Adam and Eve on a Raft

I turn up the collar of my coat, hoping to knock down the icy blast of wind that creeps down my back before meeting the chill working its way up my pants legs.

Liz, Sean, Matt and I are standing in line outside Al's Breakfast, a 10-foot wide diner sandwiched into an alleyway between two buildings in the Dinkytown neighborhood of Minneapolis, MN.  The cold weather really has me questioning my sons' belief in global warming, and the wisdom of waiting more than 20 minutes for pancakes and eggs.  But ever since Matt attended the University of Minnesota, he has raved about Al's Breakfast.   So it's just bad luck that we picked one of the coldest days of the new year to check it out.

The Dinkytown neighborhood is located just north of the University of Minnesota East Campus and populated by locals and university students.  Through the years, it has been a central area for the 1950s beat culture, the 1960s counterculture and the 1970s anti-Vietnam movement.  In Dinkytown, notable landmarks include the Dinky Dome, the Loring Pasta Bar (rumored to have been where Bob Dylan lived for a short time), the Varsity Theatre and Al's Breakfast, possibly the smallest restaurant in Minneapolis.  Twentieth-century, low-rise buildings surround us on this cold morning, with hardly a frozen breath in sight. 

"I thought if we got here 20 minutes early we'd be good," says Matt, as puffs of white escape his mouth, only to be swished away with another gust of arctic air.  "But by my estimate, we still aren't going to be able to get a seat right away."

Matt explains that Al's Breakfast only seats fourteen, so I begin counting the huddled bodies waiting to get in out of the cold.  Sure enough -- we are numbers fifteen through eighteen, so I guess Matt is right.

What is it about diners that make them such a draw?  Even on a cold January morning?

Since their arrival in the late 1800s, diners have been part of the American experience.  Their influence has touched so many parts of our lives, including cooking, eating out, popular culture, design and television/movies, that it's hard to overlook.

The origins of the diner can be traced to Walter Scott, who supplemented his income by selling sandwiches and coffee.  Fourteen years later, with business becoming so lucrative, Scott quit his job as a part-time pressman and started selling food at night from a covered express wagon outside his old employer, The Providence Journal.   In doing so, Walter Scott gave birth to what would become one of America's most recognized icons --the diner.

Through the years, diners have "evolved" from Scott's simple lunch wagon to something much more elaborate (although certainly not elegant).  In the early 1900s, lunch cars became larger and more self-contained, with lengthy counters, mid-side entrances, tile work, porcelain panels and even bathrooms.  Although they continued to cater to night workers, many lunch cars assumed permanent locations which allowed around-the-clock customers and greater respectability.  Companies, seeing potential in these new permanent structures, brought new styling which included that of the railroad's Pullman dining cars, giving birth to the name diner.

During this period of growth, the main streets of America were also changing.  With the popularity of Henry Ford's automobile, new eateries popped up as road construction boomed.  Food stands like A&W and White Castle -- catering to the automobile -- could be found spouting up everywhere.

During the Great Depression, tough times meant small diners started to replace the larger complex diners which were too expensive to maintain.  These 8 to 10 person diners -- simple and boxy -- were often carted to certain locations just like Walter Scott's original lunch wagons.  The food was nothing special, but people came for good food and fun.

In the years following, diners continued to evolve.  Much of their charm was enchanted by art-deco designs featuring modern, futuristic lines and colors.  Many used neon (which was new at the time) to draw attention and create interest.  During the next 50 years, diners reached new heights before falling out of favor to homogenized food chains like McDonalds and Burger King.

Nonetheless, diners continued to have a nostalgic appeal popping up in movies like American Graffiti and Diner.  Television brought us Flo and Happy Days, which lasted for many years.  A famous painting by Edward Hopper called "Nighthawks" is based on a diner in Philadelphia, and shows a lonely encounter between a man and waitress late in the night.

Fortunately a few real-life diners survived -- and through the efforts of some to restore and preserve them, are still with us today.

There is something inherently different -- but fun -- about going into a diner.  Almost like its free entertainment.  If it's not the employees or food, maybe it's the nostalgia.  There's a sense of going back in time when you walk into one -- the round stools, the cooking appliances so black with use that it's a wonder they still work, and all of the memorabilia unique to the owner's guests and visitors. 

Don't expect any wi-fi hotspots, or polite conversation.  For the most part, regulars are acknowledged, but not patronized.  Menus are simple and don't change much.  Noises from the kitchen sometimes sound like a war zone -- complete with shouting and utensils flying through the air.  For its entertainment value, expect to spend as much time watching the staff as eating the food.

Diners are not only unique in the food they serve and the environment under which they operate.  Many also employ a unique vocabulary -- diner talk is as much fun to hear as it is a mystery to understand.  Who knows where some of this vocabulary comes from, but it is incredibly creative and transcends race, gender and age.

Adam and Eve on a raft:  two poached eggs on toast
Angels on Horseback:  oysters rolled in bacon and served on toast
Beagle Fingers:  sausage links
Blowout patches:  pancakes
Burn the British:  toasted English muffin
Cowboy with spurs:  western omelet with French fries
Drag it through the garden:  sandwich with all condiments on it
Dry stack:  pancakes without butter
Gentleman will take a chance:  a plate of hash


Heart attack on a rack:  biscuits and gravy
Hold the grass:  sandwich without lettuce
Let it walk:  an order to go
Mousetrap:  cheese sandwich
Nervous pudding:   American jelly
Paint it red:  put ketchup on a dish
Radio sandwich:  tuna fish
Soup jockey:  waitress
Spit in the eye:  egg fried in the center of a holed out piece of bread
Walk a cow through the garden: hamburger with lettuce, tomato and onion

I wonder if any of the employees find it hard to turn off this language when they leave work?  Or does the waitress, during a night on the town, walk into the bar and say,  "Hey baserunner.  Give me some balloon juice with a ball of fire.  And do you have any belly furniture to go with that?"



The bearded man behind the counter instructs us to wait a moment while two men get out of their seats and shuffle to the left, allowing us to sit next to Sean and Matt who were already sitting at the counter with menus in hand.

"Finally," I say.  "I'm starving, and standing behind people eating only makes it worse."  Because Al's Breakfast diner is so narrow, customers who are not eating must wait while standing patiently behind those eating at the counter.

In the kitchen (out of sight), a short-order cook yells, "Order up, John!  Jose with wheat on #2."   Shortly, a plate with two poached eggs with cheese, hash browns and salsa is placed before a customer sitting nearby.

Having waited 20 minutes for a seat, I've been able to take in the eclectic atmosphere of Al's which includes cheap, hanging Tiffany lamps embraced by strings of white Christmas lights above the counter where we are sitting.  On the wall before us is a greasy collection of foreign bills from Russia, Saudi Arabia, India, Portugal and other countries I can't identify.  Above a line of ceramic mugs, is a shelf with a sign that reads "Tipping is NOT a city in Russia."   Next to it is a jumbled mess of toys, books, a Daryl Strawberry bobble head and a picture of Al Bergstrom, the original owner of Al's Breakfast.  Al  sold the diner to his nephew before he died in 2003 at the age of 97, but his menu of buttermilk pancakes, bacon waffles, hash browns and eggs remain today.

"Try the Spike, Dad.  It's really good," says Matt.  He probably knows the menu by heart, which by its laminated condition, hasn't changed in decades.  "Their pancakes are incredible, too."

As I glance through the menu, I notice another short-order cook to our right pouring pancake batter onto a sizzling grill already populated with hash browns, eggs and some hash.  She seems oblivious to the line of faces peering through the diner's only window.  Undoubtedly, she could make these orders in her sleep. Her apron, at one time bleached white, is now stained with the remnants of many mornings spent standing in front of a hot grill. 

"Look at those tickets, " says Liz, pointing to a tray of yellow pads of paper with names marked by magic marker.  As chaotic as it seems, they are arranged alphabetically (A-Z).  Some look like they are used regularly, while others are stored in crates.  Some names I recognize, like Cory Brewster and Andre Hollins from the Minnesota men's basketball team.  Others simply say, "Jew Boy" and affectionately, "Alyssa (smart ass)".  

"Those are coupons for regulars, so they don't have to pay every time they come in," says Matt, who appears to have gotten more than just a college education while going to the University of MN.  By my estimate there are quite a few regulars besides Matt who call Al's Breakfast home.

As Liz and I place our orders (I eschew Matt's recommendation and instead order short stack of blueberry pancakes and toast), I find it hard to believe so many people would willing wait in line for up to two hours -- just for pancakes and eggs.  But for those who live in this neighborhood, there is a fierce loyalty to Al's Breakfast that goes beyond the food.  Perhaps they are like the village peasants who take up arms to defend the castle against marauding intruders.  It may not be much, but it is theirs.  And it will remain theirs until they graduate or move away.

Or perhaps this hole in the wall is nothing more than a place where people can enjoy a simple breakfast.  One that will get them through a morning of classes or a day filled with the challenges of a new job.  To those coming to Al's Breakfast, they know what to expect.  No surprises here.  

But for a visitor like me, I kinda like what Food Network's Guy Fieri called it when visiting Al's Breakfast for his television show, Diners, Drive Ins and Dives:  "A dump simply aspiring to be a dive."

Yeah -- I'll agree with that, and give me another cup of mud while you're at it. 

The Great Divider

People either like Scott Walker or hate him.  There is no in between.

The Great Divider

Such is the life of a man who decided to take on public employee unions shortly after becoming the 45th Governor of Wisconsin.  The reaction from pubic employees and national labor organizations is well-documented, so there is no need to agonize over their nauseating antics.

Nevertheless -- Scott Walker lives in the belly of the beast.  Every day.  He remains the left's number one enemy by getting out of bed everyday.  Whether it's blocking high speed rail money or refusing Medicaid money from the Feds, his actions are bordering on Armageddon.   

His distractors think the worst thing he's ever done is BEING BORN.  I know people who would have voted for Hitler before re-electing Walker.  Even the Milwaukee Bucks are more popular than Scott Walker -- and that's saying a lot.  Despite the constant criticism, he sees enough progress in Wisconsin to keep moving forward.

As I have said many times before, I am surrounded by liberals, both where I live and where I work.  La Crosse -- a kissing cousin to Madison -- always votes Democrat, no matter who the candidate.  When it comes to presidential voting, the state of Wisconsin hasn't voted for a Republican president since Ronald Reagan in 1984.  So it's always a long night for us closet-conservatives hiding in our bunkers on election night.  Republicans have had better luck electing governors, but that is usually a function of rural voters versus lefties in Milwaukee, Madison and La Crosse.  But as the number of voters in those key cities continue to grow (through union benefits and welfare handouts), I fear a permanent shift in state level politics is not far away for the fine state of Wisconsin.

Our greatest weapon against such a shift has been Walker, who has won three elections within his first four years in office.  Putting a cork in Tom Barrett and Mary Burke have been two of the most satisfying things I've experienced.  As I walk past a house in our neighborhood (where they tried to get people to sign a recall petition), I imagine its occupants throwing organic kale at the television each time Scott Walker gives his "State of the State" speech

Unfortunately, getting under their skin doesn't always translate to success.  His widely-supported attempts to require a simple ID to vote have been blocked by Democrat-appointed judges.  And environmentalists are still winning the fight against frac sand mining in northern Wisconsin.


*     *     *     *     *


I have a friend who asked me the other day:  "What do you think drives the left more crazy?  Seeing a sign from last year's election that says 'We Support Walker' or a new one that proclaims 'Walker for President'?"  It's a fun question -- fun in the sense that the left loses either way.

Personally, I'd rather he remain our governor for another four years.  He can do more good in the Badger State than getting lost on the national scene.  Recent polls have him leading, or a close second to Jeb Bush -- the GOP establishment's choice.  I realize it's way too early to get exciting about these results, but it is interesting to note that those paying attention right now like what he has to say.

Which goes to the heart of the matter:  conservative ideas get people's attention.  If I have to hear another RINO tell me that he (or she) supports legal immigration, defunding Obama Care, and balancing the budget I'm going to blow-up.  Last November we put a number of Republicans in Washington to stop Obama and his anti-American ideas.  Three months later, I haven't heard much about stopping anything, much less Obama.  My hope is that enough people are getting tired of hearing the sweet sounds of conservative thinking only to find out he/she was the Pied Piper leading us to our electoral demise.

Can Walker win?  Does he have enough experience and can he excite enough people to rise to the top of a crowded Republican field?  Or will his 2011 recall baggage weigh him down on his journey to the White House?  Can his conservative message appeal to college-age voters and minorities?

His supporters remind us that he hasn't lost an election since he went to Marquette University (his enemies will be quick to say that he dropped out of college).  And his conservative message is on target if we want to reduce the size of Washington and reign in the spending and socialist programs that are being proposed by our Dictator-in-Chief.

I haven't seen Walker in debate-mode, but I understand he's pretty good.  He likes to prepare for every possibility -- no surprises here.  I like that he will say what he thinks, rather than back off controversial positions (what could be more gutsy than taking on public employee unions?) or try to claim the soft, squishy middle that appealed to McCain in 2008 and Romney in 2012.  One of the most appealing aspects of Walker is his willingness to propose an idea, defend it and then take the heat.

And as a Green Bay Packer fan wouldn't it be great to see President Walker invite the Packers to the White House after winning the Super Bowl?


*     *     *     *     *


Governor Walker has proposed cutting state funding of the UW System by $300 million over the next two years.  As you can imagine, there has been a meltdown of colossal proportion on PBS and NPR, not to mention from the state's biggest newspapers, the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel and the Wisconsin State Journal.

If you didn't know better, you'd think that $300 million is a lot of money.  It is if you're winning the lottery.  But not so much if you're talking about the annual UW System operating budget.  State Rep. Bob Kulp had the following to say about the proposed budget cuts:

"The overall budget for the UW System... is $6.1 billion. 

"The $150 million cut per year represents about 2.5 percent of the total yearly operating budget.  I understand not all of these funds are accessible and many are already committed in "cost to continue" operations.  But many small and large businesses experience much greater fluctuations than this -- and they survive and even thrive.  A 2.5% cut certainly does not constitute the "end" of a very resilient UW System!"

When looking at the small percentage cut this represents, it makes you wonder why this is such a big deal.  It borders on the silliness that comes from listening to a liberal tell you that a smaller increase in spending is actually a decrease in spending.  Only in government and organizations like the UW System -- that are dependent on taxpayer money -- can an increase of 3% instead of 4% be thought of as a cut!

In addition, is it that hard to find a way to save 2.5%?   In my household, we have to find ways to cut more than that just to make up the additional cost of cable.  It's laughable watching organizations like the UW System do with less.  You'd think we're pulling toenails and putting needles under their eyes.  In the past, they could expect a small, but consistent increase, and they usually got it.  

That kind of thinking comes from spending other people's money -- when you can ask for more, you usually spend more.

Which is why I support Scott Walker as he attempts to change the way our university system operates.  Will they continue offering a free education to poor families at the risk of raising tuition on the middle-class?  Will we see more out-of-state students to the detriment of those who live in Wisconsin -- and will we accept it?  Will we continue to see new buildings on campus, or will they live with what they have?  Maybe professors will spend more than an average of 14 hours in the classroom if teaching assistants are cut from the school's staff?

Let's take away the hand that feeds it and see what happens.


*     *     *     *


Walker's opponents call him the Great Divider.  I think they couldn't be more wrong.

Look at Obama.  He came to Congress and the White House with a background as a community organizer.  His job was to agitate, cause conflict and tear people apart.  There isn't a single issue in his 6 years as President where he brought people together.  Can you name even ONE?  The war?  Race inequality?  Income?  Health Care?  His reaction to every "crisis" is to divide and blame the other side.

Walker's background is totally different.  He grew up in Iowa, far away from Chicago politics. Contrary to what his recall agitators said, he wasn't destroying our educators and public employees.  He was attacking their unions and their collective bargaining which gave them an unfair advantage.   Wisconsin benefitted from these moves.

By removing state money from the UW System and freezing tuition he has stirred the hornet's nest once again.  Whether the majority of voters in Wisconsin (or the United States of America) see the benefits of such actions remains to be seen.

Either way, there will be blood spilled.  That is the way things are when you live in the belly of the beast.

The Other Side of Truth

"Don't let the truth get in the way of a good story
No harm no foul no crime
Don't let the truth get in the way of a good story
It'll get 'em every time."

-- Gaelic Storm




ITEM ONE
Recent events from Ferguson, Missouri and Staten Island, New York, infer that American police officers are racists and that a bigoted white society tolerates unnecessary (sometimes lethal) force against black minorities.

The fact that grand juries in both cases determined that the officers were justified in using force to deal with a dangerous situation, has been ignored.  In fact, the verdicts handed down prompted more protesting, violence and looting.  Their reaction was "justified" in response to white racism that is keeping them from getting jobs, manipulating the legal system, and putting an unusually high number in jail. 

These protesters were not interested in the truth.

If they were, there would be a discussion about high black-on-black violence, the high abortion rate among blacks and the disintegration of the black family.  Imagine the positive outcome of Thomas Sowell, Clarence Thomas and Condoleezza Rice meeting with the White House to discuss ways to help black teenagers and families.

But no, there is more to gain by community organizing -- blaming police officers and grand juries.  Stirring the racial pot.  Damn the facts if they don't fit the racial template provided by Sharpton, Obama and Eric Holder.

ITEM TWO
On November 19th, Rolling Stone magazine published "A Rape on Campus," an article that described how "rapes are kept quiet" by students and administrators at the University of Virginia.  It focused on the story of one freshman student, known as Jackie, who said she was brutally gang-raped by seven men for several hours at a frat party in 2012.

It shocked readers, grabbed media attention and spawned protests and vandalism, and the university quickly suspended all Greek system activities and put out a call for zero tolerance of sexual assault.

Less than a week later, it was determined that regular Rolling Stone contributor, Sabrina Rubin Erdely, had fabricated the story.  She had simply taken the word of Jackie, without contacting a single one of the seven alleged attackers.

The reaction of people in the media?  They concluded that the writer was "simply trying to tell a really painful story, which is that sexual assault really does happen at the University of Virginia and also around the United States."   Hanna Rosin, a writer for Slate and The Atlantic said, "I think part of what went wrong is belief getting in the way of facts."  Rosin suggested that "wanting the story desperately to be true got in the way."

In other words, don't let facts ruin a good "story."



ITEM THREE
As I write this blog, the number one story in the world is the attack in Paris on the French satirical magazine Charlie Hebdo.   It is widely known for its provocative material and lampoons everyone -- Muslims, Christians and Jews.  Yet, it was radical Muslims who believed this satire to be so offensive that they attacked -- killing twelve offenders, while praising "Allah Akbar!" and shouting "we have avenged the prophet."

Despite these obvious references to radical Islam, President Obama has refused to associate them being Muslim or even denouncing the attacks -- without claiming that the magazine should take some responsibility for the attacks by being critical of the Islamic prophet.

The truth behind this attack, as well as those in Benghazi, Fort Hood and the killing of 121 children in Pakistan, resides with a radical branch of Islam that is spreading through the world.  Despite the facts pointing to these deliberate acts of terrorism, the Obama administration and select media continue to label these terrorists as lone wolves, nut jobs at work, and activists who don't represent the Muslim faith.  It's like a bad game of Taboo where you can't use the words radical, Muslim, Islam or terrorist.

Why is the Obama Administration so afraid of speaking the truth?  Don't they know that radical Islam doesn't care what we call them?  Their destructive behavior isn't going to change if the White House doesn't refer to Islamic jihad, or makes a point of disassociating Islam from terrorism in public comments.

How stupid -- who the hell did we elect as our President, and how long has he been a closet Muslim?

All three of these examples reflect the left's real agenda:  they will fake it if it promotes something they think is accurate.  Look at the left's biggest positions in recent elections -- 1) America is evil, 2) Republicans are waging a war on women, and 3) government knows best.

It just so happens that all three are lies.

For those of us on the right, America is a lot like "the shining city on the hill" used by Ronald Reagan when he described American exceptionalism.  We see America as a unique country of free people, who through the Constitution and God-given rights, work the hardest, give the most and fight the wars that need to be fought everywhere to protect other people in need.

The left will view this "exceptionalism" as bragging that we are better than other races and nations -- that we have only succeeded because we have stepped over others to get there.  Native Indians, blacks, and illegal aliens are the backs upon which this country was built.  What a bunch of BS!  There isn't a country on earth that hasn't become what it is without conquering someone along the way.  Genghis Khan, Alexander the Great, Napoleon Bonaparte, Julius Caesar and Attila the Hun are just a few.  Remember the British and Russian expansions that swept through Europe and Asia?

But the reality is that America has done far more good for this world.  Our freedoms have led to advancements in science, medicine, politics and literature.  When the world is in trouble, America comes to the rescue -- if not with money, then troops.  Or usually both.

So enough about being the bad guys.  No one's perfect, but we are far and away the best thing going.

As for a war on women -- let's do something the media doesn't.  Let's take the political party away from the name and see who's mistreating women.

Bill Clinton (rape and impeachment)
Ted Kennedy (murder)
John Edwards (out-of-wedlock birth)
Robert Filner (sexual harassment)
Anthony Weiner (sexting scandal)

If it wasn't for their support of abortion and welfare, these names would be reviled by women voters.  But because they vote the right way (meaning they agree with the media), their woman-abuse businesses get a pass. 

Look what the Democrats did to strong, capable women like Sarah Palin and Michelle Bachmann.  They quickly tore them apart by criticizing their looks, intelligence, family or religion.   Conversely, the media salivates over the likes of Hillary and Michelle who are where they are because of their political husbands.  

Conservative theory support strong family lifestyles, which provide higher incomes, better education and greater success.  Welfare, on the other hand, fosters dependency on someone else, single motherhood and few opportunities.  I realize not everyone falls into one category or the other, but come on -- if given that choice, why would you limit your future?

And finally, the idea that government knows best.

If someone told me the Packers beat the Seahawks yesterday, I would call them liars.  But for some reason if someone tells the voting public that Obama care will lower their health care costs, they believe it.  It defies common sense that the malcontents in Washington D.C. know what they are doing, when everything they do ends up over-budget, inefficient and compounding the problem.

I read recently that our national debt is approaching $17 trillion.  Here's a short list of government failures which comprise part of this national debt:

Obama Care failure
Raiding Social Security
Federal Housing Authority (2008 housing crash)
Medicare reimbursement
Quantitative easing
Environmental Protection Agency (climate change)
Department of Education (Common Core)
Michelle Obama's lunch program
Handling of the Ebola epidemic
War on poverty

I've always felt that voters send people to Washington to fix things.  Which is wrong to begin with --  it means every problem is compounded by adding another round of failure.  Today's politicians look at their jobs as full time.  The power brokers in the Senate and the House of Representatives look at every day as an opportunity to expand government, write new laws and create  bureaucracies designed to complicate and frustrate everyone.  This applies to both Republican and Democrat.

We need to bring back the days of people went to Washington part time, held real jobs back home and received minimum wages (I realize that's a pipe dream, but it feels good).  Take the money out of politics, implement term limits and give voters a voice in what needs to be done.  Somehow we need to stop believing that government knows the answers to the problems they are creating.  It's not their goal. 




Without philosophizing too much, all lying is bad.  Democrats lie on the self-serving basis that it achieves their goal:  accuracy over the truth. 

One of the biggest disappointments I have with liberal lies is that it discourages personal responsibility and self-improvement.  Do you think blacks will break away from poverty and crime if they believe that it's not their fault?  Will women find the confidence to compete for jobs and equal pay if they are led to believe there is no future without a welfare check and free birth control?  And will we ever defeat terrorism if we refuse to identify those responsible?  Of course not.

So where do we go from here?  Hopefully, people are finding various media that breaks through these lies.  When Obama stands before us and tells us he's fighting for the middle class, maybe a few more voters are not believing him anymore.  When a video shows the horrible beheading of an innocent journalist by ISIS, maybe a few more in the media are not believing the White House denials.

And as people look back on the Obama presidency for what it truly was, it is my hope that we will be better in the future than we were in the past. 

Paris Is Always a Good Idea, Part IV

We are sitting outside the La Maison Rose, the Montmartre bistro located just north of the Place du Tertre, taking a break from the steep climb that brought us to its summit and to the Sacre-Coeur Basilica.  Our waitress, a smiling, short-haired French girl, brings us four large glasses of Saint Omer, a sweet tasting beer that slides down easily.

To my right sit Liz, Kevin and Eric, who are together for the first time since they huddled around their dying mother in a hospice room in Iowa two years ago.  Our meeting today is a much happier affair, and it is great to see them laughing, messing with each other's hair and telling childhood stories.    Our hope that Kevin would find time to join us in Paris came true -- so far we have spent time at the Arc de Triomphe, Eiffel Tower and Bastille Day fireworks.  We decide that tomorrow will be spent at the palace grounds of Versailles before Kevin flies back to work.

 

So today we are spending the afternoon on Montmartre -- a 427 foot high hill in northern Paris -- exploring the historic neighborhood of artists Salvador Dali, Claude Monet, Pablo Picasso and Vincent van Gogh.

This hilly neighborhood offers some of the most picturesque views of Paris I have seen so far.  The steep streets that wind their way to the top feature artist shops, colorful cafes and historic locations like Moulin de la Galette (one of the original windmills still found on the hill), the stairs of the Rue Foyatier, Bateau Lavoire (Picasso's art studio) and Place du Tertre which is a beautiful square where artists gather to draw and paint under the watchful eye of the awe-inspiring Basilica Sacre-Coeur.  Red, blue and white umbrellas shade the artists as they sketch portraits of wandering tourists.  The cobbled stone streets lead to restaurants where waiters -- wearing black aprons over white shirts -- eagerly invite you in for an afternoon beverage.

Montmartre means "mountain of the martyr" and is named after the martyrdom of bishop Saint Denis who was decapitated by pagan priests atop the hill in 250 AD (the French have a thing about losing their heads). It is said that he picked up his head and continued for 6 miles from the summit of the hill, preaching his sermon the entire way.

During the nineteenth century, Napoleon III gave much of the prime land in proper Paris to his wealthy friends, so that meant the citizens (who were moved out) settled here on the outskirts of town where they quickly established their own rural existence without the rules and regulations of Paris.

As a result, Montmartre quickly became a popular place to drink and be entertained, which led to the establishment of nightclubs like Moulin Rouge and Le Chat Noir.  It was also during  the late 1800s that avant-garde artists began calling Montmartre home.  Pissarro, Degas, Renoir, and Picasso -- who at the time were penniless -- were some of the earliest artists to live in the area.

On par with the twisting and narrow streets is the Basilica Sacre-Coeur, which was built between 1875 and 1914.  The basilica is designed in a Roman-Byzantine style which is in contrast to many other buildings throughout Paris, which were mostly built in a Romanesque style.  Its white travertine stone is interesting because it will exude calcite when it rains.  This reaction is like a bleacher, which ensures that the basilica always remains white.

A highlight of our visit to the basilica is a climb up 300 narrow steps (can you confirm that Colin?) to the top where we look out over the city of Paris.  I am still amazed at how dense and closely constructed the buildings are.  From this height, Paris looks nothing like the city below, with its charming shops and cafes.  Nonetheless, the view -- at 272 feet -- is spectacular with the Eifel Tower in the hazy distance.  We shout down to Liz and Sharon, but the height is too much and our voices get carried across Paris like fog on a cool evening.  As badly as I want Liz up here with me, I don't think she would feel too good about the tight squeeze up the spiral staircase or the dizzying view before me.



"Laisse-moi seule!"  (Leave me alone!)

It is six o'clock in the morning, and the shout can be heard even from the fourth floor of our apartment.  Moments later we hear it again -- "Laisse-moi seule!"  This time with more force and a promise that a punch to the face is not far behind.

Liz and I step to the window and look down on a young couple who are on a bridge walking over the River Seine.  She is wearing a nice dress and high heels, while he has his dress shirt unbuttoned at the neck.  Despite the early morning, it looks like they are just returning from a late night on their way home.

"Wow -- what is she so mad about?" I ask as we watch them stop directly below our window. 

With a push she continues down the river as her partner struggles to stay close.  "Degage!"  She yells again and throws a punch that hits him in the chest.  Having received the message, he wanders to the other side of the street and continues to mirror her step by step.

How appropriate, I think as we turn our back to the window and continue packing our bags.  It's almost like Paris is sending me a message that it is time to leave.  I have been here long enough that I am comfortable walking the streets and no longer feel like I am a stranger in a strange place.  But like all good things, my time has come to leave the excitement of Paris -- with it's historic sites, wonderful cafes and interesting people. 

 

I will miss our end-of-day visits to Berthillon for ice cream, stepping out onto the balcony of the Palais Garnier, the wonderful risotto with scallops at Le Temps De Cerises, and how it stays light until almost eleven each night.  I will close my eyes while in my bed in La Crosse and listen for the boisterous river boats floating by our window -- and miss them.

In some ways, I'm looking forward to returning home.  Away from the constant buzz of traffic, the  thump! thump! of late night music and laughter.  They can have the Metro.  I am not going to miss washing my clothes in a hybrid washing/drying machine that never does what I want.  Nor will I miss climbing these 100 twisting steps that never get easier.

But the good outweighs the bad by a lot.   

I realize that spending time in Paris -- and by osmosis, Europe -- has made me appreciate how different we are as Americans than the rest of the world.   We pride ourselves on being free, and yet it seems so much more relaxed and less restrictive over here.  The French appear less interested in news, politics and money; they enjoy coming in late to work and think nothing about taking the day off if they were out too late the night before.  I am jealous that the French turn off the television and come down to the River Seine with a bottle of wine and some cheese and watch the sun set behind Notre Dame.  

I'm sure I'm romanticizing life in Paris, but I don't care.  This city does that to you.

As I finish packing my suitcase and prepare to leave, I catch a glimpse of a painting on the wall that shows two lovers standing in the rain at the base of the Eiffel Tower.  I have heard Paris called the city of lovers and light.  Having spent just seven days in this beautiful city, it is a little easier to understand why.  

Audrey Hepburn once said "Paris is always a good idea."  For many years that has been a very popular movie phrase when talking about this city.  She is also known for saying that if her world were to end today, she would look back on all the pleasures and excitements -- not the sadness, but the joy of everything else.  In looking back on our short time here in Paris, I can't agree with her more.  I will never forget our time together for one week in July of 2014.

Au Revoir, Paris!

Paris Is Always A Good Idea, Part III

I swing my leg through the bike's middle frame, lay it on the ground and walk over to the edge of the Grand Canal . 

Three hundred years before, this beech tree-lined canal would be the site of royal fireworks or the starting point of a real theater set. Unbelievably, these waters were used for battle preparation using a three-masted ship and galley.  Couples in gondolas would also pole along these waters accompanied by barges with orchestras playing celebratory Italian songs.  Originally, gondoliers -- imported with their boats from Venice -- lived across from me in a little settlement next to the canal.  Today, the canal sadly only reflects trees and blue skies, and the occasional rented rowboat. 




We are enjoying our bicycle ride through the grounds of the Chateau de Versailles, which is one of the world's most beautiful examples of French architecture and art.  Located 12 miles outside of Paris, the site began as Louis XIII's hunting lodge before his son Louis XIV transformed it and expanded it , moving the court and government  from Paris to Versailles in 1682.

As our biking group digs into our lunch, I hear our guide Rick tell us the cross-shaped canal is one mile long and ten feet deep (an accomplishment that took 10,000 workers and 10 years to complete).  To my right, the canal intersects the Petit Canal which vanishes around the corner.  To my left is the meticulously manicured lawns, parterres of flowers and sculptures with fountains leading up to the Chateau.

Much like the aristocracy of centuries ago, we sit comfortably eating peaches, strawberries, olives, some foie gras spread on a baguette and wine.  The only thing missing is someone keeping us cool with fans (although Liz has her handy-dandy fan at hand). 

It gives me a moment to reflect on the events of the morning -- including the ride by train from Paris to Versailles, riding through the surrounding town of Versailles using the "hand of power" and "finger of waggle" to stop oncoming traffic, seeing the golden Royal gate with its 100,000 gold leaves, and finally stopping at the Trianon Palaces and Domaine de Marie-Antoinette which features 12 thatched-roof buildings fronting its own lake.

While much has been said about the Chateau, Eric's idea of taking bikes has given us time to get a different perspective of the grounds surrounding the palace.  The stories by our Fat Tire bike guide (and part time movie director) keep us laughing while we learn more about the 100 year-reign of French monarchy -- Louis XIII, Louis XIV and Louis XV and finally Louis XVI.  Jacqueline and Colin, who act out the reign of two of the kings, discover that history can be fun -- as long as you don't lose your head over it. 

Of the four French Kings, Louis XIV is easily the greatest.  "The Sun King" ranks as one of the most remarkable monarchs in recorded history.  Crowned as king at the age of 4, he reigned for 72 years -- 54 of them where he personally controlled all aspects of the French government.  He ruled at a time of "ancient regime" -- when society consisted of rulers and the ruled, and when you were born to be rich or to be poor.  Versailles was where the rich ruled, in remarkable fashion.

King Louis XIV called himself the sun king because he actually believed that he gave warmth and life to all that he touched.  He was also thought of as the god Apollo --the Greek god of the sun.  Versailles was his personal attempt to create a temple to the god Apollo. And based on the amount of money spent on this "temple," -- at one point four times the GDP of the entire country -- I must say he succeeded in glorious fashion!

Having finished our lunch, our guide tells us to retrieve our bicycles and we head toward Sailor's Gate, past the Apollo Basin, the Lake of the Swiss Guards and back to the central courtyard where we began our day.  From here it will be on foot through the Royal Courtyard and Chateau.

It is very difficult standing here, surrounded by all of this excess -- to think of the people who were kept under the royal thumb while more and more money was spent on its expansion.  The idyllic gardens, lakes and royal residences could not have even been a thought to those living and dying in Paris.  Needless to say, as the reign of Louis XV -- and later Louis XVI -- came to an abrupt end, the people let it be known that such opulence would not be tolerated ever again.




Getting around Paris -- to say the least -- is worrisome.  I suppose it's true anyplace where you don't know where you are going. 

At the moment, Liz, Sean and I are taking a three-wheeled bike taxi from the Musee du Louvre to our apartment on lle Saint Louis.  After being on our feet for the last eight hours, we are in no condition to walk even another few steps.  So despite the number of passengers, we have been told by our bicyclist that he can easily pull three people.  "I am a strong cyclist," he says in a Bulgarian accent, as we squeeze our tired bodies into the small, enclosed bicycle saddle.

Remembering our taxi ride from the airport, I am not as surprised when our bicycle surges forward into traffic, oblivious to the flash of cars, trucks and the occasional tuk tuk.  I cannot make much sense of traffic lanes other than to recognize that our driver is staying on the right side of the road -- cars and motor cycles continue to pass without giving us a second thought.

What is surprising is the effortlessness of our driver, who is pulling between 500 and 600 pounds while in a reclined position.  I'm impressed until he tells us that there is a motor on the back of the bike that will kick in when he takes off from a traffic stop or going uphill.

Our route back to the island takes us down Rue de Rivoli past the wonderful Comedie Francaise, the Palais Royal, Saint Germain L'Auxerrois and the remains of Tour St. Jacques.  As it is late afternoon, the city is buzzing with excitement and anticipation of a warm summer evening.  People are either finding shade along tree-lined boulevards or catching a quick bite in a small sidewalk café.

I'm still impressed with our driver's ability to maneuver through traffic while listening to rock and roll songs blasting from a radio hanging from a bar overhead.  Between songs, he is telling us that he will be going back to his home to finish engineering school at the end of summer.  "Not an easy way to make money!" I tell Sean as we pass a long row of department stores topped by apartments located above.  As we turn down the busy Boulevard de Sebasloppl,  I am surprised to see our first glimpse of a McDonald's, Starbucks and GAP.

At last, we arrive at the River Seine and we make a plea for the driver to let us out.  Our squished bodies have had enough and we are in familiar surroundings, so we pay the driver $20 Euros and cross the Pont au Change Bridge toward Ile de la Cite.  Rest, relaxation and Berthillon ice cream are within sight!

Welcome to my nightmare!

Two days later, I am watching an old man on the Metropolitain, Paris' underground subway system.  Of all the ways to get around Paris - compared to the RER speed trains (which takes us to Versailles), and a river boat called Batobus (which we take regularly to different locations on the Seine River) -- the Metropolitain is the most confusing.

Despite some experience with the subway systems in Washington D. C., Montreal and St. Louis, I cannot wrap my head around the confusing tunnel system of trains that feature 303 stations and 62 transfer stations.  Much of my confusion comes from walking five -- sometimes fifteen! -- minutes through twisting underground tunnels to the next station.  Intersecting tunnels, like the spokes of a wheel, head off into different directions, only to intersect with another spoke only 100 meters away.

Interestingly, these underground tunnels and concourses are still decorated in the art nouveau style that was popular during the Metro's opening in 1900.  Tunnels walls and ceiling are lined by small white earthenware tiles, chosen because of the poor lighting originally found in the early twentieth century.  Walls are covered by advertising, with posters announcing the opening of the new Transformers IV movie and a David Bowie exhibition at the Cite de la Musique.  At a few intersections, I encounter what looks like a small village consisting of newsstands and a market selling a variety of fruit and vegetables.

Speaking of underground tunnels, it is well known that another city exists beneath the streets of Paris.  Known as  the Catacombs de Paris, they form a labyrinth beneath the very heart of Paris.  Many of these tunnels were created in the galleries of the former quarries whose stone was used to build the city above.  Located below the Metropolitain, these ossuaries contain the remains of six million Parisians, transferred between the late-18th and mid-19th centuries as graveyards were being closed above ground because of the risk they posed to public health.

But as I was saying --

I am standing on the Metro train watching an older French man play an accordion.  He is a well-dressed man, wearing grey slacks with a blue and black striped shirt.  I don't know if this is a regular occurrence on the Metro -- perhaps in an effort to relax passengers, the city has hired him to entertain during certain hours.  I'm enjoying this little piece of old French cointe until he finishes, smiles and comes around asking for money.  So much for being hired by the Metro.

Disappointed, I turn my face to look at a train car filled with passengers returning from work.  Many of them share a vacant look on their faces as if they have been infected by the body next to them with some soul-sucking virus.  It's like I'm watching the 2014 remake of the Invasion of the Body Snatchers.  I adjust my grip on the pole as a sharp turn on the tracks shifts my body weight to the left then right.  To my side, I see Colin firmly attached to Sean's waist -- I wonder what his young mind is thinking as ghostly images of graffiti and patches of darkness flash by the train's dirty windows. 

Finally, the train slows and I see a blue and white sign that reads Cluny La Sorbonne.  It vanishes as quickly as it appeared.  In mass, we exit the train and check to make sure everyone is still with us. Eric, Kevin, Sharon, Liz, Jacqueline and the hybrid Sean/Colin.  Check!  Wallets, backpacks and purses are still in place, meaning the pickpockets have been foiled again. With a rush of air, the train departs -- taking its collection of zombie passengers with it.  As we exit into the sunlight of Quai De La Tornelle, my spirit is renewed with the sounds and beauty of the River Seine and old city Paris. 

Indeed it is always a good idea to visit Paris, but it is best to travel above ground.

Continued,

Paris Is Always A Good Idea, Part II

My stomach drops like a bomb on Paris during World War I as I realize my camera does not work.

Sean is standing in the Cour Carree courtyard of one of the most famous museums in the world -- the Musee du Louvre -- and my camera 's battery decides to die!  Damn it to hell -- if only the mail had delivered my back-up battery a day earlier! 

A few days before, as we waited in the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport for our flight to France, I checked my Amazon.com order and discovered that they had attempted to delivered it to our house at 9 that morning -- mere hours after we had left.  A lot of good that would do since I needed it for the trip.  I tried to tell myself everything would be ok if I kept my existing battery fully charged.  Liz, always so full of wisdom said, "Maybe that will teach you to order these things sooner than a few days before you need it."  My mumbled reply would only encourage more wisdom, so I licked my wounds and kept my mouth shut.

 

Two days later, as my battery dies on the threshold of the Louvre, Liz's words echo in my mind again.

As Sean disappears through the arch into another area leading to the museum's main courtyard and entrance, I remind myself to keep my mouth shut again -- this time because it is hanging open in amazement at the massive, yet beautiful building before me.  Its symmetrical design with vertical pilasters and colonnades resembles a majestic palace infused with decorative Greek gods and statues of important French figures.

As I rush forward to find Eric, Sharon, Sean and Liz, I enter the museum's main courtyard which is dominated by the Louvre's famous glass pyramid.   To my left and right (as well as behind me) stretch the Denon, Richelieu and Sully wings of the museum with more pilasters and colonnades topped by black steep boxy mansard roofs.  Fountains adorn the courtyard, with people standing nearby snapping pictures.  Damn the U.S. Postal Service!

In the distance I can see Jardin des Tuileries with its geometrical gardens, the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel and a picturesque Ferris wheel.  Blue skies have finally returned after this morning's rain.  It's a glorious view, one that French rulers like King Louis XIV would see every day before this palace was moved to Versailles.

A braid of people snake through the courtyard, waiting to enter the museum and get out of the day's heat.  Thanks to our museum passes, we are able to skip the wait and enter through doors which are integrated into the pyramid's glass walls.  I am excited as we descend the staircase that will take us into the museum's galleries and exhibits.  After so many years, I am about to see great works of classical art like Venus de Milo and the Winged Victory of Samothrace.  And famous paintings like Da Vinci's Mona Lisa and Rembrandt's The Supper at Emmaus.   

It is just the beginning of a week filled with great museums like the Louvre, Musee d'Orsay,  the Petit Palais Musee des Beaux Arts and of course, the Fragonard Musee du Parfum.  Ok, maybe the last one isn't on the list of Paris' greatest museums, but rest assured Eric, Sean and I won't forget our tour guide anytime soon.




The architecture in Paris is so opulent that it stops you in your tracks -- often right in the middle of the road.   Which, given the way people drive in Paris, is not a good idea.  The city's museums, hotels and gardens feature such an abundance of riches that it amazes you when you come across another structure that's even more decadent.

I've spent the morning on my own following the River Seine on my way to the Eiffel Tower.  Along the way, I see Gothic architecture represented in Notre-Dame and Sainte Chapelle, the royalty of la Consiergerie (the prison where Marie Antoinette lost her head), and the renovated train station called Musee d'Orsay with its beautiful twin clocks. 

Even bridges are adorned with gold -- like the Pont Alexandre III, a beaux-arts style bridge with its exuberant lamps, cherubs, nymphs and winged horses on either end.  It practically puts the Eiffel Tower to shame. 

Don't get me wrong, the Eiffel Tower is awesome.  Next to the Mona Lisa, is there anything that says Paris like the Eiffel Tower?  It's size dominates the skyline as I walk along the river, passing newsstands selling everything from newspapers, magazines, posters, old books and artwork.  I pass people selling various-sized Eiffel Towers and small crowds of people playing a game where you try to guess the location of a disappearing ball.

But compared to the collection of museums and hotels that I passed on the way, the Eiffel Tower is simple -- almost mundane.  It's best features appear at night, when the tower is lit with alternating colors that can be seen from miles away.

It reminds me of Disneyland.  If you've ever been to the Epcot Center in Florida, you may remember its World Showcase featuring little villages from different parts of the world.  In "Impressions of France" you will find a little French village that looks just like parts of Paris.  You know you're looking at something that looks like it's centuries old, but it was really made in 1998.  At the time, I thought it was pretty cool.  Today, standing in Paris -- doing my Mary Tyler Moore impression -- I look all around me and see streets filled with Disney impressions.   The difference is, here the buildings really are four hundred to eight hundred years old.





 

Speaking of impressions, everyone should add sitting at a Paris café to their bucket list.  You can't walk more than a few blocks before you run into one.

Sidewalk brasserie-style cafes are the epitome of what it means to be French.  With their colorful awnings -- highlighted with red, yellow and purple flowers -- they add instant appeal to every corner. 

A typical café will have small tables under an umbrella for shade, with chairs facing the street so you can watch people walking past.  These tables are so close that you think you must know the people next to you.  If you're lucky, the sound of classical music from a school across the street or someone playing the accordion will reach your ears when there's no traffic driving by.

On the day we asked Sean if he wanted to join us in Paris, you could tell his first thought was:   sitting at a café, sipping on a beverage and reading a newspaper?  Yeah, I could do that.  He didn't even have to open his mouth -- the answer was written all over his face.

Today we are sitting at a quiet café for a breakfast of freshly baked croissants with jam, a pain au chocolat, some sliced fruit, yoghurt and a cup of hot chocolate.

Sitting outside, with the morning sun highlighting the dome of a gothic church across the street, I am able to see a delivery truck delivering fresh fruit, the ever-present moped buzzing by and a few people walking to work after last night's Bastille Day fireworks at the Eiffel Tower.  Next door is a market where you could buy fresh vegetables and fruit.  Next to that is a butcher shop, and next to that a bakery.  You get the idea.  In Paris it seems like everything you need is within reach of a café.  Sit long enough and you'll find what you're looking for just a few steps away.

That reminds me... did anyone see an ice cream shop?  There must be one around here somewhere -- it is summer.  And we are in Paris.

To be continued,

Paris Is Always A Good Idea, Part 1

Despite the rain, I force my eyes to look up toward the upper reaches of the cathedral.  Through the drizzle, I can see the transept and spire dominating the verdigris copper statues of the twelve apostles.  With today's weather, I can easily imagine the spire being a true "spiritual lightning rod" protecting everyone inside from the storm. 

 

Facing the cathedral's West façade, dominated by its two large towers, I am greeted with the ringing of the 13-ton, bourdon bell known as Emmanuel.  It's a magnificent sound -- filling the surrounding buildings, alleys and cafes, forcing its way into the gutters and catacombs beneath Paris -- one that is accompanied by the remaining four bells ringing from the cathedral's South Tower. 

I wonder how many storms, much worse than this one -- this building has weathered.  During the radical upheaval of the French Revolution in 1793, its walls were assaulted by common Parisians determined to tear down religious and political  hierarchies.  And yet it survived and was rebuilt in the years that followed.

As the rain continues, I see water exiting from the stone mouth of a hideous gargoyle, as though it is vomiting anything sent from the heavens above.

I feel sorry for Eric, standing to my side who is the only one in our group without an umbrella.  A jacket and baseball cap, pulled low over his eyes, is his only protection from the drenching rain.  Even Jacqueline and Colin seem tickled that they have umbrellas, but dad does not.  Elsewhere, multi-colored umbrellas -- muted by the morning's grey skies -- dot the long line of people waiting to enter the cathedral's massive wooden doors.  Many of them are waiting for Sunday Mass -- the rest of us will have to settle for the rain to wash away our sins.

For the first time since our arrival, I look down.  My feet are standing in a puddle of water, soaking my shoes and socks -- but I barely notice.  Standing before  the entrance to this eight hundred-year-old architectural marvel known as the Cathedrale Notre-Dame De Paris, I am reminded of how small and insignificant my time on this planet has been. 

It will not be the last time I feel that way.



We are in Paris, France for a week, joining Liz's brother and family from Chicago.  Just saying something like that -- in Paris, France -- takes some getting used to.  Adjusting to a different time zone, foreign language and new surroundings will take more time than we will have on vacation.  But that doesn't mean we won't try.

Our arrival at the Charles De Gaulle Airport is uneventful, but without a cell phone to call Eric or Sharon we are left wondering how we are going to find them among Europe's second most busy -- and the world's seventh most busy -- airport.  Fortunately, we are able to find the correct terminal and arrival gate after dashing through a sea of foreign speaking travelers.

How utterly confused I feel as we rush from one screen to another searching for an incoming flight from Chicago.  The gentle chimes of the airport's overhead speaker system is doing little to settle our nerves.  We discover that the Ogden flight will be delayed by a couple of hours, so we need to find our taxi ride to the apartment on our own. Fortunately, Liz has a packet of information and a phone number to call.  With the assistance of help from the informations su l'aeroport, we are soon face to face with our smiling escort, holding a sign that reads OGDEN.

Ten minutes later -- exhausted from our overnight (and sleepless) flight -- I am left speechless as our taxi zips between speeding cars, buses, motorcycles and fearless pedestrians.  I still can't believe we are in Paris!  While Liz and Enzo talk about family and his growing taxi business, I look out the van's dirty window at a world that is as foreign to me as the language being used by our taxi driver.  A quick look at the speedometer tells me we are maneuvering through traffic at speeds of 130 kph (80 miles an hour).  As we approach a four lane, traffic junction, we slow, then suddenly stop waiting for traffic from the right to merge.  Enzo beeps his horn at the car ahead and -- muttering something insulting in French -- we're off again.

Three bouchons (traffic jams) and forty-five breathless minutes later, we are on the Ile Saint Louis, standing before our temporary home away from home --  Bour 55, 5 Quai de Bourbon -- Paris.

Ile Saint Louis is one of two natural islands in the middle of historic Paris.  It is a small island connected to the rest of Paris by four bridges to both banks of the River Seine.  While much of Paris has modernized over the years, Ile Saint Louis remains romantically frozen in the 17th century when Ernest Hemingway rented a room here.  I can tell immediately that it will provide an oasis of calm in an otherwise busy part of the city.  As we look out of the large open windows onto the gentle flow of the river, I am already forgetting our ride from the airport.

Our townhouse is typical of the beautiful 4- and 5-storied French architecture that is common through out the island.  Dwellings are oriented towards the outside, rather than towards an inner courtyard, with large open windows and balconies looking out to river views.  As I would find out later, we are surrounded by narrow one-way streets with several restaurants, markets, bakeries, fromageries, toy shops (puppets!), cafes and ice cream parlors at street level, as well as one large church.  It will not take us long to visit Berthillon, with its primary ice cream store on the island.  Within two blocks are three or four additional shops, each with their own unique flavors of ice cream.  We all agree -- it's some of the best in Paris!



 

At the moment, I am just standing in the living room of our townhouse.  Too tired to move.  That's because to get to our apartment within the townhouse, we must open three locked doors and climb more than 100 steps to the main living room.

The charm of the old building can be found in its unique characteristics and solid construction. But these steps are a killer!  In addition, we have three large suitcases that need to be brought up.  Our Parisian "greeter" invites us to use a small (Liz will tell you very small) elevator on the second floor.  It's big enough for one person and a suitcase.  You slide the door open, step into its cramped space, shut the grill, push the up button, and ... pray.  Miraculously, a few minutes later it opens on the fourth floor just like he said.

Despite the steep stairs, we use the elevator only to bring the suitcases up on the first day, and down on the last.

Much to our surprise, we are told that there a no bugs to worry about ("too cold!"), so we throw open four large windows to let the sounds of Ile Saint Louis wash over the apartment.  With no screens on the windows, we can look straight down to the narrow street below and the River Seine, which is flowing right to left.  It is a beautiful view -- either sitting in a chair or perched on the ledge -- and one that we will cherish in the days and nights ahead as we are reminded that Paris in the summer is always a good idea.

To be continued,

In the Engine Room

"I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship," Louisa May Alcott.



The muddy river water pools around my feet, which are thrust beneath the seat in front of me.  My left hip is hugging the gunnel's edge, while the right one is slightly rotated away from the middle, allowing greater reach with my paddle.  Sweat continues down my face, under my chin and quickly disappears inside the life preserver hugging my chest.  The temperature inside the vest must be ten degrees hotter than the air temperature, which is hovering around 83 degrees.  Above me, an American Eagle glides gracefully through the air -- unlike the 595 pound boat which I find myself in.  Around us, the Black River is a choppy assortment of waves and debris aided by a gusty July wind.

Our steersman yells, "Attention madam!  Paddles ready!"

I ask myself one last time, am I ready?  How did I find myself in this boat again?  What sounded like a good idea last year has become reality along with the aching muscles and sore back.  Mentally I am focused on the water lapping against the side of the boat.  It is a brownish-green liquid about to be slice and pulled behind by my wooden paddle.  Physically, I am stiff despite the ten minute warm-up consisting of squats and arm circles.  It will only get worse.

The air horn to my right blasts the silence as 20 paddles plunge simultaneously into the water. 

 

It has been nearly a year since my last visit to the Engine Room.

During that time, I have turned another year older, scratched my cornea twice, broken my thumb and volunteered to be a part of the Big Blue Dragon Boat Race held in La Crosse on the fifth day of July.  Some more painful than others, but valuable lessons -- each and every one.

Unlike my last race in Dubuque, Iowa, my understanding of the sport of dragon boat racing is much better.  Our crew of doctors, therapists and nurses are now familiar to me.  Friendly faces which were smiling with the satisfaction of participating are now replaced with a determined visage inoculated with knowledge from a winter camp held in Florida.

The Engine Room, not to be confused with the Timing Box or Terminators, is now etched permanently in my mind as a place where your paddle digs deep and pulls with power for practically the entire race.  I joked with my wife that they hired me for my muscle, not my mind  (and then she tells me they must not think much of my muscle either, because they're not paying me anything).

The Engine Room is located in the middle of the boat in rows 4, 5, 6 and 7.  My row companion is a big man who likes to remind me that there is always more to give.  When you think you've paddled as hard as you can, there is always another attempt where you will be asked to give "just a little more."  John -- who broke a paddle in the Dubuque race -- is also the only one of us who can get us to laugh by doing a bluegrass boogie dance best left to the imagination.

The night before the race I dreamt that I was rowing so hard that one of my arms fell off -- much like the movie "Monte Python and the Holy Grail."  Lori, who is one of our lead strokers, turns around and says, "Don't stop paddling!  Use your other arm!"  My dream continues, of course, until I've lost both arms and legs. For passionate strokers like Lori, the Engine Room is ALL about effort.

The Timing Box is the first 3 rows and includes our lead strokers.  This is an area where some of our most determined rowers set the pace for the entire boat.  Our practices stressed the importance of three things -- all under the influence of those people in the Timing Box --  timing, endurance and focus.

The success of our boat starts with the timing set by our two lead strokers.  It is critical to get a good start.  If not, you will find yourself half a boat length behind the leader before you can finish your initial push.  For this year's first two races we went with a wet start, which meant we buried the paddle up to our hands.  When we found ourselves falling behind, we switched to a dry start, which gave us a better jump on the competition and resulted in a reduction of almost 2 seconds.

Endurance is equally important for the middle of the race, and one we seemed to excel at.  In every race we gained on the lead boat the longer we paddled.  With each race going 300 meters, your Timing Box must set the pace to a level that can be maintained for most of the race.  It's not until the final 50 meters that the word goes out to push harder. This is where close races are lost or won.  Nothing gets left in the boat as we grunt, gasp and snort our way to the finish line.

Terminators are in the last three rows of the dragon boat.  These rowers must have strong front end grips to keep the pressure on the fast water passing by.  As you can imagine, water towards the back of the boat is very fast -- all of it coming your way from the paddlers in the Timing Box and Engine Room.  It is very easy to paddle in the last few rows, so it is very important that this group apply steady pressure to their paddles throughout the race. 

Assisting in this process is the steersman who is in communication with the drummer (at the front of the boat).  Throughout the race, communication and understanding of the number of starting strokes, power strokes and finish strokes is key to a winning time.  The boat's length of forty feet may not seem like much, but when a terminator's paddle needs to enter the water at exactly the same time as the lead paddle, focus is the key.




In utter exhaustion, I hang my head as river water runs down my left arm and legs.   Despite my heavy breathing, I can hear our steersman yell "Hold water!"  

As our boat slows to the rush of bubbles and swirling water, I glance over to my left to see the other dragon boats slow to a stop. The sound of paddles resting on wood accompanies shouts of congratulations and joy.  "We did it," I mumble to those around me.  "We finished second!"

Unknown to us, we had finished with a time of 1:17:59.  That was less than two seconds faster than Hanson's Heroes, who had dogged us all day.  First place would go to The Ultimate Salon and Spa with a time of 1:12:80 which blew away the competition in the Corporate Mixed Division.  

Our boat gently rocks as the waves push against its side.  Bright blue, yellow and red boat houses line the edges of the Black River.  Many of them are crowded with spectators anxious for the final race of the day.  They shout words of encouragement and wave their arms, hoping to get our attention.

Our steersman turns the boat out of the warm breeze blowing from the South and tells us to gently paddle up river.  The change is dramatic.  Without the wind blowing against us, I feel like the boat is gliding on top on the water.  Almost like the Big Blue dragon had somehow drifted below us to carry the boat to its starting buoy.

I hear someone say that they are glad we have placed second, but now it means we will have to race again -- back to back.  The boating committee had decided it would be fun to have a regatta championship race where the top two finishers from the Corporate Division and the Community Division would face off in a final winner-take-all race.  The trouble with that idea is that the two winners from the Corporate Division will be at a disadvantage having just finished a race.  

Nonetheless, I am thrilled -- as are all of us on the boat -- because it means one more race.  One more opportunity "to get our bitch on."  One more chance at victory.

 

A dragon boat race is a combination of serious racing and spectacle.

Each participating team choses a unique shirt and name, indicating where they work (Vendi the Red), where they are from (Cashton Fitness Crew), a cause (Healing Dragons) or something funny (Dragon Bottom). Paddlers wear everything from pink tutus and green wigs to someone wearing a German dirndl dress or a beautiful Asian headdress and gown.

Craziest of them all, however, are the sweeps, or steersmen, who spend the day maintaining boat balance and communicating commands.  His or her understanding of the boat's environment and water conditions can make the difference between winning and losing.  Some of my favorite sweeps use humor through what they wear or what they say.  It is pretty easy to tell which ones have been in the sun too long -- they're usually the crazy ones wearing the florescent wig with a coconut bra and grass skirt.

Of course, the greatest spectacle comes in the boats themselves, with their large drums and colorful dragon heads and tail sections.  Opening ceremonies include the "awakening of the dragon" where the festival VIP is invited to dot the eyes on a dragon boat head with a brush dipped in red paint in order to reanimate the creature's bold spirit for hearty racing.

This year's Big Blue Dragon Boat Race in La Crosse has reanimated my own passion for the sport, which remains one of the more difficult things I have done.  It allows me to participate at a highly competitive level, yet spend time with a group of people who are equally at ease listening to Rob Zombie and AC/DC as they are eating dinner at a classy restaurant in downtown Dubuque.

While we didn't win this year's race, we did finish third out of fifty-two boats.  Pretty good for a group that only practiced a few times in the weeks leading up to the race.  Many of those who paddled with me will participate in other dragon boat races, including one to be held in Florida.  For these warriors, dragon boat racing is more than a once-a-year event.  It's an opportunity to challenge themselves with a passage in life to be enjoyed again and again.



"We are Mayo Heartland Express,
with different heart beats within the chest.
Twenty paddles and drummer become one stroke,
that's how we move this damn dragon boat!"

In Tandem We Trust

Liz and I are sitting quietly in the Three Rivers Lodge, watching rain fall from cloudy skies, causing unsuspecting people to rush to the nearest dry shelter.  Sunlight, from a break in the clouds to our left casts a sunny glow on sidewalks that continue to be pelted by the heavy rainfall.

We are drying out ourselves, after being caught in the rain as we bicycled to my downtown office. The weather forecast had called for afternoon showers, but I foolishly thought it would hold off.  Liz reminded me of this fact as the first drops of rain pelted our jackets.  Part of the problem was the bicycle we are using. The other part is when we would need to be on it.

 

We are using a Burley tandem bike for a 32-mile fun ride as part of the 2014 Festival Fitness Coulee Region Bike Tour in La Crosse.  At ninety-six inches long, the bike is too big to put into the back of the Toyota Highlander and too long to mount on our bike rack. 

As a result, we had decided the best way is for Liz to stop at my office after work, drive us home in my car, then ride the bike back to the office, leave it in the break room, and finally take her car home.  A little complicated, but really our only option. 

The bike tour is taking place at 7:30 tomorrow morning, so we had to deal with it now -- rain or shine.  And so we did.

As I bite into my batter fried cod, I watch the Mississippi River flow rapidly to our south.  The combined flow of the Black, La Crosse and Mississippi rivers (and others further north) is enough to flood the banks of Pettibone Park, its campground and boat landing.  The official flood stage in La Crosse is 12 feet, and the river is currently sitting at 12 feet 6 inches.

Much like the combined strength of the three rivers, riding a tandem bicycle uses the peddling power of two riders, combining them into a synchronized push that takes less effort and allows for faster travel.  Essential to this coupling is teamwork, empathy, cooperation, and mutual understanding.  The most important "essential" is communication.  Starting, resting and stopping is impossible without communicating. 

I am excited about tomorrow's 32 mile ride, but I'm not sure Liz feels the same.  I originally wanted to run the 5K, but after Liz convinced me that her running days were over, I asked if she wanted to try the fun ride to Stoddard and back.  It was not a timed race, and we had wanted to do more bicycling this year, so it sounded like the perfect solution. 

Tomorrow's ride will decide if I am right.




Prior to the bike tour, I'd never paid any attention to tandem bikes. I probably paid more attention to recumbent bikes -- and that was because they looked so strange.  The reason we were even considering a tandem was because of Tom and Marilyn Tiggelaar, friends who happen to have three of them. They've been trying to get us on one for a year.

Tandems are surprisingly popular today, but that wasn't always the case. Patents related to tandem bicycles date from the late 1800s.  The two-wheeled configuration that we see today seems to show up in the early 1890s as "courting bikes" designed for a man and a woman which put the woman in the front seat with the man behind and steering the bike through a linkage from the rear position.

These frames were very common at the start of the next century.  Some variations included racing tandems designed for men and women, others included triplets, quads, quints and even a ten-seat goliath from the Orient Bicycle Company.

Early tandem bikes became popular because of their use in courting rituals, as interested suitors could take ladies out for a bike ride, without the woman having to exert herself physically.  That may be true, but I can't image it being very easy to get on and off the bicycle.

By the end of World War I, tandem bikes were being replaced by more traditional single seat bikes.  From 1920 to 1970 names like Gazelle, Raleigh, Fugi, Cannodale, Huffy and Schwinn dominated the bicycle world.  Many of them still do.

It wasn't until the 1970's that tandems made a comeback in large part because of Bill McCready and Santana Bicycles.  Due to better technology and higher performance with single bicycles, Santana was able to design a bike that was accessible to more people, with features that made them fun to ride.  As enthusiast level bicycles became more popular, so did the tandem. 

Today, you can buy tandems from high-end manufacturers like Santana for $10,000 - $12,000.  But you can also buy one on Amazon.com for $275.  Typically, I'd expect to spend a couple thousand dollars for a good tandem bike.  Like most bicycles, what's available depends on how much money you have in your wallet.

 

So how does it work?

With the two person bicycle, the rider who rides at the front is termed the captain, pilot or the steersman, while the rider who rides at the back of the bicycle is termed the navigator or the stroker.  You can tell already -- just by the terms used -- that riding a tandem will challenge even the strongest of marriages.

The biggest thing about tandems is the level of cooperation between the captain and the stroker.  By definition, the front rider should have good bike-handling skills and good judgement.  That includes control of the bike, balance (whether stopped or in motion), steering, shifting and braking.  To keep the stroker happy, the captain must earn the stroker's confidence by stopping when she wants to stop and must slow down when she wants to slow down.  Since the stroker can't see the road ahead, the captain has the special responsibility of warning her of any bumps, obstacles and road hazards.  Or beer stops if you are so inclined.

The rear driver has responsibilities too.  She is not just a passenger, but an equal participant.  The stroker has the responsibility of providing power when starting.  Since the captain is standing on both feet to begin, it is the job of the stroker to provide enough power to maintain balance and power to move the bike forward.

The other responsibility is a lot tougher.  The stroker must not try to steer, since unplanned weight shifts on the part of a stroker can make the captain's job much harder.  Same philosophy applies when taking turns.  As a tandem, both riders should lean over the centerline of the bike to avoid accidents.

As simple as these things sound, trust me when I say it gets very tricky when you are in a narrow space or surrounded in traffic by other bikes and automobiles.  A quick maneuver on a single bike is easy -- on a tandem not only do you lack such flexibility, but you also have to anticipate your move or you will find yourself in a ditch or planted in someone's car door before you know it.  Beating an approaching train is usually not a good idea, although it has been done.

In terms of speed, tandems are faster than two regular bicycles; you have less mass, double the engines and better drafting.  At the same time, tandems don't accelerate well and they don't climb well, but once they get going on a flat stretch or into the wind (which is always), they are very fast.

Fortunately, once you get the hang of a tandem bicycle, you are able to do things together that you can't always do when you are on separate bikes.  That includes taking pictures, answering the phone, enjoying the view, rubbing a stiff back, eating (or drinking) and talking.

Given these advantages, it's not surprising that tandem bikes are so popular.




Liz and I have a direct path to the bar where they are serving Pearl Street beer.  Our choices include the brewery's DTB Brown ale and El Hefe Bavarian beer.  A muttered request later and I am tilting the El Hefe to my lips, quenching a thirst that began 10 miles earlier as we passed Goose Island Park for the second time.

"That's got to be the best damn beer I've had in a long time!" I say to Tom Tiggelaar who has opted for the DTB.  Tom and his wife Marilyn are joining us for some beer and brats after we had put the tandem bikes in a secure area.  "Almost makes me want to ride another 32 miles."

"Not quite," says Tom as we find a picnic table near the beer tent.

We are surrounded by people who have finished the 5K run and half marathon, wearing tin foil capes and running shorts.  An odd combination, I think as Liz smiles and bites into her brat.  For that matter, Liz and drinking beer is another odd combination.  She never drinks beer, but here she is enjoying the full-bodied flavor of one of Pearl Street's most popular brews.  Earlier, I discovered that she and I make a good team on the tandem, and now I find out that she likes an occasional beer.  What's next -- a sudden passion for biking up 3 mile?  I doubt it.

The four of us are feeling pretty good having completed the full thirty-two mile trek in 2 hours and fifty minutes.  Only 45 minutes slower than our son Sean who had completed his ride in 2 hours and five minutes.  Liz had doubts that he even stopped in Stoddard to rest and grab an orange or bagel.  After seeing him bike past us -- heading back to La Crosse -- I was inclined to agree.

"I'm really sorry about the bike," says Marilyn who is sitting opposite me.  "Tom took that bike in earlier to fix it.  The gears shouldn't have been slipping the way they were -- I think we'll drop it off on our way home and make sure the bike shop fixes it this time."

"Don't worry about it," I say.  The sun, which is peaking out behind some white fluffy clouds, warms my face which has gotten cold.  "The only time it was a problem was when we were in sixth gear or pushing it.  I either went with fifth or seventh, although Liz didn't like it when I went to seventh.  I've always known that she likes a lower gear than me.  Today just meant that we had to find common ground."

Other than the bad gear slip that Marilyn was talking about, things had gone well.  So well in fact that I could see doing it again next year, maybe taking it a little further.  Chaseburg was the next stop on the tour which would mean a 43-mile ride.  Certainly doable, but it would mean going up a long hilly stretch which even more experienced riders were talking about -- and not in a good way.

Well, Liz and I would have a year to get ready.  I wonder if...


"Daisy Daisy,
Give me your answer do!
I'm half crazy,
All for the love of you!
It won't be a stylish marriage,
I can't afford a carriage,
But you'll look sweet on the seat
Of a bicycle built for two!

We will go "tandem" as man and wife,
Daisy, Daisy!
Ped'ling away down the road of life,
I and my Daisy Bell!"

-- Dacre 1892