One of the earliest images seared into my memory is that of Christianity’s cross. Whether it was at the end of my Nana Lily’s rosary beads, hanging from the necks of the sister’s at St. Mary’s School or ever present atop the big hill off Route 1A in East Boston, the cross always was, and is, a sign of good from my narrow perspective. From CCD class, I recall being taught the 14 Stations and the unimaginable suffering endured during them. Even today I’m always fascinated by those 14 depictions in Catholic churches I visit.

Today I’m also skeptical of religion, but am not completely sold a “big bang” is responsible for this incredible life, and I wonder, “can 2 billion Christians be wrong?” Then I consider the same thing of 1.5 billion Muslims and a billion Hindu’s and the Buddhists and the Jews… They all believe. I wish they’d be a little more tolerant of each other, but that’s a blog for another day, or not.

Of the near 300 stills we snapped off during our French adventure, three of my favorites feature simple intersection imagery…

The Cathedral of Notre Dame on the Seine was gorgeous inside and out, although out was a spitting Monday and contrary to this beautiful photographic evidence, Joyce’s “Umbrella Boy” did the majority of the work protecting her follicles. Once inside, the photo op’s were plentiful, but so were universal “no photography” symbols, mostly forward of the altar in the church. Sadly, that didn’t stop many tourists from snapping away, flash and all. I tucked Joyce’s new Nikon P300 in a little clip-on case hung off my jeans and captured those images to memory not yet accessible via a USB cable. Once in the shadow of the altar, I looked for “the shot.” You know, it’s that process when you get a mental frame set up and you try to place an interesting image in it. It’s the kind of shot that provokes people to remark, “You have an eye.” You just have to look around at different angles until something clicks. Then the shutter does and you have it. Here’s one I like quite a bit…

The beaches along Normandy’s North coast facing England are long and dotted with pleasure boats, wind and water surfers. It’s difficult to imagine the hell that strangled those pristine shores June 6th, 1944, but the sacrifice there by our “greatest generation” compelled me to place Omaha Beach and the American Cemetery overlooking it on my “must see” list.

Finally seeing the 9,387 white memorials, mostly crosses, didn’t overwhelm me. It’s too daunting to connect with, but the memorial videos featuring short tributes to individual soldiers forever interned rip the emotions for sons and brothers and fathers who never came home. It’s hard to comprehend how each human being carried the individual burden it took to capture that beach. A 1960 article from the Atlantic magazine explained it simply, “The high ground was won by a handful of men who on that day burned with a flame bright beyond common understanding.”

A few times during the trip I noticed the cross necklace Joyce often wears. She wore it the day we visited Omaha Beach. I’m not sure if it was a coincidence, or if she knew she’d need it for the time on such solemn ground. I also recall glancing to see her grasping it firmly between right thumb and forefinger when the air got turbulent on the flight home. It represents her faith and I witnessed it providing her comfort. I wonder how many of the 9,387 souls wore crosses or carried pocket bibles during their last day in hell? Overlooking the beach on the way into the Memorial and American Cemetery, I asked Joyce to get some pictures of the foreground flags and expansive shoreline vista. This image she captured is one of my favorites from the trip and speaks for itself.

I hope you’re hungry. This is a long one…

Paris Part 2
All week I called her “Mademoiselle.” Not “Madam,” mind you, but “Mademoiselle.” Sure, I’m just a beginner with the romance language, but she’s forever young to these eyes… Early in the week as we walked yet another rue de Paris, some dirty Frenchman caught Mademoiselle’s eye and suggested, “La Belle et la Bete?” From that Parisian moment, “Be Our Guest” became a soundtrack in my head. It was appropriate accompaniment then, and will be now, for le gastronomie de Paris. Actually, other B&tB song lyrics slithered through my grey stuff like, “Marie, the baguettes” the many, many times I saw the French carrying one or two home, and of course I covered the whole oafish “Gaston” thing in my first Paris post…

Jonathan Swift (1667-1745) said, “Bread is the staff of life” and it was for us in France. Whether it was crunchy baguette, layered croissants or thin slivers of crepe for galettes, starch satisfied. Of course it was almost always paired with delicious French cheeses and wines, while Creme brulée and some last jagged chunks of fine French chocolate melting on our tongues still linger.

Go on, unfold your menu
Take a glance and then you’ll
Be our guest
Oui, our guest

“Put your menu down,” my hungry girl strongly suggested. “You’re supposed to put your menu down and then try to catch their eye. Then they know you’re ready.”

Le Café De La Mairie was our spot. I’d like to reason that its history as the meeting place for Paris intellectuals in the 1950’s or that it was author Henry Miller’s favorite Paris café was our calling, but really it was location, location, location, a three minute, hand-holding stroll from our hotel, and just below the towers of Eglise Saint Sulpice. Just trailing “Bonjour” and “Merci,” “Café au Lait” showed in the third spot of my most used expressions Francaises during the week and the first uttered at Café De La Mairie. Our most popular morning fare was the “Croque Madame,” a toasted ham and cheese sandwich on Poilane bread with a perfect sunny side oeuf shining on top. Yum! [Gastronomical note: I do not recommend the goat cheese on a baguette. The baguette is about 3 feet long and well, that’s a lot of cheese and I’ll just leave it at that.]

Most of our breakfasts were enjoyed a couple hours after our Café au Lait’s (btw, the coffee was usually delivered to “Mademoiselle” in our room by yours truly) and included samplings of soft boiled eggs, fresh yogurt, granola, sliced meats, and of course French bread and cheeses. We typically didn’t eat “lunch,” but rather watched the world walk by at any convenient sidewalk café offering vin et pain et fromage between 2 and 3PM. One day we did have sort of a late lunch at Musee d’Orsay, but it was unremarkable, the exception the room itself and my dining partner. I hope this image provides an appropriate impression…

Maintaining a mid-day focus, a nice surprise was dueling galette’s we enjoyed at the Aux Epis d’Or Creperie in the ancient walled city of Saint Malo on France’s Northern coast. The whole wheat crepes were filled with a thin layer of white cheese with an egg on top. Joyce ‘s had ham while I opted for cousin bacon. They were a perfect light day break for two visitors wishing time would slow to extend our Saint Malo day.

Try the grey stuff, it’s delicious
Don’t believe me? Ask the dishes

The night before the scrumptious galette’s, we enjoyed our only “fine dining” experience of the trip at Le Cap Horn, beachside in Saint Malo. Well, it looked “fine,” and our 4 servers made a polite effort, but I couldn’t help but feel they were a bit put off that we arrived last minute for a 9:30 seating on a Wednesday night. C’est la vie. In addition, the waiter pushed us into one of their “inclusive” menus when we simply wanted a la carte. Anyway, the highlight for me was the foie gras. Hey, I was in France and hoped the transaction would inoculate me from having to try escargot or sweetbreads… It arrived as two small, yellow-grey hockey pucks on a fine china plate. I sliced through the first disk and took a bite. It reminded me of the time I snuck a whole stick of butter under the kitchen table at Auntie Bev’s house, except it was richer and tastier. Then the toast points arrived… “I think you’re supposed to…” “Yeah, babe, I think I got it now.” We wanted the Cap Horn to be great; it just wasn’t.

That’s one thing about Paris, and as we discovered, France in general. It’s not really a late night place. If you don’t have your butt in a decent restaurant chair by 9:30, well, you’re not eating, or you’re eating at Pizza Gino…

We’ll sing you off to sleep as you digest…

Our church-gallery-shop-café-outdoor market hopping in Honfleur left us tardy for the last 9:30 seating and yes, we ended up at Pizza Gino. It wasn’t “La catastrophe” as one tripadvisor lamented, but that’s only because the wine (once it arrived) was decent, and I got to alternate looking at Joyce and the Barcelona – Real Madrid futbol game. The pie wasn’t bad either, but we didn’t go to France for pizza. I do remember the slow, cobblestone walk back to our quaint boutique hotel and another very restful sleep.

Life is so unnerving
For a servant who’s not serving
He’s not whole without a soul to wait upon

Climbing the hills of Honfleur from worst to first, Le Bistrot d’Henri and our wonderful waiter Regis was the gastronomical and service highlight of the trip (for me, and I’m writing the blog…)! The room is small, with only about 10 tables, so the chef can really focus on individual meals with no concern about processing volume. Regis truly lives to serve, and has done so as a golf instructor in Australia, a ski instructor in Switzerland, and finally, his higher calling as a waiter in Paris. Regis was perfectly attentive while giving us just the right amount of space to enjoy our meal and each other.

Joyce ate a lot of poulet on the trip and on our first “last night” in Paris, she enjoyed sautéed chicken breast with a light jasmine rice. Beef called me and was grilled, accompanied by a pepper sauce kick and perfect scalloped potatoes. Of course vin blanc, vin rouge et le pain sat with us for dinner, but not for long… The beef was done perfectly, and the pepper sauce magnified its flavor with every satisfying bite.

Come on and lift your glass
You’ve won your own free pass
To be out guest

We splurged on a Creme brulée and the gracious Regis splurged on after dinner drinks for us – gratis.  Joyce sipped something citrusy on ice after requesting absent Limoncello, and Regis snared me a snifter of “Calvados,” an apple brandy from the French région of Basse-Normandie. It had the consistency and color of Grand Mariner, but with apple replacing orange and far less sweetness. I liked it.

I think Joyce and I went to France with high expectations about the food and the experience of dining itself. She mentioned how food prep and service are distinguished professions in France much more than in the States. While the food and service was consistently very good, Pizza Gino notwithstanding, only Le Bistrot d’Henri blew me away, but still, little gastronomical gems like it are everywhere in Paris.

With all this recollection of restaurants visited and Euros eaten, my warmest memory is being fed Spanish orange slices and bits of chocolate as we drove through the sprouting green countryside and sun kissed coast. Mon amour…

Chronology is useful and simple to follow like a bullet list, but Paris is about stories and light, and bullets too. Over the next few posts I won’t maintain order, but instead try my best to recall some of Joyce and my stories. Here’s the first.

Paris Part 1
No human relationships are perfect. On this (yesterday’s) Mother’s Day, mothers and daughters or sons are living strained relationships, even though those are the ones considered unconditional. Blood-free relationships are not necessarily absolute, so navigating and respecting each other’s conditions and limitations is a key to maintaining them. Oh, and love. Everybody needs love.

I’ve wanted to take this trip to Paris for such a long time to see if it was truly the “most romantic city in the world,” or just another city.

The loud, deep, echoing clang of the bells of Saint Sulpice woke us from their home Sunday morning. The second largest church in Paris has been waking the neighbors since 1732 and was mere feet from our hotel window. At some point while maneuvering around the typically small European boutique hotel room, a word took a wicked bad hop and I retreated to spend the day in a walled city of my own making to pout and mentally review my list of relationship grievances. Of course my brooding was silent, only broken by simple, declarative responses to questions posed over the wall.

Art is, or was, high on my list for the trip, but the French museum schedule maker decided long ago that all Paris museums shall be closed on May 1, so I was already feeling some pressure that we wouldn’t see much of them. Given our schedule to hit the French countryside Tuesday through Thursday and a Saturday departure, my little walled city now had windows of opportunity quickly closing on setting foot in the Louvre.

“We could be over there,” I suggested to the ringing and the singing, now wafting out of the thick, Saint Sulpice walls. We spent the minimum on clothing preparation and walked over. The church is massive, and as I sat in the rear-center, the open expanse in front of me provided ample room to think. Suddenly, the giant organ filled the vastness and my mind went dark again. As she walked the old cathedral, Joyce was moved by its beauty, the soaring music, but mostly by the power of human faith she shares with millions of others. Outside she asked what I thought. “They put on a good show,” was my unfeeling response. Jerk. Not a great example of navigating and respecting…

“Me, oiu,” the flea market. I’ll admit, I was up for it. It sounded fun and had great reviews on tripadvisor.com and elsewhere, and seemed cooler than the usual fare, but that was before the bad hop and me turning into a trou du cul. I fought it, and was less so at points during the day, like when I coaxed Joyce into a pic with a Steve McQueen mannequin, but my negative thinking just took me down a dark, spiraling funnel, and reduced me to kneading negative one liners in my head like, “I didn’t see the Louvre, but I did go to a flea market.” As we walked under miles of architectural beauty and over diamond shaped cobblestones (they’re square, but look like diamonds from a certain perspective) through the streets of Paris, it seemed there were flower shops on every corner. Part of me wanted to dash in and make it all better with a bouquet, but my dark side had cornered the market on indifference. Jerk.

By the time we made it to dinner our one word responses had been reduced by one. We sat in an unremarkable café for a “quiet” dinner. My brooding was peaking. My “edge,” as Joyce describes it, was glistening sharp. What transpired from there, over roasted chicken, Quiche Lorraine, et les vins, blancs et rouges, is best described as a Seinfeldian “airing of grievances,” mostly de moi. We spent about an hour navigating and respecting each other’s conditions and limitations. We didn’t solve the world’s problems or our own, but we moved closer to them and to each other. Hand in hand, like they do in Paris, we walked slowly down a dimly lit rue de Guynemer along the Jardins de Luxemborg, finally reaching Place Saint Sulpice. This picture only begins to capture the warmth of the place at that moment.

That was our worst day in Paris. The other six lacked even a hint of its negativity. Still, aside from the walls and grievances, Sunday in Paris was full of awe, discovery and the cocque madam. As for the whole “most romantic city” thing? Well, that’s wherever I am with her.

Her sad little downtrodden face led a three foot frame toward me in the kitchen. Maddy faced her mother’s blue eyes up to me, surrounded by a mess of blonde angel hair, along with a small fist clutching a dandelion hours beyond code blue. “Papa, the flower I picked for Mumma died. Will you go outside and pick another one I can give to Mumma?” This little child, so full of love, was desperate to share it with her mother in a flower. It was a simple request, and not really unusual from a little girl, but what followed filled my heart.

“Papa, pick one that won’t die.”

“I’ll try, baby. I’ll try.”

This post is brought to you by New England Coffee Colombian Supremo.

Recently I received a blog matter request via Facebook from my friend Christine:

“I would like Leo to write a blog on “decaf” being essentially just a reduction in caffeine, but yet not close to caffeine free — can’t anything be straight forward and not just marketing to make you think you are doing something right…”

My initial instinct was to research the outrage of “de-caf” actually containing caffeine, but that’s been pretty much covered here. Yes, the average “decaf” contains about 10% of the caffeine in full-on Joe. By the way, New England Coffee’s decaf selections are 97% caffeine-free via a “direct solvent” process. Their website states, “The green bean is softened by steam and then flushed with methylene chloride to remove 97% of the caffeine.” Wow. I can just see the commercial… A beautiful woman looks seductively at the camera as she sips with perfect painted lips from a steaming cup. Her gaze heats from the pleasure as she pierces your soul and says, “Mmmmm… methylene chloride.”

Personally, I don’t get the decaf thing. As I sit here pre-dawn, sipping my first cup and feeling more and more “ALIIIIVEEEE,” I’m thinking, “What’s the point?” OK, so Joe and NoJo aside, Christine’s bigger question is, “can’t anything be straight forward and not just marketing?” We’ll answer that, right after this.

We’re back, jacked up on Joe, and sadly, the answer is largely “no,” not in the world we live in. I contend our capitalist system requires sustained economic growth and one of the most effective competitive tools to control the masses in the battle for ever higher revenues and profits is marketing, and its ancillary practice, advertising. So, as long as there is a profit to motivate them, entities will continue to bombard us with their multi-media messages to persuade us to not vote for the other guy, ask your doctor if [insert pharmaceutical here] is right for you, sue someone who’s potentially done you wrong, or buy their (not so) decaffeinated coffee.

There are some things still outside that giant silo of spin, and most occur in nature, although that’s not to say those things aren’t exploited. I think about this scene from last week. It was stunningly beautiful and didn’t need any commercial to promote it. That is until I took a picture of it and plastered it on Facebook as a reflection of me. “See? I took that. Doesn’t that make me good? Cool? Worthy?” I just wanted to share it, but there’s a subconscious need for us to stand out from the crowd, to compete for attention, to advertise. Maybe it’s just me.

Oh, and Christine, you’re doing quite a bit right. Now it’s time for another damn fine cup of coffee.

A couple decades ago, my wife gave me an engraved doorknocker for my birthday just like the one pictured here. It bummed me out and I wasn’t very good at hiding my feelings. I’m still not. It was a feeble swing and a miss at life that day. I didn’t get it. I do now.

I know I could be wrong; we likely don’t remember out childhood literally as it happened. As we look back, we probably get some of the foundation right, but many of the details blur as they hurtle down our creaky neural pathways. Still, in conversations I’ve had with my brothers, none of us can recall hearing “I love you” from our parents. I don’t need to get into the “why’s” of their silence, but I don’t judge them. Through the years I’ve pieced together much context of their lives and understand from where they came. Suffice to say, neither of my parents heard “I love you” much, if ever, during their childhood. I don’t know if they ever spoke it to each other. I do think some of it was a generational thing, especially for emotionally repressed 1950’s dad.

In spite of the emotional vacuum from which my youngest breath was drawn, I don’t recall ever having trouble saying it to women. Not that I spewed it like Cupid’s fountain, but when I felt it I could say it, so when we had children they heard that affirmation constantly, and still do. That was easy, unconditional love. An interesting phenomena I’ve witnessed over the years has been the crumbling of those old walls built to protect the heart and keep pain locked away. When Megan was about 3, or Maddy’s age now, she’d bop her little blonde pigtails toward her Nana and let fly with a carefree, “I love you, Nana.” Early on, my mother would choke up, unable to speak. She’d hug the tiny child, snap off something jokingly sarcastic, and sniff herself back to composure. Today none of us ever end a phone call or visit without telling each other, “I love you.” Even my dad says it now. Every call. Every visit. We still do “man hugs” though. Let’s not get carried away.

On Sunday, someone I love received his 90 day “chip” to mark a milestone of sobriety. He’s confronting emotions soberly for the first time in over 30 years and it’s both painful and exhilarating to observe. He gets choked up easily these days, but he’s allowing himself to feel; to experience this life across its entire emotional spectrum. He’s no longer hiding in a safe corner, anesthetizing himself to emotional deadness with drug or drink. As we said goodbye after Sunday’s call, I encouraged him to just focus on the success of day 90 and the hope of day 91. Then I said, “I love you.” I know his recovery will never be complete, and he will have moments of no light. When those moments come, I want him to know he is loved. There was a painful pause, and then a tear choked, “Yeah… I love you, too.”

Daley
Love Is Spoken Here

Tonight the family gathered round the glowing plasma for some teevee time. “The Empire Strikes Back” kept us entertained, although we were moreso by all jokes we were making about it. During one of the every ten minutes, twenty minute commercial break, a burger ad came on excitedly touting the value proposition of the “BK Stacker” family, consisting of anywhere from one to four 2 ounce beef patties, bacon, cheese and some dressing:

• 650 calories
• 43g fat
• 18g sat. fat
• 1g trans fat
• 145mg cholesterol
• 38g protein
• 29g carbs
• 7g sugar
• 1020mg sodium

I’ll give the BK Marketing folks some credit. They describe the “BK Triple” as a “mountainous monument of meat.” That’s poetry. Anyway, when meat mountain scaled the screen, the following conversation ensued:

Megan: “Oh, that’s gross!” Dad: “Megan, there are people grabbing their car keys right now.” (Laughter)

I always look for reasons to quote great lyrics, and today’s title is from the Drive By Truckers, “The Righteous Path.”

Since the holidays I’ve been pinching pennies a bit, saving for Paris in the Springtime. Exactly ten days ago I did a quick(en) review of my short-term finances and it looked like I had an extra $800 or so in checking that could be moved to “le fonds France.” After dark, I walked out along the short front walk to check the mailbox, its long slender pole-neck finally out of the snow sweater it had been wearing for a couple months. I pulled out a Victoria Secrets catalog, about 14 credit card solicitations for Megan and… ugh… my heating oil bill for $673.05. I’m not complaining. I can pay it and don’t need to re-fi my house to do it. I wonder how other families less fortunate than mine are coping with the rising costs of heating oil and gasoline.

There are far too many families that can’t pay and can’t save because offshoring and the Wall Street theft of 2008 have swelled unemployment and depressed wages. A Culpepper salary survey pegged US salary increases for 2009-11:

2009 1.66%
2010 2.38%
2011 2.91% (projected)

In stark contrast to Wall Street bonuses:

2009 $20.3B
2010 $20.8B (Average bonus $128,530)

Love him or hate him, Michael Moore isn’t afraid to state a point of view. Recently he was in Wisconsin to support the union workers there. He said:

“America is not broke. Contrary to what those in power would like you to believe so that you’ll give up your pension, cut your wages and settle for the life your great grandparents had. America is not broke. Not by a long shot. The country is awash in wealth and cash. It’s just that it is not in your hands.”

“It has been transferred in the greatest heist in American history from the workers and consumers to the banks and portfolios of the uber-rich. Right now this afternoon just 400 Americans have more wealth than half of all Americans combined… most of whom benefited in some way from the multi-trillion dollar taxpayer bailout of 2008 now have more cash, stock, and property than the assets of 155 million Americans combined.

“I’m trying to keep focused on the righteous path.” Amen.

Leaving my office I began to think about this post. A little button in my head was pushed. It is round with tapered and slightly shaded edges and a right facing triangle. Immediately precisely arranged zeroes and ones streamed out splices of a Bob Seger song. First words were “On the road again,” but then the song jumped across a couple deep, black grooves to “There I go… Turn the page.”

Odd. I know the song popped into my head because I was thinking of a post title, and it really doesn’t take much to push that button anyway. Anyway, this post isn’t about turning the page in the sense Seger sang about, but a page turner by Cormac McCarthy, “The Road.”

The book was recommended a few months ago by (Work)Joyce, so I downloaded bits of a sample to my Kindle and read it while climbing stairs yesterday. Joyce suggested I could relate to the story of father and son survivors touring the charred corpse of earth, courtesy of Mutually Assured Destruction. Kindle samples vary. Some are long and rich. Others barely get you to chapter 1. This stretch of “The Road” stomped stairclimbing me in less than 20 pages. Here are three that kicked me hard:

“He knew only that the child was his warrant. He said: If he is not the word of God God never spoke.”

Son: “What would you do if I died?”
Father: “If you died I would want to die too.”
Son: “So you could be with me?”
Father: “Yes. So I could be with you.”
Son “Okay.”

“You forget some things, don’t you?
Yes. You forget what you want to remember and you remember what you want to forget.”

It’s bleak but right now irresistible. Gotta go turn the page.

Before my face was kissed by the cold, fresh air, I could see through the tall cafeteria windows that a sunset was happening. It wasn’t a “10” on the awe scale, just some pleasant refraction sketching an outline around low, puffy clouds of gray-blue. Many of us are fortunate to see so many sunsets in our lives that few stick in our memories, and most of the time we remember more about the place and who we were with than the exact colors and style of nature’s curtain call.

It’s only been 12 hours or so and the hues exact position in the Crayola 133 is fading. A quick lookup suggests last night’s horizon wasn’t colored with any of the “standard 12.” Yeah, sure, they were palette mixed from the 3 primary shades, but from rapidly dimming recall, I’m guessing it was Atomic Tangerine or Bittersweet. Yeah, that’s the one.

My childhood memories evoke the long, bright days of endless summer. I’m sure some of the shortening days of increasing cold and darkness are buried in there, but the days I hold onto were warm and filled with light. As I looked at the glow seeping out of the sky last night, I wondered how many more I’d see, where I’d see them and with who. It wasn’t a bleak, morbid assessment. On the way home I chatted with my dad. He’s 77, in decent health and with fully functioning cognition. I told him how lucky he was. I realized the same about myself. At this point in life, it still seems about two minutes brighter every day.