Nocturne #2

"I am the keeper of fragile things and I have kept of you what is indisolvable." ~ Anaïs Nin

***

I feel like a watercolor this week.

By the end of the day, all of my edges are blurred. My eyes seem to get more tired than usual, and the rims of my eyes are red by 5pm, like clockwork. My makeup disappears, where to-- I have no idea. It's like I never put it on at all. I have to go to the bathroom and dab on a bit of rouge, a little lipstick, just to show up and not be a shadow of myself.

I feel like I'm one of those marbleizing trays of water, when the drops of dye are added and they swirl together, little eddies of color. Each time a different pattern. Each night I come home looking like a different person than when I left the house in the morning. I almost don't recognize myself.

It's been a long week and there's still one day left to go. I grant that much. And it was wonderful to share some laughter with you yesterday, with that post about my dad. You guys gave back the joy of laughter to me tenfold by telling me you laughed too. That was the real gift.

***

Tonight I had dinner with my little friend Chipmonkey. In my watercolor state, I look at her and all I keep seeing are her beautiful eyelashes. I don't know if I have come right out and told her she has pretty eyelashes, but she does. And if she's reading this, then she'll know.

After dinner, we walked through the Mission back through the Castro and in my watercolor state, the streets just shimmered with lights and people walking to restaurants, riding bikes and generally just being outside, together.

It drizzled a little. Little rain droplets, intermittent. More watercolor.

***

On the train home, the fluorescent lights are harsh on the eyes. A young Asian man is sketching in a clothbound journal with a pencil. I watch him and he's drawing people sitting nearby. He's doing it so quickly and secretively that they don't even notice. But I do.

I smile at him and I can tell I just made him feel shy. So I smile at him again and then I can see that I've reassured him it's okay that I saw him drawing, and he starts to draw me. Then I feel I must turn my face away and pretend I don't notice. Please, I think, draw me pretty. I am so smudged right now. I have no hard lines and everything's running together.

The only thing I really want to do is listen to a nocturne. That is what they are for, inspired by night, to be listened to when it's dark outside. If there was music written for a watercolor, then I would listen to that. But right now it is Chopin. There is a reason why ladies still leave flowers at his grave at Père Lachaise. I would too if I were in Paris.

I'm sorry if this post makes little to no sense at all. I'm probably confusing you right now.

Perhaps if you listen to this nocturne with me then you'll understand what I mean. Have a good night.

“Music melts all the separate parts of our bodies together” ~ Anaïs Nin

Chopin: Nocturne #2 In E Flat, Op. 9/2, CT 109. Photo taken at the Palace of Fine Arts.

A Lovely Collaboration

Oh, I'm just tickled pink about this.

The image you see above is the brand new masthead for Paris Parfait's blog.
I'm so honored and excited that she used my photograph!

***

I remember when I first started reading blogs and I discovered Paris Parfait. I used to lurk and admire, too shy to leave a comment (why in the world would she want to hear from me?) and enjoy her photos of Paris to give me endless daydreams. And then I started coming more and more for the writing and the poems and the wonderful intellect behind the words.

And I started leaving comments.

And then Tara and I became friends.

***

Tara is a gifted journalist, novelist and photographer. She's also one of the smartest people I know, and she's as kind-hearted as she is smart. A foreign correspondent who's lived all over the world (and you can read more of her bio here), at first I was surprised to learn not only how much she loves San Francisco, but that she actually lived in my neighborhood for several years!

When I described the "Yes We Can" painted fence that I have seen every day for months (in our neighborhood, we call it The Obama House), Tara was so excited about it and I promised to take a photo for her. I used that photo in a post a while back, too.

And then recently, she asked if she could use that image for her masthead and I couldn't have been more proud. Thank you, Tara! I love being a part of the work you do!

xoxo

Bring Me the Head of Tangobaby

Today I had one of those horrible headaches (woke me up at 5:21 a.m., which I find to be extremely rude) and it is finally, finally going away.

But it was one of those mornings where it would have been very nice to swap heads (put this one in the shop for repairs, have it back next Tuesday, thanks!) or just pull a Salome on myself where I would also be John the Baptist.

And that thought made me instantly want to be in Paris (it's Tara's fault, too, with her photos today) and if I was there, I would go straightaway to the Gustave Moreau museum and dawdle because it's just one of my favorite places to be, with all of the light and the super tall ceilings and the most incredible paintings on every wall in gigantic gilded frames all the way up to the tippy top.

And then it further dawned on me that I have seen not one but two famous Salomes in my life so far: the one at the Gustave Moreau museum and the Gustave Klimt Salome at the Ca'Pesaro in Venice. Two Gustaves, two Salomes.

And that made me not want to cut off my head, but instead to plan to see all of the Salomes of the Western World, because all in all I bet Salome was a hot babe who probably looked great in a sweater and liked to dance for her own pleasure, and certainly those types of girls get a very bad rap by the boys who write the history books.

Which reminds me that if you want to read a really fantastic book about women and the history of dance, run right out and get Something in the Way She Moves, by Wendy Buonaventura, which is a fascinating, fun read and you'll learn a lot about history, dance and its place in society, and sassy, wonderful women.

I think I'm feeling better already.

I'm Not Here

Good morning!

I hopped the red eye last night and decided to spend the day in Paris...instead of wasting today sitting in a boring office with stressed-out people, and pretending to work.

Won't you join me? This song will make you smile, promise. I've been singing it all morning, and I think every time you do, Air France gives you frequent flyer miles.

Happy Bastille Day!

A quick note to those of my friends out there who are celebrating Bastille Day (or already have, as I'm a little late--like 9 hours or so), here's hoping that you're having a great holiday.

What I love about this photo of the Ile des Cygnes (Swan Island) is the visual connection between the symbols of our two countries. Despite the unfortunate, embarrassing rhetoric and ignorant posturing emanating from our nation's capital during the past eight years, let us not forget that France has been this country's oldest friend.

Many people do not realize that the Statue of Liberty was a gift to the people of the United States from the people of France, designed by French artist Frédéric Auguste Bartholdi and engineered by Gustave Eiffel.

They also might not realize that not one, but two, smaller replicas of Lady Liberty stand proudly in Paris, one in the middle of the Seine as you see here, and the other in the beautiful Luxembourg Gardens.

It is my hope that the people of both our countries continue to rise above the ignorance of our leaders and forge friendships, person to person, private ambassadors to each other.

ps. I did not forget the rest of you. I know I am woefully behind on posts, visits, comments and email...see you soon.

Someone's Got a Birthday

I just spent a whole bunch of money (that I don't have) on this little curly-haired person. My little niece just turned two. She's coming out to visit the California contingent this weekend for a birthday blowout, in order to claim her haul of gifts and take them back to her desert home in Nevada, where she stores her loot.

I've been trying to avoid retail therapy lately, but when you're buying toys and clothes and other stuff for tiny cute people, it's futile to resist. It's the tiny-ness of the clothes that kills me.

***

My niece is very interested in Elmo, chocolate cake and books. (She is also a fan of prunes, which she tasted for the first time in the photo here.)

When you call and get this little person on the phone, she yells how-ah-yah!?! (how are you?) with an interesting Brooklyn-ese twang (we don't know where the accent came from). But if you ask her what her favorite food is, she yells "chocolate cake!" quite clearly and with pretty good diction.

***

I realized that I am very competitive in the gift-buying department. I didn't know this until today, but it's very important for Auntie Tangobaby's delicate pysche to have brought the most kick-ass gifts of all the assorted family and friends at the party.

I am not quite sure how I got this odd competitive streak, but living in San Francisco gives you access to some really great boutiques and shopping. If you saw the little outfits I just bought, your head might explode from overexposure to cuteness. European cuteness. There's this shop, Murik Children's Store, near my office that sells children's clothes from The Netherlands, Belgium and other assorted European countries that make cuter clothes than we do.

Before Little Curly Girl was born, I opened a bank account for her. When I can, I put some money in her little account, so when she is old enough she can take dance classes or music lessons. But I also told her while she was still in utero that she can use that money for Option 3, which is to go to Paris with me, and Auntie Tangobaby will buy her some fancy shoes from the City of Lights.

I think that if I keep planting the seed, with the help of very cute European-style outfits, that when the time is ripe, my brilliant niece will choose Option 3: The Paris Shoe Shopping Trip. Then she and I will run away to Paris together to buy gorgeous footwear, eat magnificent chocolates and flirt. And go to museums.

I also got Little Curly Girl a Putmayo children's CD called French Playground so she can practice her songstyling en français in anticipation of her choosing Option 3.

(She's also getting some books, a fluffy floppy soft tiger, and some refrigerator magnets because everyone needs refrigerator magnets that are plush toadstools and squirrels that you can play with in the kitchen while your mom is making you a grilled cheese sandwich.)

The chocolate cake and Elmo accoutrements she'll have to score from someone else. Auntie Tangobaby needs to get a second job now.

When A Wish Comes True

This is a story for T.

It is a fairy tale but it is also a true story. It is a story about a place -- Paris -- and a secret dream.

It is about the power of a wish, and that wishes do come true. Sometimes they come true quickly, and sometimes they take a while longer.

***

Once upon a time there was a girl with brown hair and blue eyes, and she went to Paris with the studious college boy whom she would marry the following year.

The girl had never been anywhere before. She had gotten her passport especially for this trip.

She was 24 years old and had never done anything special in her life. She just lived her life without thinking about it one way or another.

And then one day, she was in Paris.

***

The flight was longer than she expected it would be. Dragging her luggage through Charles de Gaulle airport almost made her cry because her suitcase had no wheels and it was so heavy after all of those hours in the plane. Since she had never been anywhere before, she did not even think to use a suitcase that had wheels on it. She just used the suitcase her mom and dad had. It was old.

She and the boy were too tired to talk. They figured out how to get to the RER train and then to the metro and then to the 5th arrondisement, where their cheap hotel was located on a narrow alley.

They dragged their luggage up three or four flights of stairs. She lost count of the steps. She lay down on the hard twin bed and fell into a dead sleep.

***

When she woke up, the sky was pink. The sun was setting.

The boy was still asleep or tired and didn't want to go out. So she went by herself. She didn't really know where she was going, but before she knew it, she was on the quai of the Left Bank, looking at Notre Dame Cathedral.

The entire sky was glowing pink and orange with the setting sun. Notre Dame was so beautiful and she had never seen anything like it in her life, so she started to cry. She was frozen to the spot where she stood. People walked around her.

***

One day or the next, the brown-haired girl was walking along the Quai de Bourbon on the Ile St. Louis. By now the rhythms of Paris were not so foreign to her.

She stopped at 19, Quai de Bourbon. There was an engraved plaque to the right of the blue enamel-painted doors. The plaque was dedicated to Camille Claudel, a talented sculptress and mistress of Auguste Rodin. She had lived in this building. You might know where this building is.

One of the enamel doors was ajar. The girl could peek into the courtyard behind the door, into the serene garden that was hidden to the rest of Paris and to the world. A grey cat watched her.

She wanted so badly to go through the gate. But she didn't dare. She stood as long as she could and looked and looked at the sliver of the garden that she could see until she felt uncomfortable standing and staring and then she walked away.

But in her heart she wished so hard that someday she would be back, and then she would walk through that gate for real. She would be brave.

***

The girl married the boy. Years passed.

She thought about Paris and the pink sunset and the blue gate and the secret garden. When she closed her eyes, she could see everything just as if she was there, it was that real.

***

More years passed. The boy that became the husband became the ex-husband. But that is another story.

She didn't think about Paris as much as she used to, but when she did, she thought about the garden and the blue door and the cat.

***

And then the girl met another boy.

And this boy had a key.

This boy sent her to Paris with the key and told her to go and enjoy herself.

***

The girl stood before the enameled door.

She had the key.

She unlocked the gate. And she walked in and closed the door behind her.

It had taken fifteen years but she was there.

Her wish had come true.

***

And that is a true story.

The Red Balloon (Le Ballon Rouge)

I don't think of myself as a particularly nostalgic person. Strangely, I seem to have more nostalgia for people and places and times other than my own personal experiences.

I don't know what made me think of this movie today. Perhaps because I think about Paris a lot. Or perhaps because I just wrote this post about color versus black and white in filmmaking, and now I'm ready to contradict myself immediately as I am wont to do at times.

Whatever the reason, I wanted to share a rainy-day elementary school moment with you: Snuggling hordes of small bodies, sitting cross-legged on the flat, nubby carpet, waiting for the AV assistant to thread the film through the spools on the old metal projector. Giggling and whispering. Listening to the scratch and crackle of the audio through the boxy speakers.

Loving Le Ballon Rouge every time and wishing for rainy days so we could watch it.

I hope this brings you a smile for whatever reason. The entire film is posted below.

Amusez-vous.



Part 1





Part 2





Part 3





Part 4 (fini)

You Look Like Spring

I am a little late in mentioning this because officially it started yesterday, but this happens to be International Flirting Week. (It started yesterday, February 11, and goes through February 17.)

Not that I resemble any sort of expert on the matter (in fact, I am probably pretty mediocre if not downright clueless on the subject), but it dawns on me that as a nation, Americans are not in the forefront of the art and/or science of flirting. I wonder if it is a byproduct of our country's Puritan roots and industrious nature, or if we have too many microclimates that do not encourage enough outdoor lounging and siestas. Or that people are overly afraid of sexual harrassment litigation.

I know there might be pockets of flirtation in this country, but they probably exist in geographical locations where there is an influx of residents from Latin countries. There are many countries where International Flirting Week exists in the hearts and minds of people every day of the year (to very loosely quote Charles Dickens here--but he was talking about the Spirit of Christmas). Those countries do not need an International Flirting Week. But I don't think just a week would help us change our ways here.

I was actually going to tie this subject into tango in some way, but it seems to me that is not the direction I wanted to take. Tango is a serious passion for me, and for many, many others, and so the subject of flirtation doesn't jive with what my tango is for me. In fact, it plays into the common misconception that tango is all about sex.

But I didn't want to give up on the idea of International Flirting Week because it's not often that a topic like that comes your way. So instead I think I will reminisce about a favorite flirtation, which also will incorporate my newest goal of working a Beatles song into my post. If any of you care to expand on the topic of flirtation and tango, be my guest. The [dance] floor is yours.

***

It was May. It was Paris.

It was a very rainy early May, where the skies opened more easily to intense and sudden rainshowers than to the more expected blue skies and sun. I had learned my lesson by being caught unawares by two downpours, the kind that produced large, heavy droplets that seemed much bigger than regular American raindrops. These French raindrops got you much wetter much faster.

I started taking my raincoat and umbrella with me, even though I still insisted on wearing a skirt and heels because the attention you get is more positive that way, and since I don't live in Paris, I have to take what I can get while I'm there.

I wore a robin's egg blue raincoat, a cheerful color. I was on my way to the Musée d'Orsay, in the slight hope that I wouldn't have to wait in a very long line to get in. I had just turned the corner onto the Rue de Bac, when I heard a man's voice behind me:

"Vous ressembler de printemps." (You look like Spring.)

He liked my raincoat, I supposed. I turned around to see who was talking to me and found one of those ageless, charming Frenchmen, holding an unopened bottle of wine just purchased at the shop. He had a large husky-shepard-type dog with him.

I thanked him for the compliment in my very broken French (why five years of good grades in French class has completely failed me in conversation is very annoying). He started to speak to me and I had to be honest and tell him I didn't really speak the language, to my dismay. He spoke no English so we tried to have some sort of conversation in French.

By this time, my companion had taken my arm and we continued our walk down the street, where it sprinkled intermittently. He somehow discerned that I was on my way to the museum and he told me he would take me there himself. (Even though I couldn't put together a simple sentence, I still had a reasonable idea of what he was saying to me. I think at one point we also discussed the Pope, but I am not 100% sure on that.)

He asked what my name was, and when I told him, he started singing Hey, Jude to me, en français. (My name isn't Jude, but it's close enough so I got where he was coming from.) Since that was pretty much the only way we could communicate, we finished our walk, arm in arm with the dog trotting back and forth between us, singing Hey, Jude in French and English. (The nah nah nah's are the same in French, fyi.)

We finished the song just as we arrived at the Musée d'Orsay. My guide indicated that he knew a secret side door, where he could convince the guard to let me in so I would not have to wait in the long line (note to future visitors: get your tickets at the ticket office in advance). He confidently strolled up to one of the museum guards and in French, explained that I was the daughter of the President of the United States, and that I should receive special treatment and not have to wait in line. The guard looked at me in bewilderment, I was embarrassed (mostly at being linked in any way to The Shrub) and I'm sure you'll not be surprised that I was not admitted to the museum through the special secret door as the daughter of George Bush.

However, my guide's duty was done; he had brought me to my destination. He firmly kissed me on each cheek, and as he walked away from me, waving, he was still singing Hey, Jude.

So whenever I hear that song, I think of an early morning chanteur who sang me down a rainy morning street in Paris.


The above photo borrowed from a lovely site about vintage hairstyles called The Hair Archives. The youtube clip needs no explanation.

A Letter to Olivia

Even though I've been at my desk all day today, I can't really say I've been working a whole heck of a lot.

Emails, some random phone calls, a couple of blog posts, catching up on other favorite blogs...and now the next thing on my To Do list: write a letter to Olivia de Havilland.

I guess I should explain first. Long story short, The Boy and I have a new acquaintance in Paris, a Canadian-born chef who we've been in correspondance with regularly, now known as Our Man in Paris. Somehow last week, he and The Boy got on to the subject of Errol Flynn, and Our Man in Paris drops the fact that he knows Olivia de Havilland personally.

In fact, he doesn't just know her. He's friends with her. He goes to her house and cooks for her and hangs out with her.

The Boy called me at work to tell me this, and I pretty much had a little crazy (quiet) fit at my desk. If you've been reading my blog for a while, you'll probably get the idea that I'm a huge classic movie fan. I can't say I'm a movie buff because I'm not that educated, but I adore old films and always have.

To say that I haven't admired Olivia de Havilland in several films is an understatement. She was a talented actress and was also the first person to take on the formidable Hollywood studio system, resulting in a landmark case ruled in her favor against the Goliaths of Hollywood.

But to say that I haven't daydreamed a million times of being her as Maid Marian in The Adventures of Robin Hood, with her fabulous succulent lips and lush fake lashes and wearing tight bias-cut silk gowns and crowns and wimples and kissing Errol Flynn in glorious Technicolor--do you have any idea how many times I've seen that movie since I was, like, eight or nine years old?! She's kissed Errol Flynn more than any other actress, I'm sure of it.

This afternoon, I went out and bought a really beautiful card. I want to send the card to Our Man in Paris and have him give it to Ms. de Havilland in person. But I'm afraid to put pen to paper, either because I'll crap up the card and waste $5.00, or probably more likely that I'll write something really stupid.

I'm really stuck though. How do you start writing a letter to a two-time Oscar-winning actress that you've admired all your remembered life? I have no idea what to say.

Because this is what I really want to ask her:

"Dear Ms. de Havilland,

You don't know me, but can we just cut to the chase here? You're so beautiful and all, and I loved you in Gone With The Wind, Captain Blood, The Charge of the Light Brigade, and of course The Adventures of Robin Hood, but what was it like to kiss Errol Flynn A LOT? Please tell me NOW!"

Do you think she'll write back?

Postponing the Inevitable

I still have colorful Euro bills in my wallet. I also have Euro coins (and some smaller denominations thereof) in my coin purse. I also have a few postage stamps left in my wallet.

I finally put my passport away in my desk drawer. As much as it made me happy to catch an occasional glimpse of it in my purse, I don't want to risk losing it.

On Thursday, I took the well-used Italian-only map of Venice out of my coat pocket. I think I accidentally stole it from someone but it was a better map than the one I brought with me. I also threw away some receipts.

I still haven't dealt with my laundry though. I haven't put away my clothes and I'm still figuring out what gifts I bought and who I meant to give them to.

And sadly, my reveries of Venice are becoming less frequent and less vivid already. And it's only been a week. Usually I last longer. I'm still reading Venice, by Jan Morris, to keep the images and feelings alive in my mind for a while longer. It makes me sad to see that I'm returning to "normal" life again so soon. Mostly it's the sense of wonder and appreciation that I miss more than anything.

Yesterday, to stem the slowly seeping-away feeling, The Boy and I watched two films in which Venice is a primary character. One was recommended by two different friends: Summertime (1955), starring Katharine Hepburn and Rossanno Brazzi (man, is this guy good looking!), about a lonely American secretary who finds love in the arms of a gorgeous Italian man (um, why why why did I not see anyone in Venice who looked like this guy?!! It's probably a good thing that I didn't or else I might not have returned home.)


The other movie, A Little Romance (1979), was recommended by none other than The Boy himself, who still is in love with Diane Lane based on his seeing this film when he was twelve. I was lucky enough to find a used DVD of this film.

Both movies were filmed on location in Venice (A Little Romance was filmed on location in Paris, too, so that's big bonus for me right there) and both movies do capture the look and feel of Venice to some extent.

Katherine Hepburn was more tolerable to me than usual (sorry, I'm not a huge fan), although we couldn't help wondering why the guy was interested in her in the first place. David Lean, the director of Summertime, took great aerial views and sweeping pans of Venice (maybe not in Lawrence of Arabia epic proportions, but still genuinely breathtaking) and edited the film in such a way that you believed that Hepburn had every imaginable pictoresque view of Venice from her budget pensione balcony.

Both films captured the grandioseness of Venice and the romantic otherworldness of it, especially in the canals. It was fun to pause the film and exclaim occasionally, "Ooh, ooh, that's the Basilica de S. Maria della Salute! I was there!" or "That's the Doge's Palace, and across the water is the church designed by Palladio, oh, and see those columns...I was talking to you on my cell phone right there when I ran out of batteries!" Rather than holing up on the sofa with Rick Steves in Italy (I already did that anyway), I got to relive Venice in glorious Technicolor and set to lovely background music.

I'm sure there will come a day soon when I'm tired of sorting through the Euro coins in my coin purse to find an American quarter, and when the stamps in my wallet get grungy and torn. Just as there was a day when I washed the last carnet ticket for the Paris metro I had in my jeans and the little muslin teabag from Mariage Freres fell out of my coat pocket. But I'm going to try real hard to postpone that day for as long as I can. Venice is too amazing, too vibrant, too dreamlike to lose it so soon.

***
Today, I found this Anaïs Nin postcard through StumbleUpon.

I'm sure you can't possibly read the text but here's what it says:

You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living. Then you read a book...or you take a trip..and you discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating. The symptoms of hibernating are easily detectable: first, restlessness. The second symptom (when hibernating becomes dangerous and might degenerate into death): absence of pleasure.

That is all. It appears like an innocuous illness. Monotony, boredom, death. Millions live like this (or die like this) without knowing it. They work in offices. They drive a car. They picnic with their families. They raise children.

And then some shock treatment takes place, a person, a book, a song and it awakens them and saves them from death.

Some never awaken.

I will be sure to read this quote to myself whenever I feel the onslaught of hibernation coming over me. It is inexorable and one must be vigilant.

On second thought, I have decided that I will never take the Euros out of my wallet. That will help a little.