A Tough Dill to Swallow or Not my Bread and Butter

 I’m a bit of an Audiofool, but I can confuse artists with their work. I thought for example Joni Mitchell wrote Pave Paradise put up a Pickleball Court. I know she did do Court and Spark, and you know the sparks have been flying around the ever increasing specialized courts. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got buds that handle two different size bats. I’ve been tempted, but the odometer has turned over on my original knees, and I think I won’t accelerate their demise, and just stick to the little white ball. 

NIMBY, an acrimonious acronym.

In my local travels I’ve seen six or eight lighted courts nestled right up to a suburban backyard. Possibly open from 7:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m. That’s like a half-dozen Grandfather clock-sized metronomes providing the ‘round the clock tick-tock. Superimposed on the sine waves of smack are often not so nimble newbies blurting out the wrong score, or expressing their agony from a sprain or break…or maybe even a Picklebrawl!  To add insult to injury, the adjacent middle class homeowners with cracks in their patio do not relish giving their hard earned tax dollars to pay for all these plots with outdoor kitchens.

Tennis court transitions have proliferated. We had the condominium conversion crave here in the eighties and that didn’t end well. Now how will these condiment themed conversions do in the long run. One man’s opinion was that we were on the backside of the boom. Although Mark Cuban said future unneeded data centers could be Pickleball sites.  How about for the time being, that the two facilities team up and coexist side by side, a little din-din so to speak. Two evil twins in some people’s eyes. A noise cancellation subculture. You can have Tick-tock outside, and Tik Tok flowing through the veins of the data center inside. 

 The ‘White Noise’ coming from home owners has prompted some bans on courts and the use of quieter bats and balls along with screens. But, people unable to tolerate the racket have sold their homes and moved to quieter locales, pretty wild eh.

Ah, I don’t believe Table Tennis has ever created such a stir.

Comments are welcome, and I’d like to know where you are writing from.

KR

A Vulcanized Mind Meld 🖖

 Many are familiar with the original Star Trek TV series and the Movies. The intriguing character Spock could read the mind of another person by placing his fingers on their face and concentrating. This was called the Vulcan mind-meld. Recently I’ve transitioned from a slower table tennis rubber to one that is relatively zippy to me, although not very fast by industry standards. It has seemed to have a bit of a mind of its own, and I have been trying to tame it since my purchase three months ago.

The rubber in focus is the Stiga Mantra Sound. Mantra, hmm….Scholars disagree on the definition. One refers to a word or sound that is deliberately repeated over and over. I can relate to that when I constantly hit the ball off the end of the table and whisper expletives over and over. It is stated that there is no generally agreed upon definition. That gives me great liberty to choose or create one! So just to give myself greater credibility, I will throw out the following from the yogantfoundation.com which I will paraphrase: A mantra’s power, like any other tool, is unlocked not merely by owning it, but by using it. Hey, I grip this tool maybe more than any other, er…even my remote. And believe me, a paddle can be a bit of a tool sometimes. 

So my Vulcanized Mantra has gone through a bit of a mind-meld, (and yes, most table tennis rubber is vulcanized). Now, three months in, and I can do things with this that I couldn’t achieve with my prior weapon.. I’ve loosened my grip, and it seemed to loosen its grip on me. I’ve closed my bat a bit and I seem to be in control. The sound of the ‘Sound’ is now sweeter. We have become ‘One’.🖖

Kobra 

When Fries Were Made From Scratch at the Number One Fast Food Chain

Yeah, I worked there in 1970 while going to school.

Occasionally I would come in on Saturday mornings and ‘make’ fries. This was early, well before the restaurant would open. Downstairs, there was a walk-in cooler and freezer. Inside the cooler sat 40 pound sacks of potatoes, ready to be hauled upstairs and manually transformed into the awesome side order, which incidentally went out the door at 15 cents a bag. As you’ll see, you got a whole lot of labor and TLC for robbing your piggy bank. Me, I got a buck sixty-five or so for a laborious hour.

After slugging a cumbersome sack of the spuds up the stairs, an apparatus awaited. A cylindrical drum, smaller than the 55 gallon variety, and internally lined with a coarse material. I likened it to about a 40 grit sandpaper. At the bottom was a door and exit chute. It had a lid, which I would lift up, and dump the bag of taters into the awaiting drum.

‘We want 15 percent of the skin left on the potatoes. If too much skin is left, it is unappealing. If there is no skin, too much potato is being wasted’.  I was told.

I flipped the power switch on the drum, and instantly the centrifugal force drove the Idaho tubers toward the coarse walls in chaotic fashion. The pounding and thumping echoed throughout the restaurant.. And after a few bags, I got it. No timer, just instinct, perfection.

A Kobra Fry 

The exit chute of the drum emptied into one of two commercial oversized stainless steel sinks, both filled with fresh water. Into the right sink the whole potatoes splashed from the chute of the drum. Straddling the center divider of the sinks was a cutting grid and handle similar to something you would use to extract water from a well. With an oversized three-prong fork, each potato would be stabbed, placed on top of the cutting grid, and the downward pull of the handle would cut the spud into slices, which plummeted into the sink on the left. Tater after tater, one by one.

The entire south wall behind the sinks was stainless steel, riddled with hooks which held dozens of fryer baskets waiting to be dropped into hot oil.

When all the potatoes were cut, I grabbed them out of the water, and emptied them into the fryer baskets equally, but not filling them. They covered the entire wall, dripping and drying. The process was repeated over and over until the magic began…blanching.

The blanching temperature and time was a mystery to me, as I wasn’t involved with that part of the prep, but the temp was lower than the eventual final dropping. As the morning wore on, rows of baskets with blanched fries began to populate the silver wall. And the key to their awesomeness (besides the oil) was time. The fries that sat on the wall for hours after blanching were magnificent. When the noontime rush depleted the stock, and the time duration between blanching and frying diminished, so did the texture and flavor, in my opinion of course.

Towards the end of my stint there, less than one year, something happened. Deep down in the freezer section, a new product arrived on the scene, frozen mass produced french fries, ready to be dropped. A massive amount of labor was about to be saved. Yeah, I tried ’em, and my unsophisticated 18 year old taste determined they didn’t measure up to the hand crafted variety. Of course the frying oil was animal based until 1990, when it was switched to the vegetable variety. 

So if you were around back then, maybe you got a chance to sample this scrumptious side order…with no idea what went into making them.  

The Hills were Alive with Music…Which Led to a Long Audio Journey 🔈

 As Steve and I trekked midway up the East Bay Hills, I had no idea that this venture would send me on a lifelong audio quest. The warm school day was over, and two juniors headed upwards towards a rocky overlook. We were out to catch more than the stunning views of the San Francisco Bay. Few knew of the place. It was private, someone’s backyard really. The owners never seemed to be home, couldn’t see us, or were simply cool with uninvited guests.

Steve led the way, negotiating the climb with one hand grasping the handle of his oversized Sony. Finally, we ascended to the most level spot and sat. The radio rested to Steve’s left, and with his right hand he reached into his shirt pocket for the roll we had stopped at his house for. Steve had elected to quit football, his prior passion. This in turn put his parents on high alert for pot use. His room was an easy search like other sparse equivalents in 1968, but who would think of sliding off the handlebar grips on his Schwinn. He was proud of that hiding spot.

As the evidence of our activities wafted upwards and eastward, so did any thoughts of trespassing and drug possession. Hey, I was with someone way cooler than myself, so there was nothing to fear. Steve switched on the elegant Sony FM. I believe it was monaural, but was a behemoth relative to the lightweight transistor radios many teens often stuffed under their pillows at night. The roughly four inch speaker seemed massive at the time to a sheltered teen.

Across the bay emanating from the hills of Marin County, invisible waves overrode the liquid variety below, tickling the antenna of the Sony. The analog signal graced the clear air space, then free from the current blanket of cellular transmissions. Many a signal strength meter would have been pegged to the right as ‘underground rock’ now rose to our rocky perch. At a frequency of 106.9 MHZ KMPX emerged…K MultiPleXed that is, or stereo in common terminology.

As one song ended, we would sit silent and mesmerized for the next eight plus minutes. It was the first time I would hear the full version of Suzie Q from Creedence Clearwater Revival. Long jams by the Dead, Airplane, and Quicksilver were not gracing the AM airwaves, but The Door’s Light My Fire broke through. The piece itself was gripping, and the quality was of an uncommon nature for the times. It was rumored that the Doors used a prototype box created by Ray Dolby to record it, long before his namesake logo graced nearly every cassette deck.

On our perch, the ambient noise level was nil, and it was lower in those times of less air travel and fewer vehicles. The higher quality of the FM signal emanating from the Sony entranced me. Had Steve’s father owned some MacIntosh equipment and pair of Klipschorns, well, it would have certainly been a different launching point, to say the least.

But at this moment, it seemed as if Fogerty and company were jamming in the garage of his El Cerrito home below us. The typecast ‘swamp rocker’ didn’t immediately garner air play from the swankier side of the bay, he wasn’t ‘psychedelic’ enough. So in this extended version, John merely waved his Fender inches from his amp, and plucked his interpretation of the James Burton riff. As a result of the powerful feedback he generated, CCR gained acceptance for their entry into the ‘San Francisco sound’.

This episode with Steve launched my lifelong journey for higher fidelity. The following handful of years remained lean for this student, and I was relegated to scouring the Allied and Lafayette Electronics catalogs. But one day, seductively sitting inside a Pacific Stereo store was a Harman Kardon 330B. Making two plus dollars an hour and having no credit made this purchase unlikely. But there was HFC on Shattuck Ave. And for $10 a month for two years, the $180 floor model was now in my possession. Yes, a mere 33% premium to secure the beauty, but it was worth every dollar. I paired it with couple of three-way DIY speakers, later a Pioneer turntable, and I was set…for a while.

A move to Chicago facilitated my deeper dive into the audio world. The long winters, along with greater income and a slow developing social life, gave me the time and means to buy, build, and modify audio equipment. My new Harman Kardon 730 was awesome, which over time I regretfully over-modified until it was inoperable. I ponied up for a Hafler, but it came up short compared to the HK 730 in my opinion.

So through the years I owned NAD, Denon, Rotel, and more. Five figure amps were out of the question. Then in the early 2000’s while out doing a call for work, I parked a couple of blocks north of my customer on Broadway. I glanced into the window of a pawn shop on my left, and there it was, a pristine looking HK 730. I apprehensively entered, and inside a couple of shady dudes were hanging out, seemingly checking out my logo- bearing polo shirt. Behind the counter sat the owner.

How much,” I asked him as I pointed.

Eighty dollars, big sound, big sound. Let me hook it up for you,” he said walking over to grab it.

“No thanks, I’ll take it,” I said, risking that the impulsive purchase may have issues, but I had the technical know-how to correct many problems. I just wanted this transaction done ASAP. I again perceived the scrutiny of the two guys. Were they trying to see just how much cash I would extract from the front pocket of my Dockers? I prayed they wouldn’t simultaneously exit as I briskly lugged the twin-powered receiver out the door. Without looking back, I hurried up the street and uneventfully slid the gem onto my back seat. Ah.

Currently, just the amp section of the HK sits in an open frame with new capacitors and wiring. A Bluesound Node Nano streamer, Soekris 1421 DAC, and Schiit Audio Lyr+ direct the signal to the HK. DIY Floorstanders with Seas drivers ideally match with the 18X20 foot room, tuned with diffusion and absorption. Also, the gear is on a dedicated circuit. Power cords, speaker wires, and audio interconnects have all been upgraded to augment the excellent sonics.

The remaining amp section of the HK730

The front end and speakers.

One Take for this Photographer, and he Couldn’t Have Imagined the Outcome.

In this digital age, billions of images are snapped, shared, posted, and deleted perhaps daily around the globe. In the late 1950’s, producing an image was cumbersome and relatively expensive. In this particular instance, I’d like to say my role in this immaculate obstruction, was as unlikely as the Franco Harris ‘Immaculate Deflection’ years later which devastated me as a Raider’s fan.

I was a mischievous third grader in 1959 at a small Northern California K-3 school, MacGregor School in Albany to be exact. My mother helped out with the Brownies after school, leaving me to my own devices in the school yard as I waited for her to finish her volunteer work.

This one particular day, the Brownies were gathered on the asphalt playground waiting to have their group photo taken. A distinguished looking gentleman arrived and set his large camera on top of a tripod on the west side of the playground. With his back to the bright California sun, he ducked underneath his black shroud, and began dialing in his focus, shutter, and aperture settings.

Myself, bored and possessing a rubber kickball to entertain myself, waited impatiently on the south end of the playground, well away from the giddy girls in their brown uniforms.

The photographer motioned and called out to the Brownies to gather. He methodically positioned the girls and retreated back to his tripod. Repeatedly ducking in and out of his black covering, he used hand gestures and verbal commands to fine tune the position of his subjects.

Finally, maybe fifteen feet from the group, he told them to stay still, as he was ready. He again disappeared, leaned forward behind his tripod, ready for his take. I had grown tired of waiting.

I turned towards the gathering, and with a solid punt, angled the kickball in the direction of the Brownies. A succession of bounces ensued, and the bounding ball perfectly split the corridor between the photographer and the Brownies. No harm, no foul.

Two weeks later, the latent image had been transformed, reproduced, and distributed to the parents. Sitting at the dinner table, my mom looked at me.

“You know that ball you kicked. It ended up blocking out a couple of the Brownie’s faces in the photograph.”

It took effort to keep from cracking a smile, and unfortunately, I never got to see the fluky photo. The poor photographer, had no peripheral perspective, and the moving obstruction eluded his view. He was stuck with one take. Hopefully I didn’t cause him much grief.

Oddly enough, as the one responsible for a marred image early in life, I landed at Eastman Kodak for 29 years, making sure commercial images, both film-based, and digital, were devoid of any imperfections.

Feeling the Paddle in High School (Not the Table Tennis Variety)

The paddle had seemingly gone into retirement in the late 1960’s in our house. Behind closed doors in our high school, it was a different story, especially where coaches ruled. In both Physical Ed and Mechanical Drawing, the whack of the wood was felt, and heard.

Our Northern California high school used the adjacent public pool for competitive swimming, and PE, where it was a free for all in the water. Myself, of diminutive stature at the time, spent a fair portion of the sessions under water, teamed up on and dunked in the deep end of the pool. This one particular day, the shenanigans were too much for Coach O.

“Everyone out of the pool and line up on the edge,” he yelled out as he retreated into the office area. Twenty or so soaking wet guys obliged as the coach re-emerged, speaking loudly and wielding a thick rectangular shaped piece of lumber in his right hand. 

“Grab your ankles!”

It was a side of Coach O. seldom seen, a man whose eyes seemed to possess a permanent twinkle. Would he unleash all his fury, or yield a kinder gentler paddling hand?

The first in line felt the sting, as the slap echoed throughout the now quiet structure. The recipient dove head first upon contact, droplets exploding from the rear of the suit. Thwack! Splash!The pattern repeated itself. Coach O. knew who the worst offenders were, and maybe administered a little more fire power their way. A few victims attempted to dive out ahead of the swat, but the coach was hip to that and made sure he connected. Then came my turn. I felt the hit, but the bark of the slap was indeed bigger than the bit of the contact. The coach left some in the bag, at least on my account.

Let’s kick it up a few notches. Step inside the Mechanical Drawing class. The instructor this time is the football coach. Teachers were in great demand at the time as us boomers filled the halls, and in retrospect some would have benefited us all in different roles. Anyway, Coach S. devised an interactive punishment measure for various infractions including tardiness, snacking, and excessive talking to name a few. In alphabetical order we sat at our drafting stations, and in that order would get to apply the lumber to the rear of an offending student. Having a last name with the letter ‘R’ insured I would have to wait a while to revenge the multiple hits I would endure before being on the other end of the paddle. You see, I was a bit of a cut-up!

There were some bigger dudes in the class, yep football players, along with some sinister guys who used some of their wood shop time to create the next butt breaking model. Over the course of the year, the implements got thicker, narrower, and bored with holes to improve aerodynamics. 

Five minutes or so before the class ending bell, the main event unfolded. In the most open space near the door, the swatter and his victim took their positions, with the latter holding his ankles. Surrounding the pair was the rest of the class. The chanting would begin, and the single brutal wallop would ensue. I had some buddies in the class who would secretly loan me their wallets beforehand. I jammed them two deep in each rear pocket if I could. But the obvious protection only caused the administrator to deliver the blow painfully south of the border. In fact once, my eyes welled up a bit…the onlookers knew that was a good one!

Finally, after many weeks and being on the receiving end of multiple rump busting shots, it was my turn to strike. Oh, and there were a few I was looking to exact some revenge on. As I waited for this opportunity, you would think I would have been on my best behavior, but nope. I don’t recall my infraction that day, but in addition to getting to pop someone, I would have to pay as well. The other guilty party was Don R. who I would hit first, and in turn he would turn around and reciprocate.

As usual, five minutes before the bell Coach S. handed me the lumber and the chanting began. Don bent over and I wound up with my game face on…and merely gave him a tap. ‘Boos’ rang out as we changed positions and Don returned an equally tepid response. The disapproval continued as the students filed out. You see, Don and I were friends, at least in that class. It really hurt in a different way relinquishing my opportunity, but neither of us was interested in getting popped. Hitting second, Don could have betrayed me, but he was a stand up guy. So we in our own way took the air out of the perverse entertainment the Coach enjoyed, as he kept the blood off his hands by having the students carry out his dirty work.

We weren’t empowered in those times to stand up to practices like that, but oh for a pair of Depends to at least mitigate the pain, and an IPhone to completely end it.

A Few Cartoons

 There’s not a lot of table tennis humor out there, so I thought I would toss out a few of my attempts.

  

 

50 Shades of….Nah, Just a Fun Box of Polychromatic Polymers

 After getting our eight dollars worth from the Chinese Buffet, Jeff, fellow table tennis player and bargain hunter extraodinaire, accompanied me next door. We strolled into Golden Bins for some ‘binster’ diving. Our third compadre Mike elected not to comb through these Amazon returns, or should I say unreturned items. Normally stir-frying our way through the partially opened and taped up merchandise, we would walk out empty handed. But today, I stumbled upon these.  

They were 40+, 3 Star, ABS, and 2.7 grams, specs in line with other premium brands. Three balls from the likes of Butterfly or Nittaku could run you $8. It was $8 Friday at the ‘Bins, and you could get 50 of these intriguing projectiles for that!  I turned to Jeff, “Look!”. 

“Let’s split ‘em” he said.

When we went back to our vehicles, we divided up the spoils, finding them quite colorful. Interesting, the 3-Star Easter egg colored balls had no stars on them, nor any markings whatsoever. Arriving home, Amazon’s website showed 8000+ reviews on them with 4.5 stars. A number of reviewers said their cats loved them, and I didn’t scroll enough to find any tournament players chiming in, hmmm. 

So Monday morning it was off to the torture track, Schaumburg Park District to get a verdict on this impulse buy. At 1/16th the price, was the joke on us, or the premium brands? Let’s find out. Mike, Jeff, and I hooked up with a relatively inexperienced woman and hit in doubles fashion. We rarely shifted out of second gear to facilitate keeping the ball in play. If you factor in a generous 30 balls hit per minute, and that we used this ball for roughly 30 minutes, old math says this ball was hit 900 times. It seemed to play quite the same as the name brand 3-star variety. Would these take a licking and keep on ticking? Mike expressed his doubts.

On one drop to the floor, Jeff and I heard the dreaded ‘craaacck.’ That’s all she wrote. So based on our limited test, 50 balls would possibly last 45,000 hits, or 25 hours, whichever comes first. Your mileage may vary, especially with big hitters. 

So the the size and playability seemed correct. The 3 star claim on the box was not evident on the balls themselves. ABS…can’t question that claim. How about the weight?  I trekked down to the basement for an old precision scale I used to use in my employment days. I rested 7 of these little beauties on the platform and got the following.

Well, 7 X 2.7 = 18.9 (grams), so  they are certainly not underweight, and the scale is likely a little off. So we used a little of our ‘disposable’ income so to speak, to buy what we knew all along…you get what you pay for. But I must say, they are fun to hit, and they do have other purposes, so you can’t put a price on that!

A MLTTing Pot of Friends, Food, and Frenzy at the Compass Arena

 The white electrified Audi sped south along the Kingery, encompassing four table tennis aficionados. A forceful field of  MLTT (Major League Table Tennis) wizards awaited us and other fans as our  needle was pegged Due South towards the Compass Arena in Willowbrook. Meeting a fifth companion at the venue, we arrived for the first of a pair of team matches. It was a feel good atmosphere inside the multi-thousand square foot facility, yet just forty-five square feet would provide the platform for the serious high-stakes drama to unfold upon it.

The people at MLTT are smart, and they have to be to make this terrific, but lightly attended sport fly here in the States. Tables for the pedestrian players populated the lobby for those looking for a little play. There was food, beverages, plenty of space, and cool merch. Although at 70+, I won’t be sportin’ a Croc tee in the near future…maybe the MLTT logo is more my speed.

Inside the playing arena, music encompassed the space. I liked the selections, the decibels were reasonable, and it was an up tempo prelude to the action. A mechanical metronome would disintegrate in its attempt to keep up with the tick-tock of the warm-up exchanges between the pros. There’s not a bad seat from a viewing perspective. If MLTT elected to require the matches to be won by a pair of points, the metal bleachers would uncomfortably impart their time stamp, and multiple deuces might lose TV viewers. Golden Point…smart move, and there is a ten minute intermission. 

Opposite the stands, scoreboards informed the patrons of the running match and game score. In the upper corners, replay screens straddle the court. Below, the red specially engineered flooring provided optimal footing, while sporting MLTT logos. The format of play was clearly explained by an enthusiastic roving young woman concious that newbies will always be present. In regards to her encouraging the crowd to bellow out ‘Golden Point’ at every regulation tie, I can temporarily squash my inner curmudgeon and appreciate the youthful exuberance surrounding me.

In this venue, It was New York vs, Texas in the afternoon, Chicago vs Florida in the evening. We grabbed a table…at a nearby buffet between the matches. Unfortunately, Nandan Naresh didn’t play a lick, but his ever supportive parents were there and it was a pleasure to speak with them. I used to hit some with Nandan and his brother Sid (who plays for Portland) when they were happily peering over the top of the tables at Wheaton on Friday nights. They seemingly haven’t lost an ounce of this pleasant demeanor. The ball doesn’t fall far from the table so they say 😊. Oh, and their father Arcot, he has danced around that magic 2000 level.

Tidbits…I was told CBS records the video, and ESPN airs it on occasion. Teams record their own video for analysis. There is a ‘serve clock’, and a challenge flag which is yellow. We saw one thrown. Two young people situated behind the players retrieve errant shots…keeping the game moving along swiftly.  There were ‘timeouts’ called, but they were short.

Oh, the action…awesome with the variety of styles and counterpunching. The French lefty Lebesson was very impressive. Loved the variety and flair of the Spaniard Marc Duran, ala Seve, Rafa? I took the basketball analogy…the Argentinian Ginobili with his deceptiveness. And if you missed it, or this wasn’t enough action, there is tabletennis.tv, and of course highlights via You Tube.

Post game, the Chicago Wind sat collectively in the open, interacting with fans, doing selfies and signings. This approachability adds to the harmonious nature of the sport. Friends, food, and the frenzy on the table made for a memorable day.      Nice job MLTT.

 

Quadrophobia-Claustrophobia

        

 

He’s not that guy from Sports Center, you know, Scott Van Pelt. He’s one of three gents in town from the Sun Belt, ditching the swelt. Three figures escaping triple figures, stepping’ into our ‘confines’ for a little ‘paddle melt at the SK Corral.’ Frank it is, along with Barry, and Dennis (featured in the archives) escaped the desert land of Sun City to venture to Sunset Knoll where the thermometer and hygrometer stride along in lock step. Glad to hear from the trio that the Octo with the Octane, Ron Cassidy, (The CatsKitty) still has game.

They aren’t the only ones to make a ‘slameo’ appearance. The man from Vlad, actually Cincinnati stopped in last week, just visiting. A 1300ish all-rounder. Recent local additions Al, Mark, and Roger are now part of the mix. Four tables today. Four channel was out a long time ago, and that’s essentially what we had. I’ll vote for three tables.

 Speaking of…quadrophobia-claustrophobia.  If you suffer from both these disorders you were in deep doo-doo today. Four tables with tight walls. If you were playing doubles and the score was 4-4, you might have been on overload. But the walls were pre-padded by the forward thinking staff at SK.

Not a lot of games where you can walk into a new setting and assimilate so quickly. Table Tennis, a universal language in my eyes.

Kobra

 

It Came out of the………Part 2

 Incredulously, in a very reasonable time frame a gentleman called me from the FAA.  In an unhurried fashion he quizzed me about the sequence of events, what I had heard and what I had seen. He was thorough and respectful as I took him through the events after the attention getting thump on the roof.

Using perhaps Google Maps, he affirmed the orientation of the house, and I walked outside, describing the location of the projectile. ‘Is it possible, being that you do not see any damage, that the ice fell from the chimney?’ In our twenty plus years here I can never recall anything like this happening.

Feeling a bit embarrased, I replied, “That is a very good possibility..Apologies for wasting your time.”

‘Oh no,’ he said.

The gentleman went on to say that there was a previous incident like this, and an FAA representative actually went on site, inspected the cap on the homeowner’s chimney, and found a hole which could cause an icicle to form. Had there not been precedent, maybe I would have been paid a visit. When it comes to the FAA,  but no stone is left unturned. The rep I spoke with wanted to make sure I was satisfied with his explanation and in no way wanted to push his findings on me.  

This guy was methodical, respectful, and extremely competent. Very impressive, and I’m sure quite astute when it comes to solving ‘real’ incidents.  

Yeah, It came out of the……chimney.

It Came out of the Sky

 

 If I added the sound clip from Creedence Clearwater Revival’s ‘It Came out of the Sky,’ Google’s algorithms would likely dish out a stern warning. Three of these and you can forget about blogging and hosting a You Tube channel again. I would never pirate John Fogerty’s music, he was stolen from enough in his earlier days, and I dug his work. Good for Google to protect artist’s rights. Incidentally, I grew up a few blocks from him in California. Living just over the city and county line, he went to El Cerrito High, myself Albany High. He is about six years older, which is a lot when you are young, and I really didn’t discover him like many until 1968. But this has nothing to do with what fell out of the sky.

Last Thursday afternoon, Feb. 20th my son and I heard a loud knock. It seemed like something hitting the roof, but I checked the garage to see if something fell. Nothing. We have a large Honey Locust tree in our backyard. Indigenous, seventy foot canopy, airy, tough as nails. We have it pruned every 2-3 years, and it has bent to all Mother Nature has thrown its way so far. Only once it deposited an attention getting branch on our roof. So I donned winter gear and before I could cast my eyes at the gray shingles above, the object in the image below sat in the snow alongside our patio. I picked it up, put it on our covered grill, and went inside to grab a tape measure. 

Something like this could deal a little insecurity to a guy. Er, I mean if I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, I could be a victim of a deadly game of DOGE ball where one less de-icer puts me on ice. Yeah, I’m thinking aircraft, likely from the frame…but did I just maybe handle something that was discharged from the facilities inside a jetliner? Yuk! Hardly an icicle was to be seen looking around anyone’s house, so all evidence points upwards. What about our roof? I grabbed a pair of binoculars and scoured the entire expanse of our split level and found no blemishes. 

Still, something could show up later in the form of destructive leaks so I deposited the evidence in a freezer bag and tossed it in the freezer compartment, hopefully not mistaking it for a jumbo Frosty Pop one late intoxicated evening. With a large homeowner’s deductible in place to help offset rising premiums, (thanks to those who dwell in paradise…until it’s burned or flooded), we could potentially be out some coin. So I called a regional office of the FAA just to flag the event, and miraculously got the correct building. The cooperative gentleman told me I do indeed have the correct location that could investigate the incident, but I would have to call a person in Fort Worth to help me.          So we shall see…

A Tale of a Bobblehead

 

 Back maybe in 2008 I attended a meeting with a friend.  Our sons had attended the same grammar school and at this time the same private high school. There was a Father’s Club, which would occasionally have prominent guests, a local radio personality, or at this meeting Roger Bossard. Roger, for those of you unfamiliar, has been the grounds keeper for the Chicago White Sox. Roger studied Agronomy at Purdue and his expertise has placed him in great demand. The impeccable grounds at Comiskey Park (and currently The Rate) combined with his patented drainage system, has garnered him consulting jobs at multiple other Major League parks. Roger relayed the story of the Prince of Saudi Arabia hiring him to install the turf for the first outdoor soccer field in this Arab country. Two 747 jumbo jets flew to Saudi Arabia…full of sod!  Incidentally, Roger’s nickname…The Sodfather!  

No one could have predicted the pandemonium that ensued on July 12 1979, not even disc jockey Steve Dahl, an avid White Sox fan, and the brains behind the Disco Demolition promotion. For $1 and one disco record, a patron could gain admission into Comiskey for this doubleheader. Attendance had been waning, but on this night, young fans outside were attempting to climb into the park which was completely sold out.When the records exploded in centerfield between games of this double header, chaos ensued. Fans flocked onto the field, destroying enough turf to cause the cancellation of game two.

Back to the Father’s Club meeting. Roger, speaking in front of the dads, still expressed anger about that day during the Q&A exchange. Sitting next to me, my friend Bob, who was one of those who had ventured on to the field that eventful evening. Oh how tempting to expose his youthful transgression to the Sodfather, but my lips remained sealed.  

Fast forward to June 2011.  My wife and I decided to go to a Sox game at U.S. Cellular. The night before was a rainout, and the promotion that night was moved to this evening. How lucky! We were recipients of this handout which was given to the first 20,000 fans…  

…

and I had just the idea! One of these ‘Rogers’ would appear at the doorstep of my friend Bob’s house with a note attached. “I am tracking down one by one each person who set forth on my turf on July 12 1979.”

   

Paris 2023

 

Paris 2023

Yes it’s not table tennis, but a deep dive into the first stop of a fun three country vacation.

 My wife Joanne had wanted for years to set foot upon Kilrush, the small western Irish town where her mother had attended school and  church. I suggested tagging on an extra 500 miles, a few days, and an extra bucket load of Euros, as Paris had always been on my radar.  ‘You know London lies between,’ Joanne added. So the tentative triumvirate was in the works.

With our son accompanying us, the trip would be a bit of a whirlwind in terms of the need to return sooner. I’d planned multiple domestic trips, but this was the Grandaddy. It was an ambitious undertaking, undoubtedly fertile for surprises with pre-purchased tickets for various modes of transportation across three countries.  On the evening of Sept. 22 we embarked upon the first leg of many. Into the night sky the American Airlines Boeing 787 Dreamliner lifted off from O’Hare non-stop to Paris.

Late Saturday morning the tires touched the tarmac at Charles de Gualle International and seemingly squeezed shots of Dopamine into the cabin. We exited, serpentining our way through the ropes towards the French passport control agents. A tall black uniformed female with long straight hair awaited,  perched securely above me in her enclosed station. I stepped up to present my passport with a bit of unjustified apprehension when a ‘Bonjour’ smoothly escaped her lips putting me at ease. I returned the magic elixir and our exchange was uneventful.

The low ambient noise level struck me as the three of us moved through the airport. It was huge, and international, yet the low din seemed to reflect the quieter nature of the French people. Attempting to visually match what was in front of us with what I had viewed on YouTube videos, I led us on a circuitous route to purchase Metro tickets. The signage was subdued or nonexistent, but hey, that’s cool, it’s their domain. Getting to destinations would be accomplishments, mistakes might even yield upside surprises. Armed with a handful of French words, and Google Translate, we stepped in line surrounded with unfamiliar chatter, uncertain if we were in the correct place. Finally, stepping up to the counter, a simple ‘bonjour’, and ‘I’d like three ten-ride Navigo cards’ seemed to please the agent. Some of their other exchanges we overheard didn’t go so smoothly. 

Electing to save precious time, we chose to find a cab which entailed a lengthy walk to the other end of the airport. In orderly fashion we were directed to an official sedan where the salt and pepper haired gentleman tapped our 2nd arrondissement address into his phone and whisked us southbound on the A1 freeway.  ‘Where are you from:’ he asked.

‘Chicago,’ I replied sitting in the front seat next to him. 

And with that the gentleman spontaneously blurted out ‘Michael Jordan and Scotty Pippen.’

 From that point on the language barrier dictated a quiet cab until a wah-woh wah-woh sound pierced the interior. We had only heard the classic police siren in movies, and this further cemented that we were indeed in a different part of the world. Traffic crawled on the southbound freeway enroute to our AirBnB. No patch of ‘untagged’ concrete existed on either side of this main artery. This aerosol can artistry stretched the entire route into Paris proper. Surreal.

Scores of black motorcycles with riders entirely outfitted in black weaved between stopped vehicles like schools of minnows. I first thought the riders figured who’s going to stop them, but signs indicated the legality of this maneuver with a speed limit of 50 kilometers per hour. 

Our driver used the opportunity to make a couple of hands free calls. The soft and laid-back French exchange was possibly to a young granddaughter and then maybe a significant other. Once we breached the city limits, this seemingly low-key driver morphed into his Monaco mode. We zipped and slipped by parked cars on narrow streets with occasional ‘polite’ single toots of the horn. We blazed through bus lanes, well maybe they were okay for taxis. My reaction to this sublime sprint was silent, and nearly uncontrollable laughter, possibly from not sleeping a wink on the plane. Meanwhile, Joanne missed much of this, catching some shuteye  in the backseat. Closer to our destination, we eased down a street which was lined with seemingly  the crème de la crème of boutique French fashion and accessory makers. Within minutes this mini French Connection episode had ended, and we exited on Rue Danielle Cassanova.

Our place. Through the green doors beyond the closed Bean Boulangerie and up a couple levels.

One code opened the solid doors facing the narrow street. A second code opened the iron gate leading to a courtyard. The courtyard was functional, it was likely similar to many centered within the vast expanse of limestone buildings within the city limits, but nothing like those gracing the pages of magazines, encapsulated in foliage. From there we slugged up a couple narrow flights of stairs to use yet another code to secure our door key from a lockbox, whew! Our apartment was efficient, decent, and a bit pricey. Once we set down our carry-ons, we donned our belt packs along with mini backpacks and headed up the broad Avenue del Opera. The entrance to the Opera Metro station sits directly across from the magnificent world famous Opera Garnier, unfortunately with its facade obscured due to renovations. 

      Like all Paris Metro stations, many stairs awaited our descent to the deep platform. Overall the distance between stations is the shortest of all systems in the world. One must decide whether taking into account the stairs, the long corridors, and the fare, if it would be easier to directly walk to a ‘close’ destination.  Possibly reflecting the egalitarian nature of France, the fares are uniform, regardless of the distance you travel, in contrast to the ‘tube’ in London where fares are graduated. 

An Older Car

I had spent much time back home mapping out our routes, and the marvelous Metro App now residing on my phone became an indispensable tool. With our ten-ride Navigo cards in hand we were set to enter the turnstiles. Our son was successful but Joanne’s and mine failed to give us access. In the midst of the bustle of the station, I approached a female attendant, locked eyes and issued the first ‘Bonjour.’ I gestured simultaneously speaking in English. Without trying our cards, or going to the office to check the balance, she pulled out a key, opened a tall metal gate, and waved us through to the platform…merci! Hmm, Bonjours did indeed open doors!

One of many classic Metro signs throughout the system. This one at Cite, where we exited.

 The ride to the Cite’ station located on the ^Ile de Cite’ (the island of the city, surrounded by the Seine) was short. We strolled, and then located the line outside for the tour of Sainte Chapelle. The chaotic confluence of pedestrians, cars, bikes, and scooters in front of us flowed amazingly without incident. Paris, like many other European cities, has taken measures to reduce the car traffic within the city limits. Entering the thirteenth century treasure, security was airport-like, and once inside, the iconic stained glass panels reached skyward, enveloping us with awe.

Sainte-Chapelle

Our second stop would be the wounded gem of the island, Notre Dame. Scaffolding and cranes surrounded the massive cathedral. Renovation plans lined the walls separating onlookers from the relentless restoration.  

Across the Seine on the left bank, we sauntered over to the famous Shakespeare Books, where writers wrote, read, and once slept. The line was lengthy, and Joanne slowly crept forward. With a meal and a trip to the Eiffel Tower still pending as shadows lengthened, Joanne capitulated, and regrettably stepped out of line.

I had jotted down a number of recommended cafes, but time dictated we grab something right here, right now.  At the suggestion of our son Tim, we conveniently plopped down al fresco at a classic corner cafe Le Metro, which provided wide views of the bustling streets. The Croque Monsieur and Madame sandwiches were decent, the red wine of which I don’t recall, was of course excellent. The service, a bit on the brusque side, an aberration of all our experiences within the city. The reviews which I visited later, 2.5 stars, some reflecting this.

From there a cab whisked us off to the west side of the Eiffel Tower. I had really wanted to walk the steps of the ‘Iron Lady’ up to the first level to immerse myself within the structure. Unfortunately, that total lack of sleep on the overnight flight, combined with the day’s mounting steps, made this a no-go. We circumnavigated the massive base, stopping for photo ops as dusk approached. We really hadn’t seen anything in the way of police presence, but on the west side of the tower a half dozen officers emerged from vehicles. A no nonsense vibe emanated from their fit torsos.

I waffled between which Metro station to take us back to our apartment. A walk through Champ de Mars, the long east side park adjacent to the tower, or the Trocadero which I opted for. We crossed the Seine towards the steps of the Place du Trocadero and throngs of residents and tourists alike had the same idea on this perfect Saturday evening. Luck would have it as after I took the photo below, I learned Trocadero Plaza at that time of evening, was the ideal  time and location to capture the iconic structure in all its glory.

Trocadero Plaza

I knew from virtual treks online that the Trocadero Metro Station was nearby. This part of the city was really hoppin’. I was the self-appointed minister of directions. I knew it was safe, but could see that darkness combined with the frenzy could evoke some apprehension. Indeed, Joanne asked, “Do you know where you’re going?” I continued on confidently as we struggled to avoid separation. Finally, voila, the classic red Metro sign validated my homework and we started our descent down the stairs. The station was sardine city. Based on our prior brief experience, we surmised multiple trains would depart before we could get close to the platform. Back up the stairs we went and zipped back via cab to the 2nd arrondissement, well maybe it was the 1st. Our apartment was right on the border. 

Arriving outside our building around 9:00 p.m. our son noticed a shop across the street with scores of wine bottles in the window and lining the walls inside. “I’d like a bottle of wine, said Tim. He was gone quite a while and finally emerged, bottle in hand. “It’s a wine bar and it’s closed, he said. They don’t normally sell wine to the public but the owner went in the back and grabbed me this bottle for 20€”. Ah, was that like something I remember in  The French Chef by Julia Child? Julia stated that when she initially shopped the markets she was given the displayed run of the mill meat, cheese, and produce.  After she became more acquainted with the merchants, they would go into the back to give her the good cuts. Maybe our son made a quick connection with the English speaking owner. I don’t remember the name, but it was an excellent red at a reasonable price.

Sunday morning our cab zipped past the glass pyramid nestled in the courtyard of the Louvre. That was not our destination, nor would it be this trip. We were off to the magnificent St. Germain des Pres for mass. Church bells echoed prominently in this sixth arrondissement as we exited the taxi. Across the street, the famous Les Deux Magots restaurant, once a rendezvous for the elite and intellectuals. The mass, spoken entirely in French concluded, and we strolled among others throughout the church, in awe of the restored interior, and the prominent collection of organ pipes. Our son rejoined us after roaming the streets having found a place for breakfast in this 6th arrondissement.

St. Germain de Pres

Joanne was in need of an Advil, and had left ours at the apartment, so we found a Pharmacie a couple blocks away. The flashing green crosses were never too far away. Things are different in Paris. Prescriptions… three floors up the spiral staircase. The first two floors, hair products, skin products, cremes, lotions. The aisles were busy with Parisian women browsing the wares this morning. Fashion was on display behind store windows, and in motion on the streets, while beauty products jumped from the shelves. Style was ‘ever present everywhere’ to quote Van Morrison. Not in a glaring way like the flashing green crosses on the pharmacies, or in magazines, but subtlety and creatively on the busy sidewalks of the French capital… one of the big four fashion capitals of the world. Oh, the Advil…behind the counter on the first floor. Friendly merchant.

It was off to breakfast. 

La Crepe Rit Du Clown

The outside and main floor tables were full at La Crepe Rit Du Clown, so we were seated downstairs in a cozy room with stucco like walls and an arched ceiling. Large delicious folded square crepes populated our table, competing for space with glasses of fresh squeezed orange juice, and first class coffee. Yum!

YUM!  My apricot crepe (not shown) was scrumptious.

We found it to be true that to use the restroom in a Paris restaurant you should sit down for a cup of coffee or a bite to eat. We did not notice a bathroom downstairs, and right after we stepped outside Joanne said she should probably use the facilities and stepped back in. When we asked a waitress upstairs where it was, she gave a bit of a scowl, and hastily pointed to the stairs, likely thinking that we were just passers by. When Joanne returned downstairs, our waitress gave a friendly smile and directed her to around the corner. Yep, just like the script.

We had now in a short span seen grand architecture, sampled excellent food and beverages, and witnessed a fashionable culture. The people were polite, friendly, and willing to help. It was time for a ride on the  Seine. We left the ‘left bank’ and our cab dropped us by the north side of the river. A walk alongside the water brought us to Bateaux Mouches, a major tour operator, where like most of the attractions, we had purchased online tickets Stateside. Seating ourselves atop a large boat, beautiful blue skies contrasted with historic weathered limestone structures straddling the Seine. The Musee d’ Orsay, Notre Dame,  Louvre, Concierge, and Eiffel Tower among others collectively give the banks of the Seine World Heritage Site status. In ten months, the opening ceremonies of the 2024 Olympics would grace these same waters.

Pont Alexandre III Bridge

The Louvre

Onward with the compressed itinerary. We elected to hoof it in a northeastern trajectory along rue St. George V culminating at the Champs-Elysees. Strolling past the swanky hotels, storefronts, and upscaie residences above,  we stepped onto the famous broad avenue. Famous for military parades, Tour d’ France finishes, and high-end retailers, it was evident that American influence had crept in and some influencers say it isn’t the must see attraction of decades past. Nevertheless, we were standing on a historical avenue, and future Tour de France finishes would always evoke memories. 

Now heading west, the Arc d’ Triomphe stood boldly in the foreground. Tim, electing to further explore the offerings of glitzy tree-lined avenue, left Joanne and I to scale the Arc ourselves. The traffic circle that encompasses the structure is also the terminus for twelve intersecting avenues. Crossing it is not smart. So we of course opted for the underground passageway. In the midst of the busy tunnel, an officer strolled past, his rifle diagonally pressed against his chest. This was the only such sighting during our stay.

We emerged on the plaza with lines of people off to our left. A lone young woman was manning a roped off area. We walked over, 

“Bonjour. I understand there is a lift.” She pointed to an entrance in the rear, opened the rope connector and we entered, short-circuiting the lines with just a ‘Bonjour’, and a short inquiry…hmm.

“Tell the attendant.”

So we entered and after again going through airport-like security we ascended some stairs looking for this attendant who we never saw, and elevator we never found. The lift, as I learned later, was strictly for people with disabilities, but maybe there was some exceptions. We climbed more stairs, circular in nature, and they went up and up…and up. A woman appearing to be in our age bracket clambered alongside with determination, visually commiserating as we made intermittent eye contact acknowledging the struggle. Alas, there was light at the end of this vertical tunnel! A last set of conventional steps revealed blue skies as we emerged atop the mammoth slab…284 steps later!

Steps away, sturdy chest high fencing offered protection, but no obstruction to the 360 degree views of the city, and landmarks including the Eiffel Tower. It was just high enough to get a feeling of wow, and still maintain a connection to the surroundings. How cool. I intended to ‘give up’ my knees for this city, yet by some miracle not one Advil was ingested the entire trip. The trek down was a ‘relative breeze’ and included a stop at the bookstore-boutique. Besides the obligatory refrigerator magnet, I opted for an official 2024 Paris Olympics coffee mug, one I use every morning. Never before had I been nine months ahead of the curve!

284 Steps!

Champs-Elysees

Atop the ‘Arc

Completing the photo ops at the base, we reconnected with Tim and ‘metroed’ it to the Opera station. Unfortunately our Palais Garnier late afternoon tour was cancelled, and we would have to squeeze it in tomorrow morning. We walked a few blocks to Galleries Lafayette and entered. Our eyes were immediately drawn to the magnificent steel and glass dome high above us. Proceeding forward, we were surrounded  by style, elegance, and luxury. Paris’ world renowned brands in the areas of fashion, accessories, cosmetics, and food were all encompassed under this grand coupole. There wasn’t time to shop, it was getting near dinner time…our dinner time, still a bit early for the locals, known for their later evening meals.

In all the craziness of the day it slipped my memory that going atop the Galleries was on my list of things to do. The large space on top of the building offers  views of the city, differing from those of the Eiffel Tower or the ‘Arc, but indeed splendid. I’ve lived that vicariously through YouTube multiple times since.

The dome at Galleries Layfayette

Tim, struck again with local wanderlust, split off as Joanne and I walked and walked southbound past busy cafes reading the posted menus. Darkness was settling in and we ended up around our neighborhood. Just around the block from our pad, we stumbled upon Capri St. Honore, Italian no less, and a solid four out of five star cafe. The outside dining was hopping, and full of ambiance. Since it was off the beaten path and likely frequented by locals, it just might be good.  

Capri. St. Honore

We were squeezed into an intimate table for two. Smoke did waff our way, but eased when one group exited. Our waiter spoke English and politely answered our questions. Joanne ordered a small four cheese pizza, myself salmon. My fish was the best I had ever tasted, super tender. My side with sun dried tomatoes and zucchini was also superb. Joanne’s pizza got better with each small piece I tried. Parisian chefs don’t over season their food, and the taste grew on my palate rather than immediately overloading it. Overall, a very nice experience. After a short walk to our apartment, we began to do a little pre-packing. Tomorrow we would be moving along, which would prove interesting.

Monday morning. We slugged our rolling luggage down the tight staircase, closed a door, a gate, and another big green door behind us and proceeded to the Avenue del Opera. Yesterday morning, a half block north, we had seen patrons lined a ways up the block outside a bakery, so we figured we would grab a quick delicacy as time was tight today.  Cedric Grolet Opera Boulangerie-Patasserie: Salon de The Et Bar…a mouthful of words, would yield no mouthful of food. Closed Mondays. Funny yesterday, the people waiting all seemed to be conversing in French, and in no great hurry, locals by my observation. Yet this well known establishment was lacking a couple stars on some major reviewing sites. Was this to keep the tourists away? A number of comments said $$$$.

So we proceeded up the grand boulevard designed by Haussmann. It stretched from the Louvre to the Opera Garnier, where a morning tour awaited us. Tim awkwardly pulled his handle-less suitcase using one of the vertical rails. In this case, it was a wardrobe ‘container’ malfunction! Right across the street from the Opera on our side was the famous Cafe de ‘L Paix. It is famous for its ornate interior, but we chose al fresco on this beautiful morning. 

Cafe de La Paix with a view of the shrouded Palais Garnier

After our marvelous pain au chocolates, fresh squeezed orange juice and coffee, it was time to pay. We were running short on Euros, too short to pay this bill. Maybe we were a little undercapitalized in terms of currency and found the cabbies liked the colorful paper. What a time for the point of sale at the restaurant to go down and not accept credit. Ah, ATM’s across the street. After several tries, denied, denied. I later discovered  I had failed to uncheck a restriction on my account. What the heck? On this very busy day, we couldn’t leave until the system came up. We waited.

Fortunately, only about 15 minutes more elapsed and the system was up. Onward to the Opera. With someone needing to tend to the luggage outside, we staggered our abbreviated self-guided walk-thrus. Some say it’s the most ornate opera in the world. Some say visit Opera Garnier and skip the crowds at Marseilles. Marvelous, and unfortunate we had to breeze through it. Across the street and down the stairs into the Opera Metro station we went.

Originally, I had allotted more time for Monmartre today, but the rescheduled Opera tour and the electronic payment snafu ate into the morning. The original plans were to exit at the Abbesses Station where we would see the Wall of Love and scale the long stairway, or ride the Funicular up to the Sacre Couer. The luggage malfunction dictated a different path. Strictly working from apps and maps, it appeared that a Monoprix (kinda like a French Target) was right across from the Blanche Metro. A quick stop inside, a transfer of clothes to a new case, and we would be rolling again, albeit on a slightly different route up to the highest point in Paris.

As we emerged from the subway onto the street, there stood the Monoprix, voila!..and it was encapsulated in scaffolding…completely closed for remodeling. No new suitcase. Hey, across the intersection was the Moulon Rouge, wouldn’t have gotten to see that had we chosen Abbesses. The way we elected to get to the top of Monmartre turned out to be via Rue Lepic, a famous street laden with eclectic shops and markets. There was no time to stop and smell the roses, and Tim’s patience navigating his rolling wreck along the narrow crowded sidewalk was running thin. I knew of a bus, but what was the route? I later saw the mini train that takes you up, incidentally with a pickup around the Moulon Rouge. This day, no bus, no train in sight. We slugged away up and up.

Finally, something familiar appeared, Le Consulat Cafe. I had seen that on the Monmartre section of the Paris map. It’s where famous artists, writers, and painters frequented…Van Goh. Monet, and Picasso to name a few. Tim and Joanne plopped down inside to rest their legs and grab a bite. I left my luggage and continued on up to the Plaza de Tertre, and the Sacre Coeur plaza for some views of the city. The lines to go inside the basilica weren’t as long as I had seen in videos, but that wasn’t doable today.

Sacre Coeur

Plaza de Tetre

 

Nearly the highest point in Paris.

Locks, locks, and locks!

A great store for ceramics, and terrain not easy on rolling suitcases.

Crepe anyone?  

Le Clos Monmartre. The only vineyard within Paris.

We roamed a bit after a stop inside the Gallerie D’ Art, the iconic ceramic shop. Apprehensive about the integrity of our luggage wheels on the hilly cobblestone streets and sidewalks, we descended down the Rue de Saules, past the Maison Rose restaurant to the next intersection. Nestled among the quaint residences, an iron fence separated tourists from the only vineyard within the Paris city limits. The small hillside parcel yields roughly two thousand bottles, an annual tradition since the 12th century. These days, the proceeds of the harvest goes to charity.

The late September afternoon shadows were lengthening, and three $150 Eurostar tickets were at risk if we didn’t work our way towards a Metro station pretty soon.  I’m good with a map in my hand, and navigating a car using GPS is a breeze, but the little blue dot on an iPhone map doesn’t move much when you’re walking. Walking an unnecessary block rolling luggage on cobblestone streets and sidewalks with time pressure can cause one to lose some composure…and I was getting a bit rattled. 

I knew the Lamarck-Caulaincourt Metro station was not too far, but my usually good sense of direction was failing me in my current state. I asked one woman for directions and she directed me to the Abbesses Metro. Two blocks back up the hill and then a number of blocks, not happening. I approached an older woman and asked her where the station was.

“I live in the neighborhood. Follow me,” she said in English.

Merci! Our luggage bounced and rumbled as we steadily descended, intersecting with Rue Caulaincourt, an avenue giving off vibes of old time Paris, the way I always envisioned it. Although briefly on it, the feel of a neighborhood was present. Some say both chic and Bohemian. The Art Deco styled Metro station appeared on our left, unobtrusively built into staircases and buildings around it. One of the famous ones.

The woman pointed to the map on the wall and showed us the route to Gare Du Nord. I knew the way from here, but tried not to rush her through her instructions. She was likely a genuinely nice person, and maybe going out of her way to erase stereotypes some Americans still may hold.  A nice memory.

Gare Du Nord

Exiting our last Metro ride, we entered the expansive train hub. I had spent time virtually acquainting myself with the layout, but the vast interior did not match my viewings. Everyone was moving and no information booth was to be seen. I believed we had to make it up to the second level, but there were turnstiles. It didn’t make sense to need a Metro ticket to be able to get to the Eurorail platform. My apprehensiveness as to how long it would take to get through security was speeding up the clock in my mind, although we were really okay. My two travel mates were getting a bit flustered with me, and the signage wasn’t giving them any clues either. The only people who weren’t moving were a couple of French guards.

“Pardon. Can you tell me where to access the Eurostar trains?”

“Bonjour,” said the guard. 

With my composure waning, I had for the first time failed to greet a French person with the magic word!

Embarrassed, I nodded my head, raised my hand a tad, and used my body language to indeed indicate that I had forgotten the golden greeting.

“Bonjour.”

Yes it was upstairs and we were lucky to have taken a few cab rides which left us just enough on our ten-ride tickets to enter. Amidst the throngs of people we lined up, and security was tight. Baggage X-Ray, Passport scan, face scan, things were not as easy with the UK out of the European Union, and not a Schengen Area. With ample time (I had stressed for naught) we poured over the last Parisian food offerings at Paul in the waiting lounge and grabbed a snack.

Our gate number echoed throughout the waiting area and we made our way down to the sleek train, entering the clean interior. Easing out of the station, we again encountered long stretches of aerosol based artwork before accelerating into the French countryside. 

Wisconsin-like here in the north of France, in my opinion. Green, amber, wind turbines. No Alps or Pyrenees around here. This is high speed travel, city center to city center, 180+ mph, a pleasant ride, 2 hours 20 minutes. So much better than flying. The shrubbery became less of a blur and the already low din decreased a bit more. Concrete emerged on both sides, then darkness, as we descended under the English Channel. 

The Paris portion of the trip was now behind us and was cemented into the memory banks. This description was at times a retroactive narrative, as time dictated that we flit about, taking one lick of the popsicle at each location, before moving on. Once home, I dove a bit further into the historical aspects of our visit, and of course we re-lived moments during the Olympics. Mike Tirico with the Eiffel Tower and Trocadero Plaza behind him…mesmerizing.

Oh, and did I mention that the weather was perfect? You might have been able to tell from the photos.

So so much we did not see.

Thanks for reading!