Winged Visitors

Just a few pictures of the lovely birds that took over our courtyard during our last weeks living there. There were two babies, one of which learnt to fly about 3 days earlier than the second, pictured on my finger. Initially we tried to help it get up in the air -- we placed it on the table, we unknotted a string that got tangled around its talons, we gave it lots of moral support and encouragement (go baby oiseau, go!) but, in the end, I think we ended up traumatizing more than helping the poor thing. I felt horrible when one day I poured cleaning solution on the terrace in order to clean up their bird poop (it was everywhere, like it had rained blueberries!) and the baby, in an attempt to dodge me, decided to go for a little swim. I was afraid it would get sick so I washed it clean with the watering can. Needless to say, it did not enjoy its first shower. The parents were pretty protective, anytime we got close to the birds they began to chirp, their song sounding metallic -- like someone rubbing a rock on a cheese grater. Or something like that. Anyway, it may sound silly but we were so excited, and a little sad, when baby oiseau flew the coop...

The Three Men Who Cried for Port

Back in June, to celebrate our 5th wedding anniversary, Marc and I went to Porto. I came across this adage before going: "Lisbon plays, Braga prays, and Porto works." I've never been to Lisbon but since it's the capital and the richest city in Portugal, I think I can safely assume that Lisbon does indeed play. We made it to Braga, by train, a two-hour ride north of Porto through sleepy towns and rolling hills. It's a medieval town with stunning churches and clean streets and lots of balloons. (We happened to be there the weekend of the famous Sao Joao festival.) Porto was definitely industrial, like any port city I suppose, but had enough pockets of charm and tranquility that I wasn't so bummed by the amount of graffiti and crumbling buildings. There is tile work everywhere -- on the facades of houses, businesses, churches -- and it really lights up the stonework that has blackedned from years of pollution. We watched football (it was also the weekend of the EURO Cup Semis) and ate salted cod, and attempted to speak pidgen Portugese which was a lot harder than I expected. And I don't mean pronouncing words, I mean hearing them. It's a beautiful language, very sonorous, but when the Portugese speak it sounds like they're wrapping their words in a wad of cotton. We also took a boat ride along the Duoro River and spotted an enormous peacock in a tree in some beautiful park. I didn't know that peacocks hung out in trees...maybe Portugese peacocks do? The highlight of the trip was a day of Port tastings. We went to two places, Ramos Pinto (where I learned about white port) and Graham's. Graham's was the most fun and informative. Our guide, whose name I've forgotten, was really enthusiastic and completely transmitted his love of everything Port to us. It turned out his stepfather, un Francais, owned one of the surprisingly few Port tasting bars in the city, one which we had found the night before and stopped by only to find it closed. We were a small group of 4, guide included. The other was an American radiologist, from Maryland of all places, who took to Marc and I and who was really a pleasure to speak to. After a post-tour tasting he offered us a flight of vintage Ports and we just couldn't pass that up. So we stayed for another hour or so, chatting about Port and its history, and the pleasure of drinking Port, and travelling, and drank 4 vintage portst, all of which were incredibly good and one of which was the current year's and a gift from our guide. And it was during this carefree, slightly drunken afternoon that I heard 3 interesting stories involving Port. The first man is the radiologist's father. He fought in WWII and after fighting finds himself in London. There he drinks Port for the first time and falls in love. He spends the rest of his time scavenging the city's liquor stores for Port and by the time he leaves has put together quite a nice collection. When he goes through customs in New York he's told that the bottles have to be impounded. The man bursts into tears and begs the custom's agents not to quarantine his bottles because they'll be ruined. Perhaps surprised by the man's outburst, touched by his passion for something as seemingly banal as Port wine, or feeling nice on that particular day, they let him go -- with this bottles of Port. One of those bottles was from the 1940s, which the radiologist had the pleasure of sharing with his family this past Thanksgiving. Unfortunately his father had died a few years earlier but, as the radiologist told us, his father was there in spirit. I'm sure it was a memorable feast. The second man orders a case of vintage port. He picks up the case at a bar (the same one owned by the stepfather of our friend) and on the way out trips and falls. All the bottles shatter and the port spills out onto the street. He literally gets down on his hands and knees, crying like a baby, and begins to lick the Port off the street. Someone joins him. Eventually they are convinced it's not a good idea to lick the street and so the man, heartbroken, resigns himself to the loss.

The third and final man is our guide. He was young, a couple of years younger than me, but had grown up, as I imagine him, living and breathing Port. He had worked for a variety of Port companies and found Graham's the most authentic (despite it being run by an immigrant Scottish family) and the least commercial. There he has free reign. His guides are completely his. He goes on tangents, he gives his opinion, he holds up the other group behind us in order to finish his point. There's no script, no timed pauses. During the flight of vintage Port wines, he explains how the French are too chatty, the Americans not interested enough, the Germans and the Dutch too impatient to drink, and that in all his experiences the most enthusiastic listeners who pose the best questions are, drum roll please, the Maltese. Go figure. One day he had a large group of Maltese, about 50 strong, who were so attentive, so involved, and so patient (instead of running to the tables after the tour and guzzling down drinks they waited for him to tell them what to do) that he cried. He cried in front of 50-some people because their love of Port wine matched his own and so he cried because he was happy. He cried as they gave him their addresses in Malta, telling him to come visit. And he almost seemed to want to cry when telling us this story. Needless to say, I am now an ardent fan of Port wine. (And a factual tidbit: Graham's 2000 Vintage Port, which I tasted, was 1 of 5 Graham ports, a rarity in and of itself, to make it on the 2006 Wine Spectator's top 250 wines from 1995-2005.)

The Real Thing

So I now know that I'm a Marseillaise. It took over a year and a half (and a 2-hour wait at the gendarmerie to file a "declaration de vol") but I have finally been inducted into the Hall of Marseillaise, or, those women who have in one way or another been the victim of a crime. My story: last Saturday at the beach my phone was stolen. Malou and I had been at the beach but 5 minutes when a group of 10-12 year olds, no joke, suddenly surrounded us laughing, jostling one another, kicking up sand. We thought they were being annoying, silly kids; typical Marseille youth who have no regard for others. And although that was proved true, they weren't just horsing around. It was part of the game. While Malou and I were distracted by their antics, one of the kids faked a fall and threw himself on Malou. It was then that she realized, as she saw him reach for her bag, what was going on. I was slow on the uptake, appalled at the unruly kid who was sprawled out on my friend's lap and who then deservedly received a few slaps and a push. So while I'm tsk-tsking, the others have snagged my bag and run off. I realize it about 10 seconds too late. Malou takes off for a girl because onlookers have started shouting, "la fille! la fille!" I stand shocked, then run toward the rest of the group who stand idle as though they had nothing to do with it. This, too, was part of the show. Being such a large group it was hard to say who did what, who had what, and who was where. They dissolved into smaller parties in order to create more confusion, to evade being caught. What happened next was unbelievable. As I shouted at the boys, in both French and English, one of them raised his fist as if to hit me. I blocked his arm, astounded, and pushed him back. It was no use. They were just distracting me again and I knew I'd get nowhere with them. So I ran after Malou, who had disappeared, and waited. I tried calling my phone but it was turned off. Long story short, I managed to recover my bag but not my phone. Malou caught the girl who was empty-handed, perhaps having passed off the phone to someone else. We return to our towels (amazingly still there) and talk and moan and laugh about what happened. The most amazing thing was that people around us did nothing. They witnessed, stared, and gawked but didn't move an inch. An Italian sitting with friends nearby came over to apologize for not having helped, explaining that he hadn't been sure what was going on. I shrugged my shoulders, only becoming annoyed when he then asked us to join him and his friends for dinner. A little later I was hit by a soccer ball. Then told by a Lyonnais, again and again, "Laila, je t'aime. Je t'aime, Laila. Tu es mariee? C'est pas grave." It was an adventurous afternoon and, yet again, another typical day in Marseille.

A Weekend in Nice

So about a month ago, for Marc's birthday, we stayed a weekend in Nice. It took no time at all to get there from Marseille (1h30 to be exact), and we couldn't get over the fact that such a paradise was so close! Nice kind of reminds me of California; wide, sweeping boulevards, big hillside homes, endless rows of the tallest palm trees you'll ever see, and lots of sun. But the most impressive was the water. Wow. It was stunning, a blue I've never seen and can't describe. Now I understand why Marseille didn't make the Cote d'Azur cut. Although the water here can be incredible, it's nothing like the water in Nice. The best views of the city are from Le Chateau, which you can access a number of ways from Vieux Nice or from Le Quai des Etats-Unis. I wasn't too crazy about the feel of Vieux Nice, which was too touristy and crowded, as much as I was enthralled by the architecture, narrow streets, and bulging building facades that seem to want to close in on you. With Italy only some 30 km away there was an incredible amount of Italian influence, from the churches and piazzas to the Italians themselves. The famous Marche des Fleurs, which runs parallel to the coast, was where I heard the most Italian. (I wasn't impressed with the market, although it did seem to boast a variety of products -- however overpriced!) Most Nicois that I've met have Italian last names or are of Italian origin. While we had coffee and pastries in the plaza (see pic at bottom) there was an engraving on the bell tower that listed the names of soldiers who fought and died in WWII, and very few names were French. Despite all the Italian influence, the city is just as much of a melange of cultures as Marseille. Only cleaner. Nice is known for its cuisine. We tried in vain to find an apparently excellent restaurant (will add the name once I remember it) that ended up being closed so we settled on a plate of "socca," a Nicoise specialty that's basically a fried chickpea pattie. I know it doesn't sound anything fantastic but it was delicious, especially with a glass of rose (much lighter than a pint of beer!), and fills you up. What we enjoyed most was walking around the neighborhoods that sit behind the main part of town. There we discovered tiny parks, flower gardens, sprawling mansions, and tranquility. Even better, dog-poop free streets! And, interestingly enough, the city's only Anglican church -- for Americans. We'd like to go back when the water's warm enough to swim in but I have no doubt the beaches will be unbelievably packed (which is why Marseille is a good option for those who want beautiful beaches without hordes of tourists)...

Home At Last

When I recently went home to the US for a week, I had the immense pleasure of eating 3 different Persian dishes, all of which, in the hopes of an eventual return, my father had saved for me. Two were made by an aunt and one by my grandmother. The dishes -- ghormeh sabzi, khoresh-e-garcht, and fessenjon -- were doled out into plastic freezer bags and tightly sealed. As we cooked rice in my mother's kitchen, the perfumed smell of basmati filled the apartment mingling with simmering pomegranate, mushroom, onion, saffron, and parsley to name just a few. They were smells I missed. Until last night, I had avoided making Persian food for nearly a year and a half when I used to make it quite regularly. I grew up on this food. Apparently, when my grandmother babysat me for a year (just after she immigrated to the US during the Iranian Revolution of 79'), she would make these amazing dishes and blend a portion so that her toothless granddaughter could savor the flavors of her country without choking on a cube of beef. Years later, when we moved to the east coast to be closer to the rest of the Iranian family, there were big, family get-togethers nearly every weekend, smaller ones during the week, so that Persian food was a part of my regular diet; I ate rice the way most other Americans ate Kraft singles; I celebrated Nowruz, the Persian New Year, that stems from a pagan, Zoroastrian tradition; I said "merci" instead of "thank you." After the meals, we'd crank up the stereo and dance to the sitar or to Iranian pop music, my 5 aunts teaching me how to move like an Iranian woman, our soiled dinner napkins now moving sensually above our heads. It's all in the wrists, they'd say. Move your hips more, my grandmother would shout, snapping her fingers to the beat. And then we'd collapse, the food heavy in our bellies, to talk over tea and sweets. I have fond memories of those days. By the time I married, my husband had already acquired a taste for Persian food and I decided, somewhat nervously for Persian food isn't an easy cuisine, to learn how to cook it. Fast forward about 3 years and many dishes later. I'm in France. My kitchen is small and my stove top even smaller. I can't find good basmati rice (on one occasion, I pick up a burlap bag and several roaches scurry out from underneath!). The smallest range on the stove gives off too much heat so I worry the rice will burn. There are no Persian food stores...and so on and so forth. They're not so much excuses as evidence that my world has changed and I, for a while, am choosing not to face the changes that I can get away with not facing. In other words, what I realized was that I hadn't made Persian food in France because France was not yet home. But perhaps, in that inadvertent delay, I had caused that feeling to stick around longer. I had to make France my home. My sudden desire to cook Persian food could also be due to having returned from home and feeling homesick, the need to recreate what I no longer have, but whatever the reason, I think it's a good sign I'm beginning to cook Persian food again...

Dream On

Americans will never surpass the French when it comes to certain things, like wine for example. It's just a fact one has to face. We may have some good wines, even great wines, but nothing like those that come from family-run vignobles that have existed for decades, perhaps centuries. Ever ready to proclaim how we do things better because it's new, different, or even more multi-cultural (see article link), the most recent claim is that American sommeliers are, in a nutshell, more friendly and therefore, by virtue of their openness, making a world that was once reserved for the upper classes more accessible. This may be true, but also true is that Americans don't like to be reminded of the class distinctions they prescribe to even though class in the States is just as important and omnipresent as it is in France. Whereas the French might make the distinction between class and cultural tradition, Americans, at least in this case, seem to confuse the two. Although I can understand how a sommelier's openness might make one feel more comfortable, garner interest, promote the pleasure of drinking wine, etc., I also understand the pleasure one can derive from ritual -- and the formality of ritual. There are established rules and those rules are meant to be followed, executed to perfection; everyone from the vignoble, wine-producer and bottler to the cellar manager, sommelier, and client plays his or her own role. The sommelier isn't there to make the client feel good about himself (that's the job of the wine!) but to ensure and to deliver. To perform. I'm reminded of eating out back home, when servers crouch down so that their chin is almost resting on the table and cheerfully say their name and act as though they're your best friend. This never happens in France. Servers don't want to be reminded that they're serving and to have to do so would be a personal insult as well as an embarrassment. I'm diverging, I know, but the point is that it's not about being more laidback, chatty, or better. It's about two countries who see wine, and the culture of wine, very differently. To know why I wrote this piece check out the somewhat maddening but revealing article "A Turn of the Corkscrew: How American Sommeliers Put Their French Counterparts to Shame" http://www.slate.com/id/2180456

The Hump Continues...

I just happened to mention to a friend about my entry on the word "hump" and its French equivalent. Shockingly, she had heard the expression before! (And to my dismay she had not grown up on a camel farm in North Dakota but in the English countryside.) In fact, when someone's "got the hump" it means they're sulking. Apparently it's reserved for adults who take on behavior worthy of a toddler throwing a temper tantrum. I don't think I could ever use this expression seriously but I do think I can begin to trust my dictionary once again.