversial, Anne Boylen.IMG_4610

The Mysterious Madame L.
The Mysterious Madame L.

When I wasn’t out buzzing around, I was resting in my hotel room.  I’m sorry to say that I missed a meeting with a great artist and best on-line buddy.  We had dinner party plans and I was supposed to be her date for the evening. She is one of my favorite people and it was a disappointment not to find the strength to make it to our planed meeting.   I failed to find the strength to make it, instead having a bit of quality time hugging the toilet bowl… but, that happens when you are in advanced cancer treatment.

 

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Spring in New York, 2015

Pink Becomes You!
Think Pink!

Every trip away is an adventure, yet going to one’s home town has a special warm and fuzziness to it unlike any other trot around the park… especially, when the park in question is Central Park. The timing was perfect. The Park was in majestic bloom.

The Tulips are Talking
The Tulips are Talking

Ah! The early mornings, before the tourists hit the streets in smartphone click click clicking mass, on those sacred terse weekdays, when you can glide across the park and take in all the little birds, big robins and very blue twittering songsters, before the surreal street performers have claimed the park benches and the under passes… New York has its pristine beauty.

Stepping Through Spring
Spring in His Step!

I spent a comfortable night at the Renaissance Hotel.  The bed was firm, tub deep, and wall panelling elegant.  If you must POP into the city for a moment this a a place you might flop, thereby not falling too far away from the comfort you are accustomed to. The brick wall view from my hotel window was a heartwarming reminder that not everyone gets to see, everything all the time.  We must enjoy each brick’s presence, stately endurance.

A Comfortable Bed
A Comfortable Bed

The familiar walls of black trash bags, ever so smelly, have an unmistakeable punch. They strike you with an unavoidable whiff of truth. A reminder that posh and poor alike we all have refuse, release, and unthinkable exchanges with toilets and plumbing, dentists and beauticians. We are all potential concubines and conquistadors, no matter what or present costume or apparent rank.

In New York, as a necessity, every type of human rubs shoulders with every other, yet gulfs between the Haves and the Have Nots are so vitally expressed, a pulsing truth, transitory and undeniable illusion. Everyone has equal footing, the same chance of making onto the subway and off, again. There is a thrill of danger, even when it is not there. Not a single person tried to mug me. I walked, not late at night, but by myself… I look like a person a mugger might target, I image. But, no… no attempts were made.

A quick jaunt up to Harlem for dinner with a Yellow Belt, artist friend was easy and delicious. Harlem is now an international hot spot, packed with trendy restaurants, and well healed humans looking for fine French or other International cuisine. I love it! Must explore, more, on my next visit.

The lovely and inspiring, artist, Dee Shapiro!
The lovely and inspiring, artist, Dee Shapiro!

The allure of lunch with artist Dee Shapiro got me down to Gramercy Park, to The National Arts Club, a venerated establishment which hosts regular exhibitions of artists work, and boasts a very elegant private member’s dining room.  I ordered a visually stunning yellow and red beat salad, capped by baked goat cheese.  Delicious!  Over lunch we discussed art and family life.

Tiffany Glass skylight of National Arts Club Bar.
Tiffany Glass skylight of National Arts Club Bar.

Astoundingly, I managed to sneak in lunch at Fred’s with the one and only James Katson. You know, the artist, antique’s dealer, man-about-town… Yes, Mr. Katson! He positively oozes talent. He transported me with stories of his wayward youth to far away corners in a London best forgotten, scary and tender.  He performed the voices of men that lived as ghosts in their own lives.  Haunted.  Katson’s edge is very sharp and one feels a thrill being in his electric company.

Mr. James Katson is captivating.
Mr. James Katson is captivating.

We had the most fun drenched sober lunch two song birds could ever tweet of! What a hoot!

Together, At Last!
Together, At Last!

Another stunning meal: lunch, at Cherche Midi with artist friends was an unmitigated pleasure. My people! All so smart and politically engaged. They enjoyed the fare and tasteful decor. I love how New York has so much French color and flavor to offer. We are Francophiles. Just as we appreciate our English pubs and Anglo heritage, immensely. Yet, everything is passed through an American filter and that works for me!

The Perfect Place to Brunch in New York City
The Perfect Place to Brunch in New York City
A Gift for Me!
A Gift for Me!
Lunch at Cherche Midi
ILE FLOTTANTE

A quick visit to The Whitney Museum of American was not enough but well worth the effort. My plan is to return as soon as possible to gather more art experience. I saw the two top floors. The jazzy elevator alone is worth the visit. The floors, soundless, marvels… no tap tap tap of crowds gawking at the splendors of American art on display. The curators have done an excellent job of picking work we know and love but not neglecting the work of traditionally underrepresented artists.

As I do with every visit into Manhattan, I traveled outside the city, for a night. Guest bedrooms are fascinating. I have made an informal study of them. They come in various sizes and the worst ones have entirely too much of the owner’s possessions in them so that you can not for an instant sustain the illusion that you actually own the place. On the other hand, rooms with ancient wicker chairs, and bodhi savat lamps, and handmade patchwork quilts are a rare pleasure. I slept so well. I shall not forget that the hospitality of a Best, a Dear One, an Old Love is a treasure.

Reflecting on Peace, at the private residence of great artist and dear friend.
Reflecting on Peace, at the private residence of great artist and dear friend.

Capping all these pleasures was a solitary evening of theater for one. Broadway! I treated myself to seeing a play. (I’ve never before attended a Broadway play alone. I’ve been a date, many times. Yet, buying my own ticket and seeing a play I wanted to see because I have read the book upon which it is based was a unique pleasure. I recommend it.) I saw Wolf Hall at the Winter Garden Theater. The book, the play, the mini-series: Hilary Mantel’s work translates to all these mediums with faultless grace. The story of Thomas Cromwell, common man that rises to the the pinnacle of power, is undeniably compelling. The production is just right, highbrow and educational enough, but with a little vulgar streak of something else… a little undertow, which is what makes New York City, Broadway, The Whitney… America’s glory.

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NEW YORK! NEW YORK! Holidays 2014

Deck the halls!  What to do in New York, this holiday season?  Well, you could #protest…

which is, of course, essential to the New Yorkers.  As a young Manhattanite I hit the streets each time war or other injustice took place.  Protest is a part of urban culture we can applaud. That said…

Baby, you know, it is cold outside.  Yet, even the thought of New York warms me up, a bit.  New York is always exciting.  To creatives, luxury hounds, tourists, and fashionable sorts from all over, New York is home to all sorts of warm and cozy fantasies come true.  Warm in the way of wet dreams and stolen kisses, especially welcoming to those looking for KUNST and other sensual thrills during the holidays.  Inside New York’s many museums, galleries, restaurants, and trendy shops the cheer is in full gear and there is much to be bubbly about. This year is no exception.  I have dear friends that have traveled from Europe, Switzerland, to be exact, visiting  New York, right now!  Being that they know I know the city and its cultural treasures they asked WHERE to GO during their short trip into, snowy, decadent, sensual Manhattan.

Of course, I have super friends that help me make plans and with my recommendations.  So, I asked the New Yorkers I know know which way the wind blows where to go this season:

Frau Kolb:  What do you think, Daniel Maidman? (Maidman is a figurative painter I most admire.  His work is in the language of the old masters and yet promises a contemporary punch… somehow… mysterious and intriguing.  Daniel Maidman is an artist I follow, sneaking about the internet, googling him. You should try it.  Here is the link to his site.  To the collectors of figurative art,  Maidman’s THE MAN! Actually, it is weird because… this is NOT the type of painting I usually dig or endorse, but there is much to Maidman’s intensity and focus I admire and wish, perhaps, to channel into my own artwork.)

James Kaston:  Having lunch at Fred’s at Barney’s with me. At least one of those days. (Kaston, is a fashion plate and selfie aficionado.  He gives better on-line love than any one I know and indeed I’m LOOKING FORWARD to not just lunch but a real pow-wow and shopping explosion, when this man and I meet in person, in Los Angeles, New York, or Paris… Why not?)

Frau Kolb: I’d love to, but I’m planning a trip for the public… yes I will suggest that every meet with you for lunch at Fred’s at Barney. This should be a rite of passage for every stylish American.

Daniel Maidman If you go to Barney’s do not miss Bergdorf’s windows, they’re brilliant. I haven’t been to the good shows around town yet but – Matisse at MoMA, Cezanne at the Met, Schiele at Neue, Clemente at Rubin. I’m booked solid, Frau, or I’d be clamoring for time myself.

Frau Kolb Thanks Daniel, I’m glad to know I’m almost making it into your social calendar, excellent tips. Do you mind if I print them all and give you credit, of course?

Frau Kolb Come on Joaquin Carter What is the VERY GAY thing to do for the holidays in New York City. (Joaquin is an artist and on-line personality whose posts and provocative questions, I dig.)

Frau Kolb Daniel Maidman These are great suggestions. I’d love to see Clemente, Shiele, Cezanne, and Matise. Modern Art’s Greatest Hits! Clemente being Neo-Modern, no?

Joaquin CarterTears Become … Streams Become…” at the Park Avenue Armory.

Joaquin Carter gay..I have no idea. lets go to a museum together. (I’d LOVE to! Thanks!)

Blossom Verlinsky Balthazar is fun to go to – make a res. they’re very busy (Blossom Verlinsky is a terrifically talented painter and visual artist!  Boy!  Am I pleased to have a bevy of distinguished art world contacts as Facebook friends!)

Joaquin Carter this looks like fun..https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jsoZHoozX-k

Psychedelic Art Exhibition – Spaced Out: Migration to the Interior
Step into a world with an altered state of awareness at the…
YOUTUBE.COM

GREAT LINK!!! Great youtube video!  I would LOVE to see this show and really thank you Joaquin, I’m so glad I asked!  (Wish I could flit off to the East Coast for a culture infusion!)

Katrina Revenaugh http://queenofthenightnyc.com/wp/socialgallery/

Queen of the Night NYC – Social Gallery
To celebrate the re-opening of Diamond Horseshoe at the Paramount Hotel, The Marchesa presents Queen of the…
QUEENOFTHENIGHTNYC.COM

Thank YOU Katrina Revenaugh, (art pal and artist working out of the middle west… I think.)

Katrina Revenaugh http://bkbazaar.com

Brooklyn Night Bazaar | Brooklyn Night Bazaar
A night market that brings together independent vendors,…
BKBAZAAR.COM

(My personal favorite way to spend a day in Manhattan.  A visit to the The Frick Museum and Lunch at The Mark Hotel Restaurant.  Read more about my most recent visit to New York City, here.

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IMG_3729 IMG_3710 IMG_3688 IMG_3805 IMG_3800 But, I haven’t had the pleasure of a trip to New York City since, last year!)

Katrina Revenaugh Frau Kolb my friend Ken Petti highly recommends Queen of Night NYC (he’s bi-coastal right now- (East Coas/Midcoast-NY/KC). Superb eye for art, design and all things super-fantastic.

Frau Kolb Blossom Balthazar’s is my favorite restaurant!!! (My husband and I went on our first date there.)

Frau Kolb This is a great start, thank you James Kaston, Daniel Maidman, Blossom Verlinsky, Katrina Revenaugh, and Joaquin Carter! You have in some case confirmed in others expanded my list of what ONE MUST DO in NYC this Holiday, 2014. Much appreciated!

Katrina Revenaugh Have a blast! New York is such a fun place to be over the holidays!

Frau Kolb I’m not going. I’m writing a travel guide for friends flying in from Switzerland.

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A Step Into The Profound, at The Louvre in Paris, France with Frau Kolb

 

Behold the mind spinning splendor of a crystal chandelier at the Louvre, in Paris France!
Behold the mind spinning splendor of a crystal chandelier at the Louvre, in Paris France!

 

In discovering a tossed away strip of silence, amidst the droppings of the ever hapless hordes, I found more than just an empty moment, which I picked up and folded, wrapping a bit of that precious silence, to be found… anywhere/anytime that one requires restoration… into a small shawl of contemplation. A snatched treasure, a  chunk of sweet folded silence, which works as shawl of contentment around my sometimes fragile body. I rediscovered myself, my purpose… wandering the halls of the Louvre, again.

 

Sit with me!  Let's have an imitate art chat... tell me... what are you thinking of painting, next?
Sit with me! Let’s have an imitate art chat… tell me… what are you thinking of painting, next?

Tourists, everywhere… Frau Kolb, no different, really… just taking in the eight miles of art… the whole grand history of theft and creation, slavery and the evolution of social norms. We stroll, and time peals back and reveals its secrets in rooms decorated to meet the taste of Napoleon.

Look!  Frau Kolb, texting The Muse, Ms. Crane, begging the beauty to join us for an art rich afternoon at the Louvre in Paris, France.
Look! Frau Kolb, texting The Muse, Ms. Crane, begging the beauty to join us for an art rich afternoon at the Louvre in Paris, France.

 

 

At the Louvre, I feel at home.  Hungry! We stop for lunch… the Angelic, a restaurant inside the Louvre. We sit down. I am aglow with pleasure. The sights! The Winged Victory of Samothrace! Ah! What splendor! What a treat! Ah! To be so far away from home and… oh… we are not so far from what we seek to avoid… there is a slick blond, one of those viciously expensive looking, women whose face is always freshly moisturized and glistening from a four-hour hydration and suction, green mud, facial(s). The woman announces to everyone within a one mile radius that she is American, from Miami, no less! Her blue eyes WIDE with determination, an indefatigable will to communicate, with the quiet bookish looking French couple seated just across from her, “We have gone to hugely expensive formal restaurants, two nights in a row!” She is agog with wonder. How is it even possible that such a HORROR could exist??? She continues, “Could you recommend something more casual?” She wails.

Frau Kolb at Lunch at Angelina, a cafe inside the Louvre Museum in Paris, France
Frau Kolb at Lunch at Angelina, a cafe inside the Louvre Museum in Paris, France

 

 

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My husband, Hartmuth Kolb, saying something smart, phone and lens in hand, as he prepares to document the situation, at the Louvre, in Paris, France.

 

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Hartmuth Kolb’s, priceless, photo of the ceiling at Angelina in The Louvre Museum in Paris France, Summer 2014

I feel sorry for her. She is in Paris, the birthplace of the casual bistro, the superlatively casual corner cafe… NO ONE NEED ASK FOR A RECOMMENDATION! No. No one. Not a single person need ask an entire room of strangers a question so stupid. Nope. Moreover, we do not care to know that you have eaten, nor where. Please be quiet. Frau Kolb was having a sublime moment. Frau Kolb was feeling a tense joy of self importance, savoring her much anticipated arrival at the world-famous LOUVRE, center of world LOOT, and to share it with this… clearly rich, pampered, loud, spoiled, BABY of a woman… well… that offends Frau Kolb’s refined sensibilities.

Loud American women and their public announcements of vacuity interfere with an on-going fantasy of sublime independence from the generall noxious environment, which I hold dear.

After lunch, we keep moving, allowing ourselves the pleasure of walking deeper into the bowels of the museum… ah! See the foundation… oh! Words, in blue neon, adorn big thick underground walls from when this building was a castle… a fortification, a keep, and all of the rest. We emerge into the throng of gawkers into the venerated Egyptian wing. Snippets of conversation catch our ears and hang like rings around the unfolding art adventure which is a much awaited and desired trip to the most extraordinarily well stocked cultural treasure house, in the world.

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An ancient Egyptian kitty… how very human… we animals are!
Frau Kolb is taking in the pictorial art of the ancient Egyptians at the Louvre in Paris, France
Frau Kolb is taking in the pictorial art of the ancient Egyptians at the Louvre in Paris, France

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Ack! Egyptian ART!” Exclaims the tubby girl in tank top and flip-flops to her following, of two boys about her age, and of a sheepish devoted sort. “Ya’ take the body of a human and stick it with an animal head!” She waves her hand dismissively at the vitrines housing objects whose history, provenance, and miraculously enduring meaning is of religious intensity to me… to us… the treasures of north African antiquity, dismissed by a slightly overweight, grossly underdressed, loud, person of probable mixed European, background. What else is new?

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The Pharaoh Taharka offering two wine cups to the Falcon God Hemen. XXII Dynasty, at the Louvre in Paris, France.

 

 

Ok. We move on. A few steps further, away from the girl and her companions, we fall into that slow and unwinding revelry which is waking up to the profundity of human ingenuity, triumphs in the face of daily examples of mass ignorance threaten to cloud our hope in humanity. We see and sense and experience the sacred that is really there in these sumptuous objects invested with human thought, values, intelligence, and priceless concentration.

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Nature deserves veneration, no? Our leaders need to remember what the ancient knew.
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Lunch for ONE, at Café Constant in Paris, France

 


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Merci, Monsieur Claude Reich for the restaurant recommendation.  I waltz into to Cafe Constant with confidence.  I dance in the restaurant at the moment when the corner table becomes FREE!  I take my seat, guided by a divine feeling of fulfillment at having made it to LUNCH.  The table, from which I can see the entire room,  is waiting for me. I am waved into the freshly set table by a pert young man, Garçon.  He pulls the table out for me, appraising me in an instant, slightly bowing, and then nodding, “Bon Jour, Madame!”

I am in heaven.

 

 

Cafe Constant; Rue Saint-Dominique 75007 Paris, France
Cafe Constant; Rue Saint-Dominique 75007 Paris, France


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IMG_3907Cafe Constant; Rue Saint-Dominique 75007 Paris, France

Sometimes we encounter a spot, a specific location, a space, an entrée so delicious, an invitation so tempting… that being there is… an ongoing lingering pleasure… a savoring… of eternal good taste, forever.

Welcome to Paris.

Take lunch with me, please. Sit down across from me. You are the perfect guest because I can see right through you. I may dismiss you as I please. You are never offended. You care. Yet, you are transparent without substance. You sit. You listen well. Conversation is not your forte. I don’t mind. I’ve brought a book. I am reading, “Paris; True Stories of Life on the Road.” Or sketching… or perhaps I am daydreaming. Lazily watching others chew, sip, swallow, listen, answer, and gently argue over topics not likely to be resolved.

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I make a note to myself about the plain lady, looking very Catholic, stern and her prune like mother, an wrinkled replica of the younger woman. She, with her antiquated haircut would be an excellent character in a book. A book… I am not writing a book. I blog. I write about food, fun, and fast times in museum settings. Nothing too exciting, yet a few people care to read my words and I am grateful for their LIKES and shares, donations, endorsements, and trickle of praise.

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Frau Kolb is at ease at Cafe Constant, in Paris France.

 

Indeed, I feed on the positive attention of a few loyal readers that care to know what Frau Kolb had for lunch in Paris during the sexy summer of 2014.

Delicious fresh French food, I savor  every firm and well rounded green pea, every cube of carrot, delights me!
Delicious fresh French food, I savor every firm and well rounded green pea, every cube of carrot, delights me!

 

 

Yet, I will not tell you what I eat. I will show you. You can look over my shoulder. Or better yet, sit with me. Yes, take a load off.  Relax.  We have all the time in the world.  No one would ever rush us, here at the famous Cafe Constant, there are is an ebb and flow of patrons, ever so steady and well… I might stay here all day, it is so comfortable… and the people!  Behold the polished Asian couple now seated to my right.  Wow, they look like advertising, picture perfect. They must be from the future.  I gather by their high tech watches, slick designer space gear.  I love them, instantly.  Yet, hope they don’t notice me taking them in along with my espresso.

 

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Frau Kolb experiences Post Lunch Bliss at Cafe Constant in Paris France, Summer 2014.

 

I will take care of the bill. Keep your cash. You will need it, later. We will go out tonight, perhaps. IF you have time, after your next engagement, I will be around. Floating. I have a good book with me. I am reading, “Paris, Paris; Journey Into The City of Light,” by David Downie. I have my sketchbook, chalk, erasers and those black wing pencils, I prefer. Perhaps, I will POP into The Louvre and make a record of the wet dream of inter-species perfection, The Winged Victory, the statue… of a luscious female form emerging from the chiseling water, which plasters the wet “fabric,” of stone against her hot winged body. The ancient statue is mesmerizing work of art worthy of its pith. She is eternally ready for an armless flight into… forever.

Me, Myself, & Frau Kolb at Lunch, Cafe Constant, Paris.  Summer 2014!
Me, Myself, & Frau Kolb at Lunch, Cafe Constant, Paris. Summer 2014!

 

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Witness: The Mona Lisa, The Queen of Visual Kitsch, Rule the Universe!

We get out of bed and make our way to the museum early. We are on a mission!  Armed with a marked up map and specific instructions, thanks to Stephanie at Panoramic tours, we know just where to go, Underground. It is the most direct route. We were going to see HER.

THE LADY with THE ENIGMATIC SMILE.  A painting, imbued with a creepy load of personality.  “She,” rules the space around her.  Yet... how does a painting become more important than the living, breathing, beings around her?
THE LADY with THE ENIGMATIC SMILE. A painting, imbued with a creepy load of personality. “She,” rules the space around her. Yet… how does a painting become more important than the living, breathing, beings that bestow her power?

Of course, we did not expect to have any, “alone time” with her.  We knew that she is “everybody’s darling.”

What we got was much worse… we were reminded of how meaningless, insignificant, and trite our Bucket Lists are.  We were, 100% a part of the herd of humanity, snapping an image of La Gioconda, before being pushed out of the way by the next, equally determined tourist/pilgrim with a smart phone or a canon camera, at the ready.

Once, she was stolen, by a “crazy Italian,” convinced that she wanted to go home.
Once, she was stolen, by a “crazy Italian,” convinced that she wanted to go home.

(FOOL! She loves to be up there, behind bullet-proof glass, the absolute center of an ongoing panic, a perpetual craze, which occurs with clocklike regularity, from the moment the museum opens, until the last tour bus leaves, in the world famous and celebrated Louvre Museum, in Paris, France.)

Seeing her… I did NOT see her. She was invisible. I saw the flash of cameras, the crazed LOOK of… hunger? Yes, HUNGER for… what? Recognition, perhaps… we seek to see THE ORIGINAL, THE MOTHER IMAGE from which all the tacky little key chains, coffee mugs, calendars, and other scraps or fragments of the sacred, the untouchable, THE ORIGINAL, the a priori … which is stamped on the faces of the ART STARVED crowds… “Art starved?” You ask… Well… Yes, that is what I witnessed.

 I saw adult infants reaching for the teat of certified beauty and established aesthetic certainties. The queen of conformity, The Mona Lisa is the mental rabbit foot, the proof that one is CULTURED, cultivated, worthy of living. Having documented the sight of her with a selfie, we are FREE, to turn on backs—forever—on the little revered painting by Leonard d’ Vinci, the original Renaissance Man. (I believe, we all want some of the milky charm that sprays from this eternal fountain.)

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She and she alone sits and is worshiped by i-phone clicks and selfie sticks, wielded with an alarming lack of grace. She is photographed so many times per day, and visited by so many people, NONE of whom really see her. Instead, they ignore each other, pulling and tugging—fighting—to see her?

We all wish to solve the mystery. She is a treasure, that is for certain.  Yet, why? How is it that a painting can stimulate such visual appetite, cultural hunger?  The standing whiff of desperation around her is a grand spectacle. Frau Kolb was a part of it; flaunting her own needy and naked desire to be beautiful, famous, loved, and celebrated. We all want a piece of that excitement. The thrill of being seen as significant, worthy, ein Schatz (which means, “a treasure,” in German). We all want to be valued, special, celebrated or at least accepted. Don’t we?IMG_9321

Well, long ago, a German cultural critic, Walter Benjamin (15 July 1892 – 26 September 1940) wrote an essay which, I’ve tried to read, many times. Yet, I simply don’t understand it. He speaks about, “the Aura,” of the work of art and… how that aura was lost via reproduction, which is not… or is… I can’t tell which… a BAD thing. Opps! (I know… I studied art history, I really should be able to understand what Benjamin or Theodor W. Adorno, who responds to him. “Art in the Age of Mechanical  Reproduction,”  is the article by Benjamin which I regret falling to comprehend, because that is the heart of the matter…) Mona Lisa’s pull is in the ease with which her high impact and mysterious image can be turned into endless reproductions! Yes. She reproduces like it is nobody’s business.  She sells!

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Mona, with her come-hither looks is forever… a siren, beckoning tourists, to the crush… to the HORROR of Invisibility.  Since we are all NOBODY in comparison with the famed Dame!

Leonardo d’ Vinci’s Mona Lisa is reproduced in cheap prints on coffee cups, deli napkins, and shopping totes… enough “kitsch,” (A wonderful German word, which art historians LOVE, which means… crap art we get a KICK out of like… whoopee cushions of culture…) to populate a cosmos of gaping landfills.  Clearly, the tightly guarded ORIGINAL work of art was painted by Leonard d’ Vinci, a time traveling genius, who had the political savvy to die in the arms of a French King, (no less!). Moreover, Leonardo may have understood, precisely how to make an immortal image, one which could easily be pressed and passed on, a type of female figurative currency. Yet, she is nothing special, really… She is not even… BIG… she’s not even Marilyn… platinum blond….but she is pure POP, contemporary art, that is for certain.  Who among us can verify that the painting we think we see is not a poster?IMG_3809

The “painting,” sits behind bullet proof glass and must have a red velvet rope around her. I mean… if she were not the real thing who among the millions that snap a picture in a year could tell? Certainly NOT I! I got no where near enough to see the genius, the otherworldly, Uncanny hand of the master! One barely has time to snap a selfie before being pushed out of the way by someone convinced that their need for a selfie is greater than yours.

Frau Kolb among the crowds, visiting the Mona Lisa at the Louvre in Paris, France.  Summer, 2014
Frau Kolb among the crowds, visiting the Mona Lisa at the Louvre in Paris, France. Summer, 2014

I believe that when The Muse of Talkinggrid, Ms. Crane said, “Fuck the Mona Lisa!” She was nailed a sentiment I share. Why all the fuss? Mona Lisa’s tripped out, picture perfect, made for selfies image, is as vapid as that of two bit hussy. We refuse to be humiliated!  We are better than THAT! Well… actually, we (husband & I) fought the crowds to see her. We pushed. Shoved, each other… Actually, Harmuth never pushes, but is not a person anyone can dismiss.  Ms. Crane is likely not to have pushed anyone because she is,The Muse, after all and people really do respect her “Aura.” Frau Kolb is convinced that “the Aura,” of La Gioconda is one more example of a sheepish desire to fold into the herd, while feeling superior and civilized.

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I did not see a single person that looked satisfied by their brush with the inordinate tourist crowds mobbing Mona. After grabbing a snap of her, across the room and over the heads of a gaggle of other anonymous gaping gawkers, every visitor I saw looked cranky, disappointed. One and all, we are NOTHING in the face of Mona Lisa’s FAME, her radiant reputation!  She rules.

The actual work of art, as it hangs for “public pleasure,” at the Louvre, the painting is erased by the mass unseeing of the image under a storm of “distracted,” self absorbed, self appointed, “art critics” of mostly ZERO integrity (this, of course, includes me… I too have fallen, stooped, and hustled to see the Lady behind glass… only to encounter what I knew would be a monumental waste of human energy, in search of sacred… something… Which, of course was NOT there. There is only a flimsy experience of emptiness, in an overcrowded museum hall, where all the other paintings are made utterly invisible, erased, by the frantic crowds clicking images of themselves and the beast that is desire for recognition, reputation, and singularity; which may be the fuel that gets all the tourists out of bed and ready to face challenging crowd conditions for so little reward, paying for the privilege of being one more ART LOVER!  Hah!

We, at Talkinggrid, admit to being vain.  We want, no less than anyone else wants, our “brands,”to endure; our own five centuries of fame. We want to be Marilyn, the American La Gioconda, The Girl with the Pearl Earring, and The Venus de Willendorf rolled into ONE, mega MOM, a super being, with an ample bosom, ready to feed the entire world. Yet, few are willing to do the exercise, the calisthenics required, of those that seek enduring glory.  Few are going to die in the embrace of royal patrons, either.

This fortunate young woman is tall enough to get her Mona Lisa Selfie, without losing herself in the throng.
This fortunate young woman is tall enough to get her Mona Lisa Selfie, without losing herself in the throng.

 

 

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Je thé… Me, Taste Paris, with Jacky Larsonneur

We were early, the first customers of the evening at Je thé… me, a romantic restaurant known for its good food. We crossed the thick curtain covering the door and into a comfortably furnished, tight, dining room. The host, Jacky Larsonneur, tall and erect, is standing at the center of the room, his mischievous blue eyes sparkling.  He pounces on us with the grace of a well fed tiger!  We were to be his willing prey for the evening.  We loved being the center of his sage and savvy attention.  IMG_3618


He ushered us to our padded seats and fully welcomed us to his place, with a touch of formality which would be soon brushed away, he instantly signaled that the ancient rules of hospitality were in effect.  We had arrived into the care of Je thé… me, a space where we could put our guard down and swallow the delicious fact that we had entered a restaurant unlike any other.  Larsonneur has deftly owned and operated the enchanting restaurant for almost three decades. The space is a home away from home, a well polished jewel of romantic corner kitchens, an absolutely perfect, quintessentially French spot. I’ve quietly dreamt of such places my whole life. In New York, we attempt recreate the energy of such spaces… perhaps Balthazar’s succeeds. The shelves are filled with books, tea pots, and other “comforts of home.” The warmly furnished room is acutely inviting, a place to melt away stress and enjoy a fine meal. The Germans call this feeling, “Gemütlichkeit,” which loosely translates to, “cosy,” or “warm and familiar.” It is a complex word, really… yet it fits perfectly in thinking of the warm embrace of the space, the restaurant, Je thé… me… such a sensual name… such an excellent evening, about to unfold.

Le Vin, the wine, cements a new friendship at Je thé... me in Paris, France.
Le Vin, the wine, cements a new friendship at Je thé… me in Paris, France.

“English?” He asks after a few pleasantries in French. He introduces us to his menu. It was poetry in food, just delightful.  Salivating over the options, we allowed him to guide us, making recommendations, choosing which wine we drank. At ease in the roll of Culinary Guide, he takes us on a marvelous trip into a familiar yet new world of flavor.  We eat and drink with silent reverence. Other guests arrive. First a man with two beautiful Asian women, who sound 100% California. They are seated on the other side of the attractive room. Later, they come to appear flabbergasted, mouths open, eyes bulging, at the wealth of attention we receive from our talented host. Shortly after an older woman and her (likely) granddaughter appear and are seated. Finally, a young blond couple from Denmark take the table next to us, where they proceeded to make-out passionately for two hours. Did they eat food? I don’t know. I was busy scarfing DOWN my entire plate, making every morsel vanish, worshiping drops of reduction sauces, expertly prepared.

Fondréche 2012, Ventoux
Fondréche 2012, Ventoux

I am transported to a purely sensual zone. Ms. Crane, The Muse, sits next to me on the bench, laughing, making funny comments about the cast of characters around us, the universe, and beyond. Hours slip by, we don’t fret.  This is a time reserved for eating, drinking, and conversation.  My adoring Big German Scientist husband, enjoys the view, across from us and documenting our good time without being intrusive. Speaking of welcome intrusion… did I mention that Jacky planted his laptop on our table and sang to us, old French songs? He did. He sang to us!  He serenaded our table! (How’s that for entertainment?) He has a marvelous voice.  He popped his laptop on our table and shared with us a video of him, on youtube singing in a choir as a young boy. He was an angel. He sang solo, brilliantly!  The camera loved his blond boy beauty. Oh, Jacky!  You are a restaurant man beyond compare!  What talent!  Pure charm! Je thé… me.

IL ÉTAIT UNE FOIS, 2012
IL ÉTAIT UNE FOIS, 2012

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The food was divine. Yet, I refuse to divulge the details of what I ate.  Eat bite was a discovery, an explosion of flavor in my mouth.  No, I won’t write a laundry list of ingredients.  No.  Exactly what I ate doesn’t concern others…  Unless, of course, they man-up NOW and venture beyond the barnyard gate, to Je thé me… in Paris!  Once there, I can imagine, a parade of pilgrims, FRANCO-FOODIES by the herd, hereby and henceforth, respectfully paying homage to Larsonneur’s impeccable hospitality, good wine, and super-fresh French food with bus tours (god forbid) and other (less tacky) fanfare.  I will just say: that if one does not live to visit Jacky Larsonneur at Je thé… me, is simply missing out on enjoying living, breathing, singing history in action.

There is no television in the historically preserved room. By and large, French restaurants do not bombard you with advertising while you are eating. French food is to be taken s l o w l y, quietly or boisterously depending on the mood. The music, wine, and incredible quality of the food all collaborate to take you to sacred heights within yourself and in communion with tradition. French food is famous, of course, but when you actually sit and eat food that deserves this degree of reverence it changes you.

I will never again be the same woman. I have changed from the inside out, a part of me, my heart… I think… is now––forever–– French. I do not know IF the Potato Eaters at the other tables felt the same AWE over the delicate, fresh, innovative, yet totally traditional FRENCH cuisine, prepared sensitively, and served with intimate flair.

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At our table, Ms. Crane, Hartmuth and I were swaying in a whirl of FOODIE JOY beyond general comprehension. It was a secular, intensely sensual, culinary-come-religious-experience. In this mood, of beyond bliss, the hours passed and we continued eating. Finally, we begged Jacky to pick our desserts. He brought one for each and each was pure perfection with the entree, eaten. WE had NEVER had such a meal, such service! The wine… ah… it was sublime. I shall never recover from this re-introduction to what food can be. Food is a potential space-ship with direct shuttles to heavenly JOY! Now, from the shelf, tumbled one of the encyclopedias on France. (OK, I admit, that I could not resist pulling one of the books off the shelf and perusing it, while the ice wine was being retrieved.) The book popped open, before us and there was Jacky, turning the pages to his Chateau… really? Yes, he pointed to a picture in the book and said that this was his family’s country property. Oh… now my American mind wrapped itself around very foreign concept. His Chateau… WOW!

That our host  enjoyed our company was demonstrated in that he invited us to stay with him for a few more bottles of wine.  We were out till the earliest hours of the next morning, sitting, conversing, laughing like lunatics well past midnight, playing, and dancing with Jacky.  The Muse, Hartmuth, and I Frau Kolb… this evening could be the stuff of legend and myth. We were early, the first customers of the evening for Je thé… me. We crossed the curtain and into the room and found ourselves in a new relationship with the world, with life. We were welcome, ever so welcome, so we stayed and renovated our selves, with intensive healing doses of hilarity, studied frivolity, and unfiltered joy expressed in hearty appetites.

The Muse, Jacky Larsonneur, Hartmuth, and Frau Kolb at Je thé... me in Paris, France. Summer, 2014!
The Muse, Jacky Larsonneur, Hartmuth, and Frau Kolb at Je thé… me in Paris, France. Summer, 2014!

From the ether of fantasy and wishful thinking, surrounding Paris and The Muse, that which prompted this life-altering trip to a new return destination, a NEW cultural base for Frau Kolb & The Talkinggrid from which to learn and grow, the health and happiness of yours truly and those that truly crave a slice of a very good way of life, the French Way.  I will return again and again to now beloved Paris, France and specifically to see Jacky Larsonneur and  the most romantic of restaurants, where we feel in love, not just with the food, the wine, the host, but also with Paris, Je thé… me.

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Born from The Womb Room and Ready to Go!

Drained from racing to the top of a collective dream, we retreated into the refuge offered by the elegantly understated, Hotel Pullman. Our room is done in inoffensive shades of plumy gray. A wide desk, a leather lounge chair, and a generous floor lamp allow for serious securing of ideas and floating impressions, gathered all around The Eiffel Tower, and retrieved from memories of last night’s adventures. Our room is a perfect haven for two tired tourists to recover, before transforming themselves into rare, industrial strength, Urban Butterflies.

Ever competent, Hartmuth, is on his lap-top searching for “The Perfect Restaurant.” Reading reviews in FRENCH, with no difficulty, my husband never ceases to impress me.  (He found this, La Fourchette, a website, much like the trusty Opentable.com, website in the United States, where he made our reservation for the evening.)

We coin our affection for the gray on gray, plum room, our temporary HOME by giving it a fitting nickname. “The Womb Room,” embraces us.  Soon, we will be born from it, and ready to go out and enjoy what Paris has to offer.  At the moment we are content to each melt into our very own perfectly comfortable twin bed, separated by a trim twilight gray on dusty plum nightstand, stacked with Guidebooks and anthologies of short stories set in the contemporary French Capital, which I happily hauled across the Atlantic, in my indestructible, stand out peace-sign print, carry-on bag.

I doze with “First French Reader; a Beginner’s Dual-Language Book,” open on my belly, while my husband continues his intensive on-line hunt for “The Perfect Paris Restaurant.”

WE are hosting The Muse for dinner out tonight! She’d offered to come to our area, in the 7th arrondissement. The Muse! Coming to see us! Hurray! What excitement! Anticipation!

I can not tell you how much fun we had the night before. I really can’t. I won’t. I refuse to reveal just how splendid it was.  (I’m hoarding the story, savoring the lingering taste of the mind boggling pleasure of roaming deep into Paris, into the sweet Summer Night, in the quiet and refined company of pure Beauty and Handsome Strength.) In the same league of excellence as my husband, Ms. Crane is an amazing human. She positively thrills me with her keen intelligence and juicy observation skills, an avid people-watcher Ms. Crane makes KILLER cracks about The Audience.

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The Audience? Yes, “All the world is a stage,” after all… wherever we go, Ms. Crane and I experience… a surge in public attention, a blanket of external focus, which wraps around us, creating an interesting bulge.  Lumpy is the attention hurled at us, everywhere.  We only catch that which is useful, wholesome, deftly allowing all the rest to fly past us.  Undeniably, The Muse is so beautiful people crave to facilitate, to pave the way around her, and I benefit for this power she wields, without seeming to notice. Yet, from experience I know that THE MUSE notices everything. She is sharp, keen, calm, and alert.IMG_9093

Our friendship sprang from a mutual connection. Yet the force with which it grew, took us all by surprise, like the famous beanstalk, which Jack accidentally planted, our friendship immediately lifted us UP and apart from others. We found in each other a source of the most precious fuel. An immediate rush of mutual support and genuine understanding, which yields a bounty of frame shaking laughter, and truckloads of unmitigated earth moving, JOY!  Few times in life have I felt such a strong bond for another.IMG_9092

It happens to be that the first time I met Ms. Crane I was in the company of my very best friend. Having flown in from Manhattan, she is a secretive Muse, a blue-eyed lady ninja, who has always had my back.  She approved of Ms. Crane, immediately promoting her to “Someone Special,” status.  This New York Muse, being an apt judge of character, is always watching out to ensure that I’m aware, paying attention to who plants roots in the garden of my heart, she acts like a beneficent pesticide, killing weeds that seek to spring up and take over the ordered peace I cultivate.IMG_9097

Many are startled or envious of The Muse’s intense physical beauty.  The first response is understandable, the second unforgivable.  The Muse has green eyes to make emeralds jealous. She is a tiny mountain of dangerous Alpine Curves. What breasts! What body of knowledge!  The grooves in her brain must be very symmetrical, electric.  Her hair smells of apricot blossoms in ripe summer meadows. She is a living ideal of human perfection, in Frau Kolb’s humble estimation. The desire to climb to new heights in her arms must be universal!IMG_9087

I experience unparalleled pleasure each time she hugs me. Her hugs scoop me up and carry me away from all mundane, ugly, and sinister nonsense which threatens to invade the pristine landscape of my picturesque imagination. That Frau Kolb would gladly travel to the end of the cosmos, to have lunch with The Muse is no question. (The timing of my first trip to Paris is but a token of my commitment.) No friendship can compete with The One that gives you reason to forget all the HORROR and arrive at the simple hilarity of reality. Together, Ms. Crane and Frau Kolb laugh and laugh at all the minor league and rather pathetic, mean people, the two-faced hordes of Los Angeles Liars, the lame Game Players, Aspiring Professional Actors, and cheapskate Name Droppers. We laugh at the pretentious “Grand Dames,” and the cheesy, “The Mean Girls.” In short, we laugh at all those that try and fail to harm us, to damage our enduring sense that living is a worthwhile choice.IMG_3598

We laugh. Laughter heals. Over lunch, or our soon to be dinner, we invite the world to laugh with us and thereby heal itself, because we can not help but roll with mirth when we contemplate our good fortune in having found each other.

This feeling of LOVE is one I know intimately.  Yet it is not ROMANTIC in the way that I am thinking of now… I will never forget our first date, he made me laugh right away.  His humor cutting through my New Yorker attitude and introducing me to a new vulnerability I hadn’t been able to afford before his muscle and brains came into my life.  Thereby, my WHITE KNIGHT books the room for love and laughter, healing, and feeling good.  He secures the possibility of my joy.  He protects me and provides for me, the way that I always dreamed ONE would. He performs this service and many others promised and did not deliver, without prompting.  He is dynamic, active in his LOVE.  Because, LOVE is NOT A THEORY!  Love is laughter, support, understanding, and flowing fuel into the tank of one’s soul.  Love is reciprocal, life sustaining, and energizing on the cellular level.  It makes the world spin

NOW,  my German Genius has found, “The Perfect Restaurant.”  We are dressed.  I’ve changed into a long sleeved silk blouse with a coral collar, thick black tuxedo slacks, with a traditional side seam, and I’ve carefully stuffed my swollen foot into platform Prada heals.  I’ve applied a dash of make-up and we are ready to GLOW!IMG_3597 IMG_9072

Thus, we set off to Je thé… me where we met and established the greatest admiration and affection for the most charming restauranteur and entertainer: Jacky Larsonneur  He treated us like old friends on our first visit.  We arrived early and stayed well beyond closing, indulging in fabulous French wines and the after glow of a perfect traditional yet innovative dinner to exceed our expectations and etched permanent smiles on our newly adopted French faces.

 

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Race to the Top of The Eiffel Tower?

What a Huge Turn ON!

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What is it with humans and our “sky scraping,” towers? WE crave heights! PEAK experience(s), which should be, theoretically, mired by the fact that everyone else on the planet seems to agree about the arch significance of the ever present, “Bucket List,” a standard compendium of minor glories, subtitled, “Travel Triumphs That Must be Experienced by All Humanity.” Every nation’s monuments appear to be made to be seen, recorded, and spun into Profile Pictures, galore! Take for example, visiting the Great Wall of China or the Egyptian Pyramids… If you make it either of those important sites, you will want to celebrate by taking pictures and posting them to the zippiest internet site available so your “friends,” will ogle and envy your good fortune. Right?

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The same is the case with a virgin visit to famed Paris, petty travel glory ignites envy. Just yesterday an on-line friend confessed to being “jealous,” that Frau Kolb is in Paris, the famous City of Lights. Who can blame anyone for a pang of jelly-feelings when faced with another’s APEX moment, a glorious moment during which time stands still and we appreciate reality? Yet, there is nothing to envy. We’ve all had such moments and looking around I could see countless others having their photo opportunity, memorable moment, a golden instant pressed like a butterfly between book pages, a preserved out-of-breath, orgasmic arrival. However, those that know my secret… are aware that when life-threatening advanced breast cancer returned last year… there was no guarantee that I’d live long enough to hold hands with my husband to climb UP and UP and UP to the SUMMIT Level, to this immortal PEAK, a magical point, from which you can see far and wide over all of grand and intricate, studied and admired, cherished and enjoyable, Paris. To envy my ticket, which is an ongoing relationship with mortal illness, a grand motivator, indeed, a spur toward worldly milestone counting, daily writing, and well…no one really envies the price I’ve paid, for the life I live, because that would be insane.

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You get on line, to pay, and wait your turn to start going up,up, up… everyone is more than happy for the privilege of scaling France’s moIMG_3508st prominent national symbol, a monumentally scaled architectural art object, and space-age cash cow (the tower is the world’s most visited paid monument). My husband and I are sporty people and despite my swollen foot, I am faster than most tourists, bellies bulging, and all that jiggly jazz, but NOT faster than the fascinating Tattooed French Lady. She was very thin and had very short hair. Tattoos in the pattern of leopard skin and high-end Fashion brand logos (CoCo Chanel, Givenchy, and so on…) covered her arms in permanent sleeves. Her Lover, perhaps her husband, an adoring pierced man, a few inches shorter than her (and she was not tall) was one step, just, behind her. They waited on line with us and climbed at almost exactly the same rate. By the time we reached the first platform level I felt as though I knew her, them, a little. Perhaps… this feeling was illusionary. But, I was feeling connected with humanity as we reached higher levels, together.

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IMG_8924The couple, I observed, without thinking if they noticed me noticing them. It seemed to me that they were Parisians. They were among the few locals among the mostly international tourists. She was more emotionally reserved than him and kept quiet as he nibbled on her neck and we all waited to buy our tickets. I noted how much more demonstrative couples in Paris are, not only were the pair behind us on line comfortable engaging in loving touch while waiting to race us up to the first and then to the SUMMIT Level, near top, where a little room, houses a funky little instillation of dummies dressed up in period costumes representing Monsieur Eiffel and his big hat wearing corseted daughter and a phonograph bestowing mustached and tweed wearing mannequin representing the celebrated American businessman, Thomas Edison.IMG_8932

We looked in, along with everybody else. We took our pictures, perhaps no different than any others, perhaps better. Who knows? Who cares? We marveled at the expansive views and the gathering crowds behind us. We were ecstatic to be there, having climbed The Eiffel tower along with thousands upon thousands of others and still feeling special to be there. (It doesn’t matter that almost seven million others, per year, make the same secular pilgrimage, to the heart of Romantic Ideation, The Eiffel tower is impressive and I now consider it my favorite national symbol.) This blissful “special,” feeling is replicated over and over, day in and out, each group of people, individuals, routinely loud Americans, every type of Asian combination and permutation, Europeans, lots of determined Germans, focused Russians… all the people of the world, except perhaps Australian Aboriginals and Native Amazon dwellers, were in redundant evidence. All gawking, photographing, and snatching at a moment so significant that it blurs into utter meaningless imagery bought and sold all over the world, little trinket Eiffel tower totes, tee-shirts, towels… every possible object can be bought with Eiffel Tower or Mona Lisa print on them, at Walmart, I am sure. I’ve seen such things.  You have seen the same junk for sale.  You may have Paris, Eiffel Tower, Wallpaperin your bathroom, perhaps.IMG_8930So… do I, feel that it cheapens me or The Tower, that everyone agrees it is a place to kiss a beloved, pop-the-question, and bask in the absolute Must See emblem of the much visited and celebrated city of Paris? No, not at all! The Eiffel Tower is perfect.  It is a dazzling structure, “after all these years.”  Its capacity to withstand the onslaught of projection, massive idealization, dreams, and desire projected upon it. La Tour amazes me by standing up to all the attention! I’m convinced: The Eiffel Tower must be a LOVE Magnet. It must be catching and emitting all the waves of lust and desire that circulate the world’s streets, channeling all that flirty energy to France, the WORLD’s (Erotic) Fantasy (Romantic) Capital!

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I’m convinced that The Tower is emitting a special frequency which excites in humans a sexy turned ON, feeling. You will note its effect particularly in and around Paris. The closer one is to the Tower in the 7th arrondissement of Paris, in either location or sentiment, then the more likely one is to feel this BUZZ, this sacred electricity which radiates from the groin, the head, the heart… it is entirely human.  It is: concentrated Romance, in its purest form. To prove my theory, I observed and counted and photographed countless couples kissing, curled up together, a pile of arms and legs mingling on lawns park benches all over pretty Paris. I would post my records, findings, but I fear that such action might result in trouble for someone that doesn’t want to be identified on their afternoon stroll and make-out session with someone else’s main squeeze. So… I demonstrate self control.

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Whatever the reason, it is plain to see, that “Romance and Conquest,” are in every tourist’s eager eye as they climb or ride the elevator up to the summit of the world’s most celebrated and replicated radio tower and phallus symbol since The Tower of Babel was leveled by punishing confusion, dispensed in a sudden gaggle of new tongues.  Just as, the post-coital looks of satisfaction etched on the faces of the fortunate visitors as they exit the monument in droves is easy to decipher.  The code of conquest, over the desired object, in this case imaged as a woman, built to be explored, endures.

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