The migration over to Substack is starting this week. Unless you have written to say you’d prefer not to go to Substack, you will be added as a subscriber to my substack: Out My Window sometime in the next month. You will receive a welcome letter from me.
As far as I know, you only have to receive the email. You do not have to have a Substack account unless you are interested in other substacks.
There is a good chance that you may receive both posts for a couple of weeks. I will try to not let that happen. Please forgive me if things get doubled up. I’ve heard this kind of migration is never easy.
Thank you, as always, for reading my words, making comments and suggestions, and encouraging my work. It means the world to me.
October 21, I had carpal tunnel surgery on my left wrist/hand. The pain attacked me out of the blue in early September right after I moved apartments. It was initially misdiagnosed as a pinched nerve located near my neck at my left shoulder blade. I would wake up at 2/3am each morning with the tingling of a limb going numb starting at my left elbow running down to my fingers. My baby finger stayed free from the pain. I wasn’t able to go back to sleep unless I got out of bed and stayed standing for at least twenty minutes. The relief would only last an hour or two. After six weeks of pain, sleep deprivation and stomach sickness due to an anti-inflammatory that was prescribed but didn’t help at all, I was sent to a hand and foot clinic where it was finally confirmed that I had carpal tunnel and needed surgery.
The first week after the surgery passed with me mostly sleeping. Friends came over to help me shop and chop veggies. Some helped with the apartment as I was still living surrounded by too many boxes and decisions to make about where to put what. When I actually made it to my computer to write, I had that experience that I’m told many writers get of staring at a white space and unable to type a word. My brain would not work.
Monday, Oct. 28, the cast came off and tomorrow, Nov. 4, the stitches will come out and, for the first time, I will be able to stand under a shower and get my entire body wet. When I told people I was having carpal tunnel surgery, I heard consistently “easy peasy” “in and out in ten minutes”. That may be so but the recovery is not easy peasy. It is probably much shorter than other recoveries but it was a serious operation and following directions for the recovery was also serious. 1—Keep your hand up near your heart so that fluid drains away from the wound. I learned that the hard way when my wrist/hand swelled from inflammation so much, the cast felt incredibly tight. I ached from the pressure and thought I had done something wrong. A call to the clinic told me everything was fine but keep that hand up. 2—Don’t use that arm. I don’t know about others but doing nothing seemed impossible. The energy it took to pay attention to when I was using that wrist/hand and stop whatever it was that I was doing was exhausting.
I was able to take sponge baths but couldn’t wash my hair. I broke down and made an appointment with the salon that cuts my hair and asked for a wash and dry. While there, I remembered that my mother (and probably most women of that era who could afford it) went to “have her hair done” once a week. To me it seemed such a luxury. To my mother, it was part of her weekly routine. It saved her time so that she could work. She was self-employed until the last ten years of her career when she taught at Rutgers School of Medicine. When I went last week, I was in and out in thirty minutes. It really got me to thinking about doing it more often. Just like having my apartment cleaned, perhaps having “my hair done” was something I could give myself. It’s a thought anyway.
I thought I was saving money by putting together bookcases bought at Ikea. Anyone who has shopped at Ikea for anything that needs to be assembled at home knows that the instructions, which have no words so that anyone in any country supposedly could assemble it, are impossible to follow. A friend and I got one bookcase finished but the rest raised my frustration level to a high pitch. With my poor left paw out of commission, I hired Task Rabbit to come finish what I had started. It wasn’t cheap, it wasn’t outrageously expensive. What it saved me in emotional energy was worth everything penny. Fifty years after I burned my hippie card, I still think of myself as a poor student who can’t afford to pay for help that makes life easier. Life is hard enough without voluntarily choosing to add to it.
When I asked the surgeon at the time my cast came off, what I could and couldn’t do, he responded by telling me that I had to find the balance between using and not using the left hand. It was important to use it so that it didn’t stiffen up on me. And yes, I could type at the computer. (I was learning how to dictate e-mails, texts, and some writing but I didn’t get comfortable at it). I shouldn’t use it too much as that would cause pain. It was up to me to find the balance. Isn’t that true of life in general? There are no set rules, no structure, nothing that arrives on our birthday telling us how to maintain balance as we live, as we age. We each learn by doing and by making mistakes. Something I have to remind myself of constantly. Making mistakes is good, it’s a learning tool. Just don’t make the same one over and over, that isn’t learning, that is stupidity.
So I move into week three post surgery. I have mental energy back and I’m getting outside to walk more to get some physical energy back. The weather in Paris was awful in the summer and has stayed awful this autumn—meaning lots of rainy days and cold. Two days ago, I walked outside for forty minutes. I hadn’t brought gloves with me. My hands were frozen when I returned. It’s Nov. 3rd and winter is upon us here in Paris. In my more metaphorical moments, I think even the weather is reacting to the political climate. Nothing sunny, nothing to smile about.
Two days until the election in the US. The end of the lead-up and the beginning of what many of us suspect will be a horror show of warring sides claiming that once again the election was stolen. Elections boards refusing to confirm a winner in many states. Violence. We all pray for some sanity. But that would require that all our leaders know how to lead and that hasn’t been the case for a very long time. When I speak to friends in the US, I hear the anxiety. If I ask ‘how are you?’, the first response is usually something about election fear and fatigue. Here in France, the distance dulls the edges a bit. But we all know that this election will impact the world. France and all of Europe waits on tenterhooks to see what the American people think of democracy. Even the Serenity Prayer that suggests we accept the things we cannot change gives me no peace. So many have worked for change. Will it make a difference?
Thanks for reading Out My Window! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.
In France, it’s rare to be sent a Christmas card by a French person. That is done by ex-Pats. The French send New Year’s cards. And they give themselves the month of January to do so. The holidays are past, presents bought and opened, family has come and gone, and the month of January, on paper, is stress-free to send out family news and best wishes for the New Year. If one has a service person that has worked hard for you, the Gardien of your building for example, most people include money to say Thank You.
This year I’m doing both. I’m in the US (California) so it seems right to send Christmas cards and there is nothing more fun than to open up a digital card from http://www.jacquielawson.com with dogs romping, cats playing the piano, flowers growing before your eyes – all to lovely music. The only sadness is that I’m so used to opening up real cards that you hold in your hand, and then put on the fireplace mantle and side tables until all you see are lovely Holiday wishes everywhere you look. I did receive enough of those to make my mantle look quite festive.
Then starting tomorrow, I’ll put some thoughts together to send to friends. Uppermost in my mind will be how to find some sort of contentment in this crazy world of ours. Over the years, I’ve been taught to write gratitude lists. I grew up seeing the glass half empty. I was always down and disappointed. People who care about me, want the best for me, have told me to practice being grateful. Not for the huge things in life, but the little things: a wonderful cup of coffee in the morning, a sunny day when one can take a long walk, a phone call from my sister who, beyond all understanding, wants as I do, a relationship—well that is a big thing but it does go on my gratitude list fairly often. I am grateful for so many things but most of all for the fact, that I am aware that I have many things that one can’t just take for granted. When I feel down, it’s so helpful to remember those things. And to remember that all feelings pass.
So tomorrow that’s one thing I’m going to do—write down all that I’m grateful for that happened in 2023. Though many of us feel that 2023 was a very difficult year, it’s mostly looking at the world and the amount of hatred, killing, nastiness flying all around us. To try and find some stability, some personal contentment when we all care so much, is quite a feat, a skill really. A skill that starts with feeling grateful.
In both the US and in France, it’s the Red, White, and Blue
So on this New Year’s Eve, I want you all to know how grateful I am that you readers consistently read this blog, that you take the time to give me feedback, and that you cheer on my writing successes.
I wish you all a way to find personal peace in 2024 and that we continue to meet on the page, and that words continue to go back and forth between us.
Thank you,
Sara
Thanks for reading Out My Window! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.
Will she become a mythical figure like Helen of Troy?
When Princess Diana was alive, other than being aware that the British monarchy was changing, especially in terms of fashion, I rarely thought about her. It was impossible to read the newspapers without being aware of her slow fall from grace, but I didn’t understand the entirety of the fuss nor did I wish to. Since I wasn’t paying much attention, I didn’t read anything about all her interviews, coming forth with her eating disorder, her very public misery, and the world population falling more in love with her the more open and vulnerable she became. She was known as the most beautiful woman in the world. What a load to carry on one’s shoulders.
When she died August 1997, I was visiting friends in southern California. Their home was on the beach without a TV. Like all hugely unexpected traumatic events, we were as stunned as anyone else. I had spent 6 weeks in Europe that summer. A friend had kitty-sat my cats and one of them, Yaz, disappeared on her watch. She consulted with some of my friends and it was decided not to spoil my vacation, so I didn’t learn of Yaz’s disappearance until the end of July.
Once home in Oakland, Yaz still gone, Diana dead, I placed a photo of him on a shelf that happened to be above the TV in my home. When watching the funeral procession for the Princess on television (it was on most channels), all I could see was the photo of Yaz. I cried and cried. A friend came over and said “I thought you didn’t care for Diana.” I explained that I was crying for my cat. She just shook her head.
In the last three years, the world has been treated to, among many other things, a movie called Spencer (2021) starring Kristen Stewart; a documentary called The Princess (2022); and the last three seasons of The Crown on Netflix. The documentary showed “the intense and unrelenting public scrutiny that Diana faced. Composed entirely of archival video and audio footage of Diana, beginning from when speculations swirled about her engagement to Prince Charles until her 1997 death in a car crash that took place while she was trying to escape the paparazzi in Paris, the film is a quiet but searing indictment of the media attention focused on Diana, and its role in her passing.”—Time Magazine. Spencer is a film about four days in Diana’s life. Movie goers were not spared seeing her throw up in the toilet, her slowly going “mad” at Monarchy must-dos and must-bes (she consumes most of a pearl necklace), and her all encompassing love for her two sons.
Princess Diana
The fifth season of The Crown showed a very different Diana. One who knew exactly what she was doing and how to perfectly manipulate the media to her advantage. The sixth and final season has played out this past November and this week. The first four episodes were all about Diana. Reviewers gave the episodes poor marks. I found them fascinating. The actress who played Diana, Elizabeth Debicki, was perfect; if not more beautiful than Diana herself. Peter Morgan, the writer and director, has said that he is fictionalising true events so I don’t truly know if what I learned about her is accurate or not. It’s great television. General consensus says she knew how to read people, was comfortable in the spotlight, and had a great deal of confidence when dealing with the public. General consensus are the operative words. Who was Diana?
Elizabeth Debicki Princess Diana
I’ve tried to figure out why my interest in her has changed. She has been gone for 27 years. She no longer seems real to me, a person who once lived and breathed. The monarchy, such as it is, with King Charles now at the the head of The Firm has moved on. Elizabeth has died. Prince Harry has taken over Diana’s role as ‘the outsider/troublemaker’. Cady Lang of Times Magazine says “Despite a life that was so on display, there’s still so much unknown about the interior life of the passionate and complex Princess of Wales. That might explain why Diana holds our fascination to this day, a quarter of a century after her death. It certainly accounts for why her story is the subject of countless creative projects, including multiple documentaries, films, and television shows.” My interest I think is the same interest I have for history in general. But my understanding is that I’m in the minority. Reviewers said that the last two seasons of The Crown have failed because her life and death are still too close to people’s hearts. The last episode of Season 6 has Philip telling Queen Elizabeth that they are the last of a dying breed—a monarchy. I’m betting that all the old-school folk blamed Diana for hastening the change in public opinion of the monarchy.
At my age, I often wonder how history will look back on present events. What will the books say about these last almost two and a half decades of continuous war and growing authoritarianism around the world? We have wonderful myths of King Arthur, Guinevere, and the Round Table but no one knows what really happened. And Robin of Locksley? What was he really like? and what was the real story? And Helen of Troy. Those war years so finely depicted by Homer. But Homer wrote bloody verses, more blood, guts and gore than most of us read in 100 other books. What would Homer do with Princess Diana of Wales? What god would have had a hand in her rise and fall?
Just thoughts as the books, movies, and TV series about her multiply.
A bientôt,
Sara
Thanks for reading Out My Window! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.
I was with friends from the UK last week, people I don’t often get to see. Predictably, conversation always leans towards questions about why I decided to move to Paris, what I especially love about Paris, and do I plan to stay here forever. The answer to the second question changes all the time.
One thing I especially love about Paris is the transportation system. As in NYC, it isn’t necessary to own a car. Not only is the transportation system efficient, liberal, and easy to navigate but most of the time, it’s faster than driving!
At various periods over time, Paris has been the centre of the Literary World. The sense of creativity that pulses in the air here in Paris is another thing I especially love. In the 1920s Fitzgerald, Hemingway, E.E, Cummings, Hart Crane, and others made the Café Deux Magots famous and they drank their way around France. In the 1950s, James Baldwin, Chester Himes, Richard Wright made the Montparnasse area famous as their hangout. I discovered on moving here that there were writing classes and workshops everywhere, all the time. It was wonderful. And I didn’t have to drive a car and look for parking that doesn’t exist in order to attend a writing workshop. Heaven!
Periodically, I like to highlight an up and coming artist or writer. This week, I’ve chosen my friend, Henrie Richer. Like me, she has gone back to school, in her case Ecole de Beaux Arts of Versailles, in the second half of her life. She has raised a family. They’ve flown the coop and she can now make her artistic dreams come true. I am lucky enough to own several of her photographs which I look at every day. And every day, I’m reminded of Henrie’s eye. She really can see. With photographs, she can frame a subject so that it is more interesting than the subject itself. Now she has turned her attention to painting and other mediums. As with her photographs, I’m stunned by the way she sees, by the way her heart and her eye work together to produce something that speaks to us. Henrie hasn’t been long in the difficult world of making a living in Art. Yet, her nature seems to overflow with creative ideas, bold statements, and results that make the viewer think about the world that the photograph or painting is telling us about. I am excited to introduce her to you.
The following is an interview with Henrie that we did last week.
SS: I know that you are from the United Kingdom. How did you come to be living in France, specifically Paris?
HR: I first visited Paris when I was eight years old. For some unknown reason, I decided, there and then, that one day I would live in this beautiful city. The summer before I went to university to study French and Italian, I got a holiday job as a receptionist in the South of France at a fancy camping site. While working there, I met my future husband, who was also working a summer job as a student engineer. Our friends and family thought that the summer romance would not last, but we are still together forty years later. During our studies we travelled back and forth across Europe to see each other during the holidays. Then on the day of my graduation from university, I left England forever and came to live with my Chéri in Paris.
SS: That’s such a romantic story and very French! Have you always inclined towards fine art or has living near Paris influenced the artist in you?
HR: My mother is an artist. I grew up seeing her study for her degree in her forties and then working on her art. I secretly dreamed of being an artist, but failed the entrance exam to art school and went on to study languages instead. Living near Paris is certainly inspiring as opportunities to fill the well of inspiration are plentiful, as much in the streets as in the galleries and museums.
SS: How has your chosen medium changed over the years. I know that you did photography for many years.
HR: As a teenager I convinced myself that I was not an artist and did not touch any form of art making for about thirty years. Our eldest daughter has multiple disabilities and I had little time or energy for anything other than daily life, although I wrote both fiction and non-fiction during this time. When she left home, I started taking life drawing, painting and photography lessons. I created a small photography business, but then Covid happened.
SS: I didn’t realise your business was that young. Your photographs are so beautiful and well thought out. I thought you’d had a business for years. Yet, you applied for and were accepted into the Ecole des Beaux Arts in Versailles. Since you are in your late-50s, what made you decide to go back to Art School?
HR: During the lockdowns I was unable to pursue photography as a business and I soon became bored with photographing things at home. However my painting lessons continued during the pandemic via Zoom. I decided that my teenage dream to attend art school was still possible.
SS: Has your first year at the Beaux Arts given you what you hoped for?
HR: In September ‘22, I was accepted into the second year of a three-year diploma course. During the year there was more theory than I had expected, but I learned and practised new techniques, such as engraving and some basic sculpture. We were soon told that academic technique is not important in contemporary art and that the only job we have is to evoke and provoke an emotional response in the viewer. We were told that if we wanted to improve our drawing or painting technique, we could watch You Tube. This attitude did come as a bit of a shock, however twelve months on, I no longer feel it is unfounded. The year was very rich both in content and the mix of students at the school, who are from eight different countries and whose ages range from 20 to 60 yrs. Versailles is a small school and our group of students is supportive and caring.
Henrie in her studio
SS: You have an on-line store and write a blog. Have you been able to keep those up while in school?
HR: Over the last year, I completely abandoned my blog and website. Having thirty hours of lessons a week, a personal project to develop, and homework, I just didn’t have the time. My wonderful web designer Samantha at Aspen Creative Studiosredesigned my site for me over the summer to reflect a more pared down and professional portfolio site. I don’t have an online shop at the moment, but I’m happy to answer inquiries from prospective buyers. This year will also be very busy, but I hope to write an article for my blog once a month.
SS: I own three of your photographs: one of poppies and two of Versailles. I think your photography changed in the last half decade. Can you tell us what you were after?
HR: As a photographer I am largely self-taught. In the 80s and 90s I used to freelance articles and take photographs for these articles with my traditional film camera, but the arrival of digital photography rather threw me for a loop. I needed guidance to get a handle on all the bells and whistles that digital cameras now have, so I attended workshops with the American photographer Meredith Mullins, in Paris. I had a longer apprenticeship learning to use my camera and honing my eye and skills. Predictably I started with learning to take photographs like the photographers that I admire, such as Saul Leiter, Sara Moon and Annie Leibovitz amongst many others. Then I started to branch out into more artistic approaches and I’m fascinated by the abstract possibilities of photography.
Chateau de Versailles One of Henrie’s photographs that I own.
SS: In Art School, you’ve been experimenting with different mediums, stretching your artistic approach there also. Has one of them spoken to you more than others?
HR: It has been a great experience to discover new mediums such as engraving, but my first art loves are still the same: photography and painting. I hope to create work in the future that combines both mediums.
SS: What is your vision of your future in the Art World?
Are female artists treated differently than male artists?
HR: I can’t say that I have a vision for my future, I certainly have hopes and dreams. In the short term I hope to succeed in getting my diploma next June. We will have three assessments this year in December, March and June, which consist in creating a mini exhibition and exhibition pamphlet for the jury of teachers and artists. My dream, like most creatives, is to exhibit and earn a living from my art and to gain the respect of my peers.
Women have certainly been excluded from art history until very recently. Now there are women-only exhibitions and competitions which help artists to break into the market. More than the difficulty of being a woman in a man’s world and a man’s art market, is the fact that I will be sixty when I finish art school. Ageism is even more pronounced than sexism in most spheres. However, there are cases of artists who did not start making art or making a living from their art, until after retirement, so you never know. I certainly believe that there is room for more than one life in a life.
SS: Thanks so much, Henrie. Even though you don’t have an on-line store, people can go to your website: http://www.henriericher.com. If interested in buying any of your work, they can contact you via the website. I encourage everyone to go to her website and just look around. I think that, like me, you will be awed.
One last thing: Of all the work you have done in the past year, do you have a favorite that you’d be willing to show my readers?
HR: Yes! My favourite painting is #Femicide – The Red Shoe I (sold), the first of a series that I am working on:
The Red Shoe 1
EDUCATION. 2022 – 2024 Student at the Ecole des Beaux Arts, Versailles, France. 2017 Registered business owner as Auteur/Artiste Photography. 2010 – 2014 Photography workshops in Paris with American photographer, Meredith Mullins. 1986 B.A.Hons French/Italian/Art History – The University of Kent at Canterbury, UK.
EXHIBITIONS. 2021 – 2022 Barcelona Foto Biennale, 6th Biennal of Fine Art & Documentary Photography with a series of photographs of the Chateau de Versailles.
AWARDS.
2020 First prize in the Architecture category of the 15th Julia Margaret Cameron Awards for Woman Photographers. 2020 Honourable Mention in Self Portrait du 15th Julia Margaret Cameron Awards for Woman Photographers. 2018 Received an Honourable Mention in the Los Angeles based, International Photography Awards. Two photo series Walls and Windows and Horizons featured in Dodho Magazine.
A bientôt,
Sara
Thanks for reading Out My Window! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.
…I was woken up by a friend asking me if I was watching TV. What was happening was something that she couldn’t describe. I don’t remember if she tried. It was 7:30am in Oakland, California. The first tower had fallen. The second tower went down within thirty minutes of my waking up and turning on my TV. And then the world changed.
I’m not sure what happens to me when I see horrifying events live on TV. I didn’t gasp and start crying like so many friends. Perhaps it was the fact that it was on TV and so many of us, me included, watch films and “make believe” on that same screen. I remember thinking that I could be watching a film. What or how did people react on December 7, 1941 when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbour? They had to learn of it via the radio. Their horror would be dependent on the reporter’s descriptive skills and whether they had a relative stationed in Hawaii.
9/11 didn’t need description. And in case anyone missed the falling of the towers while it was happening, it was replayed over and over, a hundred, two hundred times until we were numb.
The world was cancelled before it changed. Everything stopped. No flights, no trains, travellers were stuck in strange places and couldn’t get home, no baseball, no theatre, no nothing. Grocery stores were open. Baseball resumed ten days later. I don’t remember who the A’s played against. I do remember the pre-game ceremony, the singing of the Star Spangled Banner and America the Beautiful. There were prayers for New York and for the world. That was when I cried. I was with my tribe and we were together.
Two and a half months later, I flew to NYC. I had to see in person the destruction, the relief efforts, some of the Firehouses with their signs telling how many men they had lost. It was an unseasonably, beautiful, warm weekend in December. 70o. My friend, Michelle, and I walked across the Brooklyn Bridge. We visited two Firehouses. A church group from Georgia was visiting one of them. They’d brought toys for children, lots of food, and donations for the families. We were invited in to join them but we didn’t stay.
We walked by the hole left by the towers. There was a makeshift wall with a makeshift wooden walkway for people to line up and slowly walk by to look at the charred skeletal remains. A huge white sheet was tacked up on the wall. We were all encouraged to write something hopeful and sign our name. And, of course, American capitalism was present. A man sat near the line selling American Flag earrings and pins that people vulnerable with grief would purchase to show their patriotism.
We wandered up to the Crisis Center. Huge boards with notices “looking for….” accompanied by a photo crowded the large room. Photos of the destruction were everywhere. People stood in lines to check in with a government official who had a list of the identified dead. New York was very much in a generous mood, love thy neighbor mood. Christmas was coming. The bereaved felt noticed and cared for. But as I learned after the huge Oakland FireStorm ten years earlier, once January comes, the world begins to move on. The suffering family members are left a bit paralysed, not knowing what to do next. Alone with their loss and grief, they pull back and find it hard to identify with the lives of those not suffering.
Today, twenty-two years later, we have beautifully written stories of that time. We have TSA and airport security. We have huge acrylic walls surrounding and protecting the Eiffel Tower. We have the memory of declaring war on Iraq, and the endless war in Afghanistan that America finally pulled out of two years ago.
And, for people like me, all the blinders have been torn off my eyes, ears, and heart to expose the truth about the United States of America. It is not the land of the Free—although its citizens are much freer to express their hatred and fear of others in unspeakable ways. It is not the land of the Brave. Most of us are sheep and look for the door painted either red or blue. We walk through it asking few questions.
For the first time since FDR, we have a President who is truly America’s friend, who has done more to help Americans get on their feet and defend democracy than Obama did in his eight years in office. I love Obama, don’t get me wrong. It’s just the facts. But this president has low ratings because he doesn’t have charisma, because he doesn’t soft sell a crowd while on TV. Here we are back to TV again. Each of us in our Living Rooms alone or with a small family and we believe what’s on TV. We have lost the ability to educate ourselves, to fact check, to form an opinion that is our own (With apologies to my sister who knows exactly how to do it all).
I don’t know how to end this piece. Probably because I don’t want it to be the end. The pandemic has changed us once again. More in the direction of being alone yet feeling connected technologically. Where are we headed?
Thanks for reading Out My Window! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.
I thought, silly me, that being in Oakland for the winter would be warmer than another Paris winter. Who knew? Cyclones, windstorms, endless rain, and flooding. Oh my!!! Storm drains that have had so little to do in the worst California drought ever turned out to be stuffed with leaves and debris. Water just circulates and then floods the intersections. ‘Fountains’ have appeared on the sides of many roads. Monday, Highway 13, which is close to me, had a tree fall across the southern driving direction and a multi-car accident in the northern direction. It was only one of seven road closures that day.
Needless to say, the advice on TV, on the radio, and in e-mails from the city, all advise ‘Stay at Home’. For those of us that actually follow directions, well, what does one do? You’d think we’d be well practiced in ‘sheltering at home’ after how many years of Covid? But I was under the illusion that it was easier here in Oakland than in a small Paris apartment. I never took into account RAIN! Not to be able to sit outside in the backyard or walk around my neighborhood where it is easy to put six feet between me and the nearest person. This has been extraordinary. I will say that I still am very lucky. I have not lost electricity or Wi-Fi and there have been no mudslides near me. We learned that Kevin Costner could not be at the Golden Globes Tuesday night to pick up his best actor award because of the severity of the weather in Santa Barbara/Montecito. The presenter was joking around about it but many people have had to evacuate from very expensive houses down there. So I’m sort of complaining but when compared to what could be….I’m actually happy that it has not been worse.
Mudslide near Santa Barbara
So what does one do in this new ‘Sheltering in Place’? It turns out there are a number of streaming services available in the US that we don’t get in France. One of them is Hulu. And one of the best shows on Hulu is called Only Murders in the Building with the wonderful Steve Martin and the hilarious Martin Short. They are joined by a young singer/actress I knew nothing about: Selena Gomez. OMITM is a great show. Martin and Martin are seniors who love a True Crime Podcast. They meet each other in a café during a false fire alarm in their building in NYC. Into the café wanders Selena Gomez, hears them talking about the Podcast, and it turns out she is a huge fan also. During the false alarm, someone in the building is murdered and they quickly whip up the idea of having their own podcast called, you guessed it, Only Murders in the Building. Wonderful mayhem ensues. This is not slapstick. This is a witty vehicle that shows off the best of the two comedians. They work so well with each other or as I’ve heard actors say recently: They are wonderful dance partners. And anyone who has seen their Saturday Nite Live hostings in the month of December can tell that they are fond of each other. Hulu has two seasons of ten episodes each. Giving us the opportunity to watch two masters of comedy solving murders and making it thrilling. Selena Gomez isn’t bad either and it is fun to see the generations mix. She claims these two ‘old men’ are her only friends.
I just recently discovered the author Richard Osman, a British screenwriter among his many talents, who has turned his attention to writing mysteries. The first book, The Thursday Murder Club, introduced the world to four seniors, known as pensioners in the UK, who solve murders! They started with cold cases, but by the third book in the series, things have escalated. These books are fun! They are exciting, addictive, and just plain fun! In a time when the world seems to be falling apart, this seems reminiscent of the 40s screwball comedies that were made during WWII when everyone needed a laugh, a smile, and a distraction from what was happening around them. That is what OMITB and the Thursday Murder Club members are doing for me. It’s not quite so bad staying at home with these folk as company.
Is watching streaming services on a TV called watching TV? Other than watching The Golden Globes last night, I haven’t seen any mainstream channels. It’s good to have a large Smart TV that downloads apps and, for a hefty fee, one can be entertained around the clock. Here is another channel not available to me in France even with a good VPN. Turner Classic Movies (TCM—there is a version on French TV but it is not this wonderful classic channel where movies are presented by hosts who know their film history and can relate fascinating details that one would never know otherwise). I watched the 1974 That’s Entertainment,The Sting (1973), The Philadelphia Story (1940) , and the brilliant Inherit the Wind (1960) with Spencer Tracy over the four days of New Year’s weekend. Inherit the Wind is the story of the 1925 Scopes trial where the teaching of evolution by John Scopes was being prosecuted. It could be made today. Do we have a Clarence Darrow available who can go mano a mano with our present-day fundamentalists? All these classic movies hold up. They could have been made yesterday.
Tuesday night was the 80th Golden Globe ceremony. Until last year, when it didn’t air because it was learned there were no black members, it was always everyone’s favorite award ceremony. It is much more laid back, and fun with lots of faux pas that no one really cared about. Then George Floyd was killed and the US started to examine itself on racism. Some entities anyway. Tonight’s show tried to make up ground. The host, Jarrod Carmichael, opened with the line “You know why they asked me to host this show? Because I’m black.” He went on to talk about the elephant in the room in a low-key folksy way. I thought he was excellent. I haven’t read any reviews. Last night’s winners were a diverse group of people many of which would probably not have been honored if not for George Floyd. The two best movies were directed by white men. The Irish movie The Banshees of Inisherin won in the category of best musical or comedy. I haven’t seen the movie but I hear it is not uplifting at all so I’m wondering…. The story of Steven Spielberg’s childhood and his wild wonderful mother, The Fabelmans, won for best Drama. I haven’t seen that either. I can watch both of Apple TV + if I choose not to go to a theatre.
Swollen river near Santa Cruz
According to my iPhone, this California freak of nature will continue for six more days and maybe beyond. The average temperature is 52o. Much the same as in Paris though the temperature seems to be dropping there. So, to all you brilliant people who developed streaming services, and produce these amazing shows that distract from reality, I say thank you. I will survive yet another housebound adventure.
It’s not what or how you plan but how you respond to what actually happens. That’s what they tell me.
I have lived in Paris for nine years as of Nov. 5th. Before that time I had not really paid attention to Fûtbol for more than a couple of hours. Many people have mistaken me for a sports fan. This is because I’m crazy about baseball. In California, I was an Oakland A’s season ticket holder and went to 50-55 home games a season (plus one or two road trips). I knew (still know) statistics backward and forwards and loved talking baseball anytime I could.
This does not make me a sports fan. I dislike American football. The concept of grown men charging each other, getting concussions, and entire campuses spawning criminal activity is beyond my comprehension. Basketball is too fast. It requires 100% focus for the entire game. I’ll leave the Olympics out for now. What I love about baseball is that it is like a dance, a ballet. It is teamwork. It is blue skies and a summer day. It is sitting with your baseball family and shutting out the world.
Here in France, there is Fûtbol, Rugby, and Tennis. Tennis I could watch in the States but don’t. Rugby, I still think of as an English game that I’ve never taken to—although it does make more sense than American football. Then there is the world’s most popular game known by many names depending on where you live: soccer, fûtbol, le fût, etc. Les Bleus (France) are one game away from being repeat champions of the World Cup 2022.
After all this time, (and maybe missing baseball), I finally wanted to know what is going on down on the field. I found Soccer for Dummies in my virtual library. Beyond the obvious, that the team with the most goals wins, I’ve learned that there are eleven players on the field. One is the goalie. The other ten are the ones talked about: defense, midfielders, and forward. Watching a game, I couldn’t have told you who was who until I watched Morocco vs France. For the whole month leading up to the semi-final, Morocco had let one goal in. Their defense is incredible. They seemed like worker ants buzzing around the enemy blocking all means of entrance, defending their goalie and their net. It was a thing of beauty. I realized that soccer is also like a dance. I could like this game. Kylian Mbappé, the twenty-three-year-old star of Les Bleus, moves with such grace. While others fall and feign agony, Mbappé never does that. Mbappé, once a midfielder and now a forward can go on the attack scoring goals. These players never stop moving for ninety minutes with a time-out at half-time. Ask an outfielder for the Oakland A’s if he could not stop moving and running for ninety minutes. Well, I don’t know what he would say but I know what he should say.
Thank you for reading Out My Window. This post is public so feel free to share it.
On Sunday night, 4 pmCET. THIS WAS INCORRECT IN ORIGINAL POSTING. France will play Argentina for the World Cup Championship. There is a true superstar playing for Argentina who also happens to play for Paris Saint-Germain for a living. Lionel Messi. I gather this will be his swan song World Cup and many are saying he should be given all the awards: Best Player, most goals. There are others besides Messi and Mbappé who are teammates during the year and it must take a true professional to play next to a teammate who just took the World Cup away from your country. In trying to understand what to expect and why someone is great, I read this in the Guardian about Lionel Messi “A major part of the problem is knowing where Messi will spring up. He will almost certainly be part of a front two, alongside Julián Álvarez. But he drifts on the periphery of the game, suddenly appearing, perhaps centrally, perhaps on the right, perhaps deep, perhaps high up. At various times, he will flit into the zones for which Theo Hernandez, Aurélien Tchouaméni, and Adrien Rabiot (or Youssouf Fofana) are responsible. But how you stop somebody such as Messi, who can confound a player as good as Croatia’s Josko Gvardiol with his dribbling, or split a defense with a preposterous pass that nobody else could have seen, let alone executed, as he did against the Netherlands? It may not be possible by tactical means.”
Then I read this about Kylian Mbappé: Just as the first question for any side facing Argentina is how to stop Messi, so the first question any side facing France must ask is how to stop Kylian Mbappé. As with Messi, there is a sense that once he gets the ball, he can do almost anything, as his two goals against Poland demonstrated. But Mbappé, brilliant as he is, is a more conventional talent than Messi. His pace is his greatest asset, so one option is to sit deep against him and deny him space to run into, as Kyle Walker did in the quarter-final.
But what Morocco showed in the semi is that Mbappé can be transformed into a (temporary) weakness. Achraf Hakimi took Mbappé on, surging down the right to link up with Hakim Ziyech. Only after Marcus Thuram had been introduced and Mbappé moved to the middle was that avenue closed down. Mbappé rarely tracked Hakimi and that left Hernandez, not the most natural defender, exposed. Argentina’s Nahuel Molina is not an attacking right-back in the manner of Hakimi, but he was the recipient of Messi’s brilliant pass against the Netherlands; he can get forward. It’s a gamble, and it’s understandable why full-backs would be wary of deserting Mbappé, but at least at times it’s probably worth calling his bluff and trying to create overloads against Hernandez”
I will not be able, in this game at least, to be able to see someone run, think through his options, and perform at the skill level of these two. But I will be able to appreciate that I am watching greatness.
Thanks for reading Out My Window! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.
I’m surprised to learn, after sniffing up a storm today, closing my eyes, and hoping the olfactory part of my mind would wander down some ancient pathways, that I have no real smell memory, not even one that reminds me of ‘home’. I have three smells that take me back to earlier years. Someone taking the first puff on a cigarette. There was nothing like that smell to me and it was non-reproducible. I can picture a friend (different friends throughout my smoking career) lighting up, taking a deep inhale, and blowing out the smoke. All or much of it landing on my nose. Today I try to move away from cigarettes. Don’t really want the memory pull.
Then there is being outside on a walk and, suddenly out of nowhere, smelling marijuana. Usually, I never see where it’s coming from. But the smell takes me back to the most romantic of my memories of my hippie years when everything was in front of me, and I had left all the bad, all the painful back at home. I easily picture in my mind, friends sitting around in a circle. Sometimes we are talking. Sometimes we are listening to music. But always, it was friendly, and it was an invitation for my brain to take a break from whatever the day had held.
And lastly, there is just-baked bread. Since weight has always been problematic, I don’t have great associations with that smell as delicious and heavenly as it is. Since I’ve been in Paris and no longer worry about my weight (though I never eat bread), I’ve learned to just appreciate the smell, how aromatic it is. There is a boulangerie on the corner of my street and if I’m up and out early enough, I walk by and can inhale the staff of life while watching the cooks who have been up since 3:30 am take a break leaning up against the wall of the shop smoking cigarettes.
I must be an auditory memory person. I can hear the first three bars of “EaterPurple People ”, and I’m back in my youth, nine years old, lying in my twin bed with measles. A transistor radio propped on a chair in front of me where I first discovered Hy Lit on WIBG, Philadelphia.
I can hear the first note of ‘Here Comes the Sun’ and I’m in a VW bus with four other people riding up the west coast of Italy singing at the top of my lungs. I’m returning to Florence where I had spent my senior year abroad and I was buzzing with excitement.
I can hear three strums of ‘Silver Dagger’ from Joan Baez’s first album and I’m sitting on the floor at Christmas, down in the rec room, my parents, uncle and aunt, and Peggy all sitting there. I have a guitar and I’m playing a song I wrote. We’re at the far end of the room next to the doors that open up onto the backyard. I’m wearing my dark hair parted in the middle and trying to look as much like Joan Baez as I possibly can.
These are visceral feelings I have no control over. I recently listened to the Beatles on Spotify. Here Comes the Sun started the playlist. I was instantaneously overwhelmed with memories of being young, of being hopeful, of just wanting to have fun, and not worrying about money, family, or health. I had to sit down and take deep breaths and just let the feelings roll through me. It all feels so long ago—literally another time, a different person that was there.
Would I go back there? Not on your life? What hits me is always the best of those times. Music was absolutely the best of the best. I lost myself in music. I listened to rock ‘n roll around the clock. I don’t know when it stopped but it stopped. And now it’s like sparkling sand that flows through my fingers. I can’t hold onto the feelings, nor do I want to. But I do love that I have a magic key that takes me straight back and I get to relive a tiny part of the past.
Thanks for reading Out My Window! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.
It is rare, if ever, that I write about something before it happens. When I wrote my post on Anatomy of a Scandal, it was more a review of a book and a series that I was encouraging readers to be aware of. Then last week, the media publicised the result of the Johnny Depp-Amber Heard trial. A travesty. Real life mimicking art. For those that don’t read this kind of stuff, Johnny Depp was awarded at least ten million euros to be paid to him by Amber Heard, his ex-wife. He had sued her because she had tattled on him publicly about domestic violence. Although witness after witness testified about horrible things he said and did, the media liked him better. The jury liked him better. And he won. Just like in the book and series, Ms Heard was made to say things no woman should have to say to defend herself. It didn’t help. One can’t help but wonder whether this will put back by many decades what woman are willing to report and/or say when it comes to sexual assault, rape, etc. If any any of you want to correct my perceptions of this, please do. I didn’t watch any of the trial, had no interest in it. However, after I wrote the earlier blog, I was interested in all the Op Eds that came out the next couple of days. Without exception, the writers, both male and female, were aghast at the results.
*** *** ***
With the support of many of you–Thank you, you know who your are–I got my application in to Stanford University for the writing program. The wait is not long – mid July. I believe I have a fifty-fifty chance of getting in. One cheerleader sent me a wonderful book called Dreyer’s English–An Utterly Correct Guide to Clarity and Style. Written by a copy editor, the book is laugh-out-loud funny and helpful. What does a copy editor do? S/he takes a finished piece of writing and makes it … cleaner. Example from p. 245: “There is a world of difference between turning in to a driveway, which is a natural thing to do with one’s car, and turning into a driveway, which is a Merlin trick.” Since I often jump to the back of a book (I don’t know why), I read that within my first hour of reading the book. I laughed so hard, I had tears. Now I pause every time I write ‘in to’ or ‘into’. I have to say that line over and over to myself. Have I been writing it wrong all these years? No one has said anything but it does seem like a mistake I might make. I urge any writer amongst you to get a hold of this gem of a book even if you write perfectly. We all need a good laugh and true wit these days.
*** *** ***
Amy Larue, tour leader and garden expert, explaining roses to us.
The Parc de Bagatelle is in rose heaven. Since I returned from Normandy mid-May, the roses have been in bloom. There is a formal rose garden, Roseraie Classique, at the far east end of the park and a natural rose garden, called Rosiers du Paysage, at the other end. I took a tour of Parc de Bagatelle on Tuesday and learned that the modern rose can bloom from May through Christmas. The Antique rose, which went out of favor for a long time, blooms only once during the season. These roses were moved to the very back of the formal garden and most people just pass by them in their attempt to get in the middle of the rainbow of color from rose bushes, rose trees, and trellises with climbing roses. There is a contest every year. Roses are brought in by different growers and watched over a two or three year period depending if they are in the formal garden or paysage garden. The judges come every week for six months before and during the season. They look for disease, hardiness, how the bush covers a piece of ground, the color of the leaves, smell, and how the petals fall off once the flower has died. It seems very complicated. Our tour guide, one of the judges, says she often has to give high marks to a rose she wouldn’t have in her own garden because of the criteria. Today, Thursday, June 16th, the winners are announced. The formal rose garden is closed for half the day while a huge ceremony is produced. While walking around on Tuesday, we saw flags from fifteen different countries.
I also learned that the beautiful peacocks that i have photographed and often shown in this blog are all male. The female peacock has no color except on her face. Her back is a huge grey blob. Our guide says this is so that she can hide from the males and also protect her babies.
Female peacock
Once during the past two weeks, I happened upon the wonderful volunteers who feed the cats of Bagatelle. Peacocks, the males, it really is very rare to see a female, will sit quietly by and watch. There is always the hope that some of the kibble will find its way to the other side of the path which is peacock country.
The cats of Bagatelle being fed by the wonderful volunteers
Out My Window 