DC: The New Paris?

I took this photo on a gorgeous, early April day in Paris last spring. In it, you see the Seine straddling Ile de la Cité and Notre Dame Cathedral, some trees just beginning to show their colors, others still barren after a cold winter.

Now, take a look at these proposed plans to remake Washington, D.C. with Paris and the Seine as a model. What a brilliant idea! Most of Washington is concentrated on the north bank of the Anacostia. Poplar Point, that undeveloped patch of grassland on the south bank, remains ripe for development and what better way to bridge the two sides of the city than by narrowing the river itself and constructing numerous bridges across (and maybe a DC United stadium to boot).













For my money, there's no better way to link the two sides of the Anacostia so often divided by race, class, and income than by shifting the focal point of the city south towards the river.

(design plans via Greater Greater Washington)

A Moveable Feast, Part II

It only seems fitting that an updated version of A Moveable Feast has been published this Spring. The book that for so long colored and filled my perceptions of Paris with sepia toned photographs of 1920s nostalgia has been given a face lift: new stories and vignettes added to complete and to illuminate the often biased picture the original book gives of Paris, its literary community, and Hem's family themselves.

And why this all seems fitting -- as you know by now -- is that I have just completed my first stint in the same city that became Hemingway's adopted home and I have taken away my own stories and perceptions of a place so far gone from that literary ideal and still so alive in hundreds of other ways that I'd never seen or expected before as if some hazy introduction has been stitched together from nights and mornings and cafés and classrooms.

So at this time, I'd like to thank everyone who has read the blog and stayed in touch with me since January. As much as I've learned about Paris and its and corners and dives, I've learned about myself and what I want to do with the rest of my life and this blog and writing to all of you back home or wherever you may be has played a major role (if not the most important role) in this awareness. You are as much a part of this blog as I am and Paris as much a part of you as it is of me.

I'm sad to be leaving and it's a shame that now, when for the first time in several months I feel at ease here, my time is up. But as Hemingway said better than I ever will:

There is never any ending to Paris and the memory of each person who has lived in it differs from that of any other. We always returned to it no matter who we were or how it was changed or with what difficulties, or ease, it could be reached. Paris was always worth it and your received return for whatever your brought to it. But this is how Paris was in the early days when we were very poor and very happy.

So once again. Thank You.

Wine Belly

I'm finally done with classes. This is very good news for the weather has turned gorgeous and I can spend every waking moment outside. Just spent the day picnicking in the Parc des Buttes Chaumont. Built by Napoléon III in the 19th century, he designed the man-made park to replicate Hyde Park in London (where, in exile, he had spent his childhood).

Unlike the Luxembourg Gardens, you can sit anywhere you please in the thick and matted grass. Today's a national holiday in France so throngs of Parisians sat on blankets eating and drinking away from the tourists crowded down on Ile de la Cité.

Going to go for a run to work off my wine belly. Enjoy the photos from a few street fairs I've seen of late and have a good week.

Ready. Abel.

One. exam. left. Slogging through the end of Impressionism and tomorrow at 12 noon I will be done, done, done (with classes). I've loved being in Paris, but I'm finished with taking classes in French so hallelujah, amen, and au revoir.

Then, I have one last sundrenched week to soak up all of this city before it is home for the summer. Don't have enough time now to write anything substantial, but I thought I'd post some pictures I've taken over the last few weeks. Included are photos from Giverny (Monet's house and gardens) and Roland Garros (site of the French Open).

Also, I intentionally misspelled the title of this post. The National are the only thing getting me through this final and I have the song "Abel" pounding to keep to me up and at 'em.

Quiet You

We've had more than our fair share of rain this past week and with the sun out and setting I sat down at a café this afternoon with book and coffee and what I thought would be quiet. I can always tune out the French being spoken around me into a hovering white noise, all coming in without conscious thought and going back out devoid of meaning. But an Englishman and an American, these two gossiping academics of the ancien regime couldn't keep their mouths shut about their lives or their colleagues and the burdens of teaching such ungrateful undergraduates. I wish them luck with the Versailles Conference approaching in July and, yes, Mr. American you truly are a first-class gentleman for not writing a scathing review of your colleague's new book (just as honorable to bash her behind her back, right?).

Actually I'm sure they are relatively nice people and I've made them into straw men for a reason. I've probably been just as loud at other cafés and have probably annoyed other quiet Americans who just want to sit over a café crème in peace. But now I'm afraid to go home where all around me there will be conversations that I will unconsciously comprehend. Drawn into lives and stories I don't want to hear.

That is over. Sorry for being all negative. I'm burnt out from working and really wanted to sit in that café and read The Beautiful and the Damned that my friend had just lent me. Otherwise, all is well. I wanted to draw your attention to a couple of things I've found online that are of funny/cool. Here they are:

>> I love the moxie of this associate at Quinn Emanuel. Way to take on the man. And he/she is right about a lot of stuff, though he/she probably chose the wrong venue to air said grievances. And at least use capitalization. Just because it's an email doesn't mean you need to throw grammar and structure out the door. But I do support him/her in his or her use of parentheses since footnotes can't be used in email. Get on it Gmail software people. Footnotes would get rid of all those pesky parentheses All of this could have been in a footnote at the end of this blog post. Imagine that.

>> The Chicago Tribune's soccer writer, Luis Arroyave is changing posts after 3 1/2 years covering the Fire. His goodbye blog post sums up the awesome online soccer community in the United States. For all the internets's flaws -- being so wide and so shallow -- in this case, it has brought a diverse and otherwise isolated set of people together, united by one common (but not mainstream) interest: soccer. If Steve Goff ever changes positions at the Washington Post, he'll receive a similar outcry of support from D.C. United fans.

>> Since we're talking about American soccer supporter culture, here's a really good piece comparing the MLS to a certain German soccer club known for its irreverence. It's the reason why DC United needs a stadium and needs that stadium to be in DC. Not MoCo, not Ashburn.

>> UPDATE: If you're in DC with nothing to do, head down to the Wreck on the Anacostia (RFK) to see DC United take on the New York Red Bulls in a play-in game for the U.S. Open Cup. The Open Cup is the oldest continually contested sports tournament in the United States (and that includes football and baseball). It'll be lots of fun.

Ghost Town

I missed the dernier metro last night. Running to change trains at Opéra, the 8 had pulled away a minute before I arrived at 2:15 AM out of breath and out of luck. While the Opéra Garnier's a gorgeous building by day, at night, all forms of life vanish and this one corner of Paris echoes the empty ghost town that many fear Paris is becoming. A living museum (or masueoleum for current Paris's vehement detractors) that when the tourists and Parisians leave for the day and go back to their homes and hotels and out to bars and cafés, the dead center of the city is deadly quiet.

So I walked down Boulevard de l'Opéra passing under the arches of the Palais Royal into its imposing (and enshadowed) courtyard, all pyramid lights off in the small numbered hours. There's a chilling quality to that part of the city at night that I hadn't felt before as I indignantly trudged across the Seine to my night bus stop. It was walking across the Seine that I realized how odd it was for me to be pissed off that I'd missed my train. Hundreds of thousands of people come to this city to see these very sights every year, to walk down Boulevard de l'Opéra, to see the Opera house framed along that Haussmannian axe and to then descend down through the pyramid into the Louvre and I, wanting my bed and toothbrush, had just marched for half an hour letting the city and one of her most beautiful and old districts slip past unnoticed.

May Showers

Why is it raining?

The Ruling Class

Hello World. I tried to write a post last night, but my scatterbrained self couldn't put fingers to keyboard. I apologize for not being a prolific blogger over the past few weeks, but it's been all coffee and rain and library and no fun. I've promised unwritten updates on the Balkans and have been a poor email correspondent, so, sorry. Replies are coming soon.

But not until this weekend as I've been busy churning out an 11 page paper on the Russo-Japanese War and now have to begin another 10-pager on the EU's role in Kosovo and another worthless paper for my French language class (on the history of Roland Garros) before I can begin studying for my exam hell week at the end of May. But I should not complain for these are temporal troubles and will be gone all too soon as my time here draws down to what will be the end of Paris.

A brief update and story: This past weekend, I went to Bourgogne (Burgundy). We stayed in Dijon and, yes, I bought a jar of mustard and ate and drank very well. The highlight of the trip was a visit to le château de Villemolin that has been within the family of the Marquis De Certaines for the past 500 years. The De Certaines are hosting a Tufts student this semester at their apartment in the seizième and had the whole group down to their immense château for a tour and hors d'œuvres. On the tour the Marquis traced their family's history, showed off a desk that had belonged to Napoléon himself, and, interestingly, told the story of how he is both a Son of the American Revolution and member of the Order of the Cincinatti, the pseudo-American aristocracy formed by leading American and French officers from the War of Indepedence. He's more of an American than I am.

Upon returning to Paris and informing my host family that I had been to another family's château, they got quite curious and, as it turns out, know the other family. In fact, the Comte De Pemille is a distant cousin to the Marquis De Certaines. Marie-Joelle pulled out a large register full of inbred aristocrats and traced the connection between the families and it was all so funny and passé that I felt woefully inadequate to not have a château to the Helms name nor a lineage of dukes or counts. In the register, each child is listed with his year of birth so the aristocrats can continue to not pollute their bloodlines with the 3rd Estate. I'm mostly kidding here, but it is quite interesting to see their history and tradition in action as they hold onto a culture that is dying away.

Support DC United

Happy Armistice Day! I have another post about the Balkans in the wings and will add photos and put that up tonight, but I just wanted to alert all those in DC/MD/VA that DC United needs yours help! Last month, I wrote a long piece on DC United's failed efforts to get a stadium built in both DC and Maryland as the decrepit RFK cannot support the team financially in the long-term. They are back to square one so lend your voice to the cause and then enjoy a MASSIVE tailgate sponsored by the Barra Brava and the Screaming Eagles and then check out first place DC United take on second place Toronto FC for the top of the table. Here's the march itinerary and plan so go, go, go. If one person attends the rally, tailgate, and match because I've written this blog post I will be thrilled and will forever love that person. I'd be there myself if, ya know, I wasn't here. Everyone have a good weekend as I'm off to Burgundy with Tufts tomorrow.

March Timeline
2:00 p.m. - RFK Stadium parking Lot 8 opens to the public
2:30-3:30 p.m. - shuttles from Lot 8 to Lincoln Park run
3:45 p.m. - initial demonstration at Lincoln Park begins
4:00 p.m. - fans march from Lincoln Park to RFK Stadium
4:45 p.m. - march participants arrive at La Barra Brava tailgate
5:00 p.m. - Kevin Payne addresses the crowd in Lot 8
7:30 p.m. - kick-off, D.C. United vs. Toronto FC

UPDATE: Here's a video from the march. Did anyone go?

Image from dcunited.com

East to Eden

So much for Spring. The rains and gray have returned once again. Hemingway did caution against the "false Spring" in Paris and I should listen to him, but it is too difficult to not enjoy the gardens and the sunlight when it is to be had.

I'm preparing for my trip to the Balkans with salty visions of the Adriatic and I find my mind has already drifted East.

I'll most likely not be posting during those two weeks, but I promise to have pictures and stories and thoughts up when I get back to Paris at the end of April.

La vie quotidienne

So I've had a request for a summary of day in the life of Paris Andrew Helms. I've resisted writing such a post up until this point since I didn't want the blog to devolve into a Twitter like stream of facts about the mundane and insignificant details of my life, but I give the people what they want so here it goes.

Imagine it is a Tuesday at 7:30 AM because on Tuesday's I wake up around 7:30. Shower, shave, get dressed, eat breakfast. Getting dressed takes longer than normal since I have to answer one difficult question every morning: Do I look American? If I look in the mirror and the answer is yes I find my black turtleneck sweater and put on my dagger-like pointy shoes. I'm only slightly kidding. I have no black sweaters or pointy shoes, but I do try and look put together every day.

For breakfast, it's normally Cruseli au chocolat and tea. I love that cereal. Though I could go for some eggs and bacon every now and then, the French aren't big on breakfast so I take what I can get.

I'm out the door by 9 and onto the Métro, taking the 12 from Convention to Montparnasse. First class at 9:30 on France and the European Union. Class covers the history of European integration following WWII. We often digress and discuss European politics which can be interesting and can be boring. Usually boring. European politics are dull.

Class gets out around 11 and my next class isn't until 1:30 so I now must decide what to do about lunch. If I'm busy and have work to get done, I'll grab a sandwich from the boulangerie on Rue Littré and head to the Tufts in Paris center in the Tour Montparnasse. If I'm not busy, and for the sake of this hypothetical day I am unstressed and free to enjoy a nice lunch, I will do one of two things. If it is nice out, I will walk down Rue Vavin, grab a sandwich and pastry, and head into the Luxembourg Gardens for reading, writing, people watching, and conversation (if I'm with a friend) .

Une petite parenthese on sandwiches. I've recently learned that the Parisian sandwich craze is recent. Today, lines stretch around the corner of the most popular boulangeries in Paris, but, if 10 years ago, you walked into a boulangerie and asked for a jambon buerre with perfect Parisian accent you would have been given a frustrated look from the boulanger who would either try to dig up some ham in the back room or tell you and your impatient sandwich eating self to get out of the store. That was before the Euro when the cafés were cheap and good. Then, you could enjoy a chevre salad and a glass of red wine, washed down with an espresso and still have money to burn on a fondant au chocolat walking back to the office. But with the change from the Franc to the Euro, the cafés prices rose drastically, moving them out of the Parisians daily price range. Not to mention there's been a movement for efficiency in the workplace so those marathon lunches had to go and they stuff down sandwiches like us. Thanks a lot economic integration. Way to destroy the café culture. I close this parenthese (when speaking, the French actually will introduce and close tangents in this fashion).

But back to my lunch options. So if it happens to be one of the frequent gray and rainy days, I'll duck into La Duchesse Anne. Obscured by a bustling crepe stand out front (that sells sandwiches too!), inside, La Duchesse is rich in eclectic decor in homage of its namesake, the famous Duchess Anne of Brittany. The food is good and cheap and the service is reliable. Try to the Rosbeef frites when it's the plat du jour.

With lunch over it is onto class. French language. After I have a short walk to the Institut Catholique for my class on the foreign policy of the Third Republic. Lots of Bismarck all the time. A good thing. The best.

Then it's home around 6:00. Dinner's at 8:30, so the mean time is passed responding to email, reading, and being hungry. I could talk for hours about dinner so I'll save that for another post. If after dinner I'm adventurous maybe I'll grab a drink with friends in the 11th. Then I sleep. A typical day. Is it all you dreamed it would be?

PS -- Sorry there are no photos, but I haven't had a chance to take many of late. I'll get back into it this weekend.

Get Over Yourself

So apparently some guy got mad I used his photo of Jozy Altidore without permission so, instead of maybe emailing me to ask that it be removed or saying hey do you mind crediting me for that photo, he changed the link code to a picture of some South Park character, saying "Hotlinking is bad mmmkay."

My bad. Sorry all of the 15 people who read this blog didn't realize that you had toiled for hours over that Jozy Altidore wallpaper. I solemnly apologize for all the damage I have caused you and your loved ones.

Jackass.

But as for me, I'm trying to get my art history paper on the Haussmannian renovations of Paris done in the next hour or so. I've spent two gorgeous Spring days working on it and for that I am bitter and thinking about the reading and writing I could have done in the Jardin du Luxembourg or the afternoon drinks I've missed on the Place du Bourg Tibourg sitting and people watching drenched in sun.

Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned

Sorry for the lack of posts of late. As you can see from the photo, my family came to see me in Paris last week and I spent all my free time with them. And though they left Saturday morning, one of them gave me a nice little stomach flu that kept me up and over the toilet all of Saturday night and rendered me incapacitated and in bed all of Sunday. Thanks, Mom! Now I'm behind on work and finding it more difficult than normal to focus in French.

But otherwise, I'm doing just great! If anyone has any recommendations for budget accommodations in Kotor, Montenegro they would be much appreciated. These next few weeks will be a mad dash to get to April 10th and my Balkan invasion: Zagreb, Split, Hvar, Dubrovnik, Mjlet, Kotor, Peja, Zadar, and everything in between. I hope to take many pictures, eat well and cheaply, and enjoy the Adriatic sun for a few weeks. But until then, back to work for me.

But for you reader with free time and an adventurous heart, please do read this short story by Wells Tower, Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned. The New York Times gave his collection of stories a great review and I am looking forward to picking it up when I get home.

And check out the trailer for Where the Wild Things Are. Dave Eggers + Spike Jonze + Arcade Fire + Wild Things = a good movie.

Smells like Teen...Eau de Toilette?

So last night I went to my first Parisian club -- Mix. Free on Thursday nights for international students, my friends convinced me to go. The place crawled with the usual crowd of American social girls, popped-collared Brits and Italian and Spanish guys with enough hair gel to hold down a lawn chair in a hurricane.

I held out okay (it is actually somewhat enjoyable to silently mock the people who take that place seriously). That was until the DJ played "Smells like Teen Spirit" and I imagined Kurt Cobain rolling over one more time in his grave as everything he, Nirvana, and grunge itself stood for (a reaction against the decadence of the 80s) got turned around and spit back out of French club speakers so the jet set crowd could feel liberated in their struggle against...being cut off from Daddy's credit card (?). Didn't work for me.

But it was a good "cultural" experience and fun to be with friends. I should get a post about Lille up soon, but in the meantime, here are a few good links.

• Check out the band Cymbals Eat Guitars listed in the "Music" section. Have a great sound, almost like early Modest Mouse.
• David Brooks's column today.
• Seattle Sounders FC beat the New York Red Bulls 3-0 last night in their inaugural match. As much as I love seeing the Red Bulls get beat, I am so down with the way Seattle is doing everything. Great website, players, and organization. It's so nice to see a city give a damn about the sport after watching DC's indifference over the last few years. Match highlights below. Fredy Montero's going to be good.
• Speaking of soccer, D.C. United has a new website. Well done.

Le rêve français

I’ve always found my host father Thierry’s fascination with Andrew Carnegie odd. Why would a Frenchman admire an American steel titan? There are certainly powerful figures in French history from kings and emperors (Henri IV, Louis XIV, Napoléon) to artists (Louis-David, Rodin, Picasso) and writers (Sartre, Baudelaire, Hugo), but can anyone name a French businessman? I can’t. Who runs Airbus?

These thoughts came to me yesterday as I read David Brooks's column in The New York Times. Writing about the future of American capitalism in the face of this discrediting financial crisis, Brooks, like many before him, put the American Dream in the context of Andrew Carnegie’s Gospel of Wealth. As some claim this crisis has cracked the foundation of American capitalism, Brooks argues that each successive depression has only furthered our commitment to enterprise. It is during trying times that we seek out those rags-to-riches stories embodied by Andrew Carnegie to reaffirm our faith in the American Dream: that wealth, riches, and, most importantly, happiness rest on the horizon for those who work hard enough to find them.

But in France, where the term for middle-class (bourgeois) has become synonymous with empty materialism and passé values, it makes sense for any French businessman to look elsewhere for inspiration. The poor and the wealthy in France look down on the bourgeoisie. They are a hunted class. Even as the landed aristocracy of France eschewed business and pissed away their savings believing commerce and trade to be the games of the middling classes, the term remained pejorative.

While we use the word bourgeois in English and its meaning is pejorative as well, someone was smart enough to brand our commitment to free enterprise as the American Dream, and oh how lucky we are to have placed our faith in capitalism right there in the fabric of our own society (or are we?). While the French may look down on a Carnegie, we idolize him.

The difference between the rêve bourgeois and the American Dream as I framed it earlier, rests in the concept of happiness. The bourgeois dream is materialism for accumulation, but the end point of the American Dream is not the house in the suburbs, the two car garage, and 3 children, but the happy life you live together in sepia-toned photographs of 1950s perfection (a note for skeptics of the American Dream: watch read Revolutionary Road and see Richard Yates spill April Wheeler's blood all over this often misleading image).


Interestingly, Nicolas Sarkozy was elected in 2007 promising a new rêve français. He wanted to commit France to growth and expansion to cure the country’s economic stagnation and high rate of unemployment. But his measures have been met with major criticism and his approval rating hovers around 40%. And tomorrow another set of strikes are planned to protest countless numbers of reforms aimed at changing the make-up of the French economy, putting another dent in the rêve français. And I'm fine with the country not putting a great emphasis on capitalism. The French can do what they do best and I can sit back content to indulge in their culture and history. But strikers, since you have made that choice, why do you continue to complain?

A Beautiful Day

The sun came out today and I walked through the Luxembourg gardens and ate crepes for lunch and talked about the aftermath of the Franco-Prussian War in the afternoon. While many of my posts seem to be climate related, it is true that here in Paris, the weather dictates so much more of my day than it does back home.

Since I don't like to sit around the house all day, it's nice to have sun and clear skies no matter what the temperature. But so often it has rained and soured my plans for long promenades down Baron Haussmann's wide boulevards that I end up ducking into cafés and museums. While they are great, I'll take a sunlit French garden over the Louvre any day.

That's all for now save for a quick note. Some people (coughmymothercough) have asked why I don't publish any photos of my friends on this blog. And she's right I should put some pictures of them up so enjoy them and the weather wherever you may be.

Warm Reading for a Cold Night

Paris flirted with the sun this past week, but the gray and rain roared back yesterday and the forecast says will linger this weekend (although blue skies poked through the clouds for a minute today). Rather than venture out into a cold night far from my warm bed in the 15th arrondisement this evening, I decided to do some reading and writing. In an unwitting Google search, I stumbled across this fantastic WSJ article on Paris and how it used to be. It's insightful and well-written, examining the once powerful, but now defunct American literary expat community in Paris.

There is no shortage of Americans over here, but the days of Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Stein, and later even Plimpton and Wright (the focal point for the author of the WSJ article) have disappeared, leaving behind a tawdry mix of students and tourists, moving in and out, leaving no mark.


Maybe I can do something about it.

Ici, C'est Paris

Last week, I took in Paris St. Germain's 2-0 victory over VFL Wolfsburg of the German Bundesliga. The match, in the UEFA Cup round of 16, filled the decrepit Parc des Princes, a 1972 relic not unlike R.F.K. Stadium in Washington, D.C. It wasn't the prettiest match I have ever seen. Both P.S.G. goals came off set pieces and neither team could dominate the run of play, each choosing to send long through balls toward their forwards rather than build attacks through the midfield. I've seen prettier and more entertaining soccer in MLS. Wolfsburg actually had the majority of possession before shoddy marking and goalkeeping gave Paris the advantage late in the 2nd half.

But as much as I went to see the football, I went to witness firsthand the P.S.G. supporters, notorious for being some of the most boisterous, racist, and anti-semitic in all of Europe (read about them here, here, and in French, here). Just like in the picture above, the stadium hung in a fog of smoke bombs and flares for most of the match.

With Paris being a cosmopolitan city, one would not think the same hooliganism and racism that plague many working class English clubs could break through the glitz of the Champs-Elysees or the café driven intellectualism of the Boulevard St. Germain. But out at Parc des Princes last week, the anger and frustration of much of Paris's working class poured into the stadium as chants of "Ici, C'est Paris" echoed into the February night. The P.S.G. supporters, specifically those who are members of the Kop of Boulogne, remind us that you can write "liberté, egalité, fraternité" on all French public buildings and support a French national football team composed almost entirely of players of African descent, but by and large, the problem of race in France has been pushed away to les banlieus to fester.

That's all I have for now on this subject. For my French language class, I plan to do a more thorough exposé on racism and French football and I'll post that here when I get the chance.

Good Reads

Another rainy morning. Thought I'd post a few links to things I've been following the last few days for those interested. Definitely check out the first link.

>>New York Times Magazine Feature on Neko Case. Be sure to check out the interactive songbook documenting the progression of her musical career, too. A great read.

>>D.C. United gets a home? In Prince George's County? You take what you can get it. Au Revoir Poplar Point.

>>The inspiration for this week's music came from the passing of Estelle Bennett, a singer from the 60's girl group The Ronettes. I challenge you to find me a better song than "Be My Baby."

>>In other soccer related news, I'm going to see Paris St. Germain play Wolfsburg in a UEFA Cup knock out round match tonight. Allez Paris!

I Wear a Beret

My friend George recently emailed me asking if I was "drinking wine and eating unpasteurized cheese?" I've posted my response.

I wear a beret. I hate all things American. When I speak in English, I go out of my way to pronounce French words in an exaggerated French accent.

Just kidding. I do drink wine and I'm not sure if the cheese my host family gives me is unpasteurized (it hasn't killed me yet), but otherwise I'm still an American. Consciously, I make an effort to assimilate in my appearance and accent, but I know I'll never be a Frenchman nor do I want to be one though I do appreciate and enjoy all French culture (especially the women and the wine).

Last night, I went to a party with my host brother and for the first time felt like I got to really interact with the youth of France. It was tough, but the rum and wine washed away reticence and I made a few friends. I'm working on a little homework now and listening to Bob Dylan so you can put the American boy in France, but you can't take the Americana out of him even if you ply him with baguettes and souffles and bottles of blood red Bordeaux.

Photo: View from my window on a snowy day