Emmanuele in LA

Our own private lawn at the Louvre...

2010-07-06T06:02:00.000-07:00

Last night we had dinner with friends in Paris. The Ms. are always experts at finding the best patios in town. Last year, they had picked a head-on view of the Eiffel Tower, from the Trocadéro across the river. And a spectacular thunderstorm that felt like our own private fireworks, until the downpour sent everyone flying inside - just when we had finished our meal.

This year, we dined in front of the Musée des Arts Décoratifs, in the back yard of the Louvre.

Louvre view

Eiffel Tower view

Glasses were literally flying because of an evening wind, service was a bit slow, and the prices high, but you cannot beat the location and the feeling to have your own private lawn with a view of the Louvre on one side and the Eiffel Tower on the other...

At Sunset, it became even more glorious.

But we opted against trying the hideous centrifugal contraption some seem to find entertaining...

This was just a few blocks away from where the new Woody Allen movie started shooting the same day. With first lady Carla Bruni...

The Tour de France seems to have successfully eclipsed the soccer debacle in my compatriots minds. National pride is restored, with a Frenchman winning today's stage and wearing the yellow jersey. Of course, you have to push out of your mind the fact that everyone else fell and that the riders then went on strike and refused to compete for second place, in protest for the dangerosity of the course. OK, it is the Tour de France, but it was taking place in Belgium. They still went on strike like they were all French. Love it.

Phew

2010-07-04T14:15:00.001-07:00

The Tour de France has begun. No need to talk about football anymore...

Back on the French coast

2010-07-01T22:40:00.000-07:00

Today millions of people are in the streets protesting the proposed changes to the pension system. Who do you think Sarkozy summons to the Elysée Palace? The presidents of the major unions? Geez. You don't have the French touch, yet. Of course, it is Thierry Henry, one of the stars of the now hated French soccer team. Not just invited, summoned!!! Fast-forward a week. Now it's the Representatives who have requested a meeting with Domenech (the disgraced manager of the national team) and Escalettes, the president of the French Football Federation, who just resigned. Officially they do this to try and "understand what happened". Ironically, it is the Culture commission that requested the meeting. Yes, in France nowadays, culture is soccer. Or soccer is culture. They met for two hours, without the press! All came out saying they hadn't learned anything. Only a few came out expressing their dismay at this use of their time. The only result of this new debacle is that FIFA is really upset at this perceived meddling of politicians in their affairs, and that the French Federation is on the verge of being excluded from the International Federation...

We zip under the channel again to return to Pas-de-Calais, the territory of my ancestors. I've never been there other than to take the ferry to England. My grand-parents were chased by bombs during the war (Boulogne was leveled and all its public records lost) and they never got to return to the rather pleasant life they had before the war. Old photos in my dad's albums show them spending their free time (my grand-ma went to business school in the '20s and was working full time all her life) playing tennis, boating or having fun with their numerous friends on the beach. This time we are to meet a cousin my father has not seen in 60 years and a grand-cousin only met on the phone. She has a son a year older than Arthur. They don't look anything like one another - our common ancestry is too far removed - but they immediately get along like gangbusters.

Over two days we explore the coast, la Côte d'Opale, up and down.

The coastal landscapes are gorgeous, a sharp contrast to the in-land dullness we drove through on the way up last week.

The weather too is in sharp contrast to last week. It is unusually warm and sunny, which of course transforms everything.

I want to settle for the summer in the low-slung cliff-top house on Cape Gris-nez (on the left on the aerial pic), with dark blue shutters, an expanse of grass, unrestricted ocean view, and a cellar built into one of the omnipresent leftover bunkers, that we came across after a short walk through an improbable narrow trail, evoking Provence more than the Northern reaches of France. Anyone care to join me there?

Did I mention I loved London?

2010-07-01T15:57:00.000-07:00

Trafalgar Square

The Piccadilly line

The helmet of the Bobby and the tie of the reporter (as in the Spirou et Fantasio comics, which are his way in to French reading and education)

Another highlight was a divine lunch and afternoon in Hampstead. When I was 10, I stayed with the Alexanders, my dad's American friends, who were spending a year in London. Several years ago I went back and found the street where they lived in Hampstead. I didn't try this time and I didn't recognize anything. It was still magical. I had a lovely French meal with a friend.

Then we leisurely strolled trying to get lost on the Heath. The day was unbelievably warm and we entertained ourselves watching the rather risqué spectacle of couples under every other tree.

Harry Potter trail

2010-07-01T03:16:00.000-07:00

Now, here's the real reason of our presence in London: Arthur wanted to see Tottenham Court Road. Something to do with Harry Potter (ask him). So we went.
The square itself is unrecognizable, entirely under construction.

And rather Americanized.

Most street signs are hidden or taken down, but we find a way to immortalize the moment!

And to complete the tour, a little stop in Kings Cross station....

All the employees know where it is and guide you politely to it. All, except the French one at the Eurostar counter, at St Pancras, the station across the street. The lady I asked -without knowing she was French- barely spoke English and seemed to have a very foggy idea of who Harry Potter was (she was in her twenties). She had no clue what the Harry Potter platform could be and clearly expressed that she wasn't paid to know this... But her next booth colleague knew and pointed us in the right direction.

Anti-foot

2010-06-30T09:40:00.000-07:00

London is generally foot mad these days. While the English team has been playing miserably, it can still qualify.

The English friend with whom I spend the day complains that I'm making him miss the game...

However, in front of the British Museum, we find a madness-free zone...

England qualifies for the next round. Phew!

There is

Monday is Wimbledon!

2010-06-27T04:06:00.000-07:00

The weather is still glorious the next day and we are due on Center Court. Yeah!!!!We take the tube to Wimbledon. This being England, although there are at least three stops with the name Wimbledon in the vicinity, the station closest to the courts is called Southfields. That said, you can't miss it. This is where the packed train empties... onto green carpet!

It is quite lovely, really.

And the adverts (yes, I have found my British accent again...) are adapted.

Then there is a 1500 yards walk along a small road, with taxis and buses crawling in the middle, with hordes of humans all walking in the same direction. There are shuttles, but they are stuck in traffic like everyone else.

It is a long and winding road, but when you get there... The view on London in the distance... The combination of old and new, as in most of England...

Onto Centre Court... First game of the day, the winner of last year's tournament - Federer - against an unknown (at least to me) Colombian, Falla. I've never seen a grass court before. It is so quiet and the grass looks so good, it feels like they are on a carpet. Magical. The burning sun is hidden by clouds. Can life get any better?

Like everyone else, we expect to be out in an hour and a half and on our way to exploring the other courts. But Falla has other ideas. He plays brilliantly. Federer makes a lot of errors. And after a couple of hours of grand tennis, Federer is down 2 sets and a break in the third... Could HE be out in the first round? At Wimbledon???? Maybe he hasn't recovered from his humiliating early exit at Roland Garros - first time in 27 Slam tournaments he didn't make the semi-finals... Maybe he's done. Maybe we are watching the last match Federer will ever play. Now, that would be something!

But of course, you know how this story ends. Federer steps up his game. Falla is still playing brilliantly. It's just that Federer has heard his wife scream - so did I. Obviously, she hasn't had time to do her shopping in London yet and is not ready to go home today...

Federer wins the third. The fourth. I predict 6-0 in the fifth. After almost sending the reigning champ home in three, on center court, on opening day... and failing, there's no way Falla will recover. He gets broken in the first game of the fifth...

But again, Falla has other ideas. And in the third game, he is up 40-love. Yet, you know how this story ends...

half a dozen deuces later, we are on our way to the predictable bagel...

But Federer knows he got lucky and the embrace at the net is a beautiful thing to behold. And the standing ovation they get when they leave a vibrant contrast to the respectful silences during ball play.

It is a tough act to follow and Jankovic is not the girl of the situation. She is her usual irritatingly inconsistent self. Every time I've seen her play, I've wondered how she made it to the top three, Her job today is to dispatch a 16 year old Brit, ranked 236. Well, Laura Robson was actually born in Australia, but in the current dismal state of British tennis, they'll take anyone who can swing a racket, really. (Too bad the French soccer team doesn't have that option.) Robson is at home and in no rush to leave. She's pretty to look at, but not enough to keep me interested. Off to the outer courts!

There, the players are at the same level as we are. You could really touch them (when they are sitting in their chair). We see Llodra (who very clearly swears, in French, after each lost ball), Robredo, Dent, Chela, Patty Shnyder,...

They change the scores by hand!

AA loves it - he can sneak through people and be in the first row.

Most of all, I love the lines persons.

We get back to Centre Court for the last match of the day, Djokovic (he's really cute) against francophone Belgian Olivier Rochus (not so cute, but fun). They play well, but you know Rochus is not going to last the distance. (They'll actually play until 11 pm, under the closed roof, and with the predictable outcome).

It's time to go, wake up the boy and walk the 1500 yards back to the tube station. What a day!

2010-06-21T16:01:00.000-07:00

We drove to Calais under showers and grey skies. In the distance, the triangular shapes of the terrils, those piles of excavated dust testifying of the mining past of this otherwise entirely flat region, are truly massive.
We looked for the plaque remembering the Camp du Drap D'or between Francois I (of France) and Henry VIII. It is supposed to be between two villages in the vicinity of Calais, one English one French at the time - the kings wanted to meet, but neither should have to walk more than the other, so they famously met in the middle. There are only a few kms between the two villages, but we didn't see the plaque. The guide indicated that in June 2010 was to be inaugurated a massive klepsydra, a water clock to symbolize the passing of time. We saw no trace of this either. And no one on the streets to ask.

In downtown Calais, on this Sunday at noon everything was closed, even the bars, which should have been resounding of the world cup sounds. But Sunday is Sunday in France, and they are not going to open the bars to make a few bucks, are they. So everything was dead and dull. But you get a feeling that it's probably not that much more lively at a different time.

We did get to eat at a wonderful restaurant, on this little square - the only thing open. It is called les Saisons and they really cook. It is also all painted a warm yellow inside, which warms up the minds in this grey city. We got the last table. They are very nice too, but terribly understaffed. They didn't even have enough menus to bring - so we waited, for the menus, then for the water, then for the waiter to place the order... Then we had to stick to just one dish because we were going to miss our train. The waiter came back saying that the dishes we had chosen were going to take at least half an hour to prepare... So we got the quick-cooking dishes and didn't get to taste the cabillaud with Maroilles, fish with local melted cheese. But all was excellent. A lady who was lunching by herself next to us said that it wasn't usually like this, and probably was because it was Father's day.
Then we were on the way to find the small Eurostar station outside Calais. We got a glimpse of the city hall and Rodin's Burghers of Calais in passing.

We drove through winding lanes of the countryside and poor signaling to the lonesome but pretty Eurostar station. A very quick hour later, we were in St-Pancras.

Surprise! In London, it is warm and sunny!

After a bumpy ride in a big black London cab with the World Cup on the radio, we settle in the hotel. Then we are off for a long walk through Kensington gardens, filled with Londoners picnic-ing and enjoying the summer weather, as well as with French tourists. All over... so many Frenchies...

Dog poop:

Human poop:

Dinner in Notting Hill. Brazil is winning. You can't not know. All the pubs (and there are a few) have a blaring TV showing the World Cup and spectators spreading on the sidewalks. It's lively and friendly. This is a different London from the touristy sites. And it makes you want to settle here.

On a related topic, the French team, in solidarity with Anelka, refused to get off the bus and practice. Les bleus on strike. So French! The minister of Sports (yes, we have this, and it's a she) is not happy and there is grandiloquent talk about the deplorable example set for the French youth etc. The English team is playing equally poorly, but at least they are showing up at practice. And the Brits, though clearly not proud of their team, are still very much interested in the other matches of theWorld Cup.

A second Nicolas in the news

2010-06-19T16:06:00.000-07:00

The terrible storms that have flooded the Gulf of St Tropez and killed 22 people are taking a back seat to the real drama in France today. Nicolas Anelka, a star player on the French soccer team, apparently told coach Domenech to go fuck himself during the half time pep talk of the Mexico-France debacle. Apparently, everyone agrees this really is what the coach should go do. He is finally stepping down at the end of the tournament and everyone is wondering how he stayed so long in place. Is he a mason? Does he have files on high FFF officials? Does he sleep with someone?
So that could have been a minor drama. But Anelka was benched for the second half of the game, and is flying back today from South Africa. He might even retire from International soccer - ie. will never play again for the national team. The problem, you see, is that the closed-meeting remark was leaked to the press. So now, there's a mole on the team or on the staff...

The other Nicolas, the president, is not too happy of the performance of the French team at the World Cup. He had counted on the morale uplift by the soccer Bleus to make the French people forget about his very unpopular reform of the pension system. As it stands, the strike on Thursday is very much on. And my friends are participating, I heard at dinner tonight.

I'm off to London tomorrow for a few days. Maybe I'll meet Anelka who's expected back (he plays at Chelsea) on Sunday too...

2010-06-19T03:17:00.000-07:00

In the end, Carla did go to London.
All people are talking about are 1) how Nicolas was slighted by the Queen of England and 2) how he ridiculed himself during the ceremonies.
The Queen did not make herself available for the ceremonies with Sarkozy. It is being said that she didn't take it well when he did not invite her last spring for the celebration of the 65th anniversary of D-Day. Apparently the French protocol experts remembered the Americans on Normandy beaches, but not the fact that more than half the contingent was from Great-Britain or Canada...
On the other hand, Nicolas didn't need anyone to make a fool of himself. During a rendition of Le Chant des Partisans, he started clapping before the end. The cameras didn't miss it. Then when it was really over, he didn't clap, and everyone else, waiting for his signal, had to stay quiet, resulting in a very long embarrassing silence...

After London, the President flew back to Paris for wreath-laying ceremonies at the Champs Elysées statues of De Gaulle and Churchill, and presumably Carla went back to the studio. He signed a few autographs in between the two statues, which detracted from the emotion of the day and turned him into the center of attention when it should have been focussed on the old guys. Then he was off to the Mont Valérien, to honor the thousand or so resistants who were famously executed there by Germans. I was in the area all day, having paid a visit to my dentist and my father-in-law. Coming back from trying a new Italian restaurant in downtown Boulogne, we saw the imposing Mont Valerien in the distance and in the sparse sun, but stayed away from the crowds. Later in the afternoon, we drove into Paris, and I took the RER back at the Champs Elysées station. I had no inkling of what was going on above, but Javil got stuck in traffic.
Ceremonies on TV were brief and moving, with the expert commentaries a good history lesson. The best part, though was when they interviewed François Jacob, the French biology Nobel Prize who is also a war hero and the current Chancellor of the Order of Libération, France's second national Order (after the Légion d'Honneur) created to honor resistants. At 90, Jacob is frail, but definitely not gateux. In June 1940, he sailed off the South West of France to London. The eager reporter starts describing "at age 20, you left to join General de Gaulle in London..." He stops her and says, no, I left because I had to try and do something. Only when I got to London did I hear about that French guy who was trying to do something too... A few more inane questions later, she asks whether he had any inkling, 70 years ago when he took off, that he would be here, now, today, standing here and being honored. He just send off packing with "as far as I know, I don't have the gift of divination, so no, of course not". That was it. Refreshing, I must say.

I find it surprising that the President and Prime Minister came in the same limo to both ceremonies. Isn't that against protocol that the top two members of government travel in the same vehicle? Are we trying to save money? Taking cues from the Poles? Apparently, they were winging it and the organizers weren't warned. All the ministers and war heroes had gathered on the Champs, waiting for Sarkozy to arrive. On TV, reporters started worrying that Fillion was nowhere to be seen. Was he going to be late for the President's arrival? Then the presidential motorcade showed up, they went into a frenzy wondering where Fillion was. Then he just stepped out of the limo... How did it go? "Hey, Nico, can you give me ride to the Champs. Traffic's a bitch today with all those ceremonies going on. If I don't ride with you I'll never get there in time."???

Arthur has quickly returned to his Parisian habits and plays reporter too. Every morning and evening, he writes articles for the New York Times and others about what is going on in the house. He dresses up the part too, taking after what the reporter looks like in Spirou and Fantasio.
This year his outfit includes a notebook he stole from his grand mother, which he totes around, pencil in hand, asking everyone "have you seen or done anything unusual today so far"?

What is Paris talking about today?

2010-06-17T21:23:00.000-07:00

June 18, 2010

Are the celebrations of 70 years of De Gaulle's rousing call to the French people going to be enough to forget about the humiliation Les Bleus received at the hands of Mexico last night? One should say "at the feet of", of course - after all, it is the French who qualified for this World Cup thanks to an (illegal) hand goal in the first place... The French team is all but eliminated after only two games. They didn't look like they had any interest in being on the field. As a friend said, it should have been 5-0... As the same friend says (usually about the US team), I have so far scored as many goals in the World Cup as the entire French team. To hope qualifying for the next stage, they now need to win something like 6-0 against South Africa AND hope that Mexico and Uruguay -who now only need a draw in their match against each other to qualify- are not going to rig their game and agree to play soft and not tire their players too much. Professional players on the biggest stage wouldn't do that, would they?...

Today, our President is going to be in London, from where De Gaulle was speaking on the BBC 70 years ago. His lovely wife, Carla, is not accompanying him. She is in a studio, recording her next album and apparently cannot be extracted from her art for half a day. Of course, what the Parisians really say is, well, she's never been with the same man for three years before, so she might not be so eager to follow him around anymore. Plus, she's Italian, and it might be tricky to be seen celebrating something that eventually resulted in the (true, this one) humiliation of your country. Oh, well, at least Italy still has hope to be staying another week in South Africa. They have played only one game so far and their group includes Paraguay, Slovakia and New Zealand.

What's wrong with this picture?

2010-05-17T10:15:00.000-07:00

It was taken in the garden this morning. Mid-May in SoCal. It's not supposed to rain...

La Galerie de Javil

2010-03-10T21:39:00.000-08:00

Javil is turning 90 on March 12. I created a gallery of Javil's paintings and sculptures for his birthday. Check it out. But don't tell him until Friday!

http://www.artabus.com/javil/

Saturday night... fever (sorry - I tried to resist)

2009-04-24T22:53:00.000-07:00

Hunger brings us back on the ship. Well, one of us is hungry anyway. I enjoy today, more than ever, the appetizing display of fruits. Then I go back to sleep. I sleep through the farewell pool concert with the New Birth Brass Band, through the autograph session with Poncho Sanchez, the wine hour featuring Roberta Gambarini's latest CD....

The concert tonight is the Marcus Miller band again. I think I'll skip it this time. Loved it the first time, but I'll save my last Denoral for dinner. I want to go and chat up the neighbors again, try and make a better impression than last night maybe. But I'm still nauseated and not hungry (between the healthy snacks and the flu, I'll end up being the only person who has lost weight on the cruise!!!). We do have a lovely dinner again. I learn that the brother from New Orleans is named Dean Ellis. He is a DJ on the local jazz radio station and works at Emeril's restaurant Nola. Cool. I'll make sure to call upon him if I ever get back to NO. I'm putting a link to his show's podcasts on the blog. Go check it out!

Again, I wish I could hang out more, but... oh, does that pillow feel good.

Saturday, Bahamas

2009-04-24T22:26:00.000-07:00

When the sun rises, we are in the Bahamas.

Our stop of the day is Half-Moon Cay, which you won't find in any guide book. It turns out to be an island owned by the cruise company.

The global view is stunning.

Up close, it's very Disney. With a back channel built so that the boats used to disembark us are not visible from the idyllic, interminable white sand beach. There is a fake village square, and a small wooden church. All white. By the time we get there, all but the Tshirt store are closed. Even the little post-office is closed. I understand that it's Saturday, and that any decent post-office is going to be closed. But, once again, the island belongs to the cruise company. It lives for the ship. There is nothing here, other than housing for the 40 something crew who stay on at all times. Incomprehensible.

Right in front of us, zooming by, is... Roy Hargrove.

He is stylish with the ship's signature blue towel around his neck. But he's quite rude - he does take a picture when asked, but without a word, and dashes away as fast as possible. Diva attitude here again, as he did last night during Gambarini's set. The dude ain't no Dianne Reeves.

The beach is unbelievable. The sand is blindingly white, and of a texture I have never felt. It is so soft that it almost feels like foam. It's an amazing sensation.

The water is a bit cold to be really comfortable, but we are happy to lounge in one of the gazillion chairs spread out all along the beach. You're not bothered by the neighbors, either.

Friday night, one more show

2009-04-24T22:18:00.000-07:00

I really want to go see Roberta Gambarini, who sings tonight in one of the small lounges. I was moved by her one song during the Roy Hargrove show, and I want to hear more. So I drag myself there. The seats are not as comfortable as in the big concert room, but we are very close to the stage. She is truly fabulous. A smoky, sensuous voice. And suddenly, who show up - Roy Hargrove. Reciprocating. Does one number. Then disappears. Then he reappears, clearly unwelcome, and does silly trumpet sounds during one of her songs. She keeps it playful, but is clearly irritated. Then he disappears again. And doesn't reappear when he was supposed to... Not sure what's going on between those two, but it seems a bit contentious.
Mrs Moody, the wife of James Moody is in the audience. Roberta salutes her. And asks whether Moody is here to. The answer: "no, he's practicing". Not rehearsing for an upcoming show with someone else, mind you. Practicing. At 84, he still spends his evenings practicing...
Great night altogether. But my pillow feels very very good.

Friday night - Herbie and cute dress

2009-04-24T21:53:00.000-07:00

Tonight is the special concert with Herbie Hancock. Can't miss that. So I time my next Denoral so that it will start working at 6:30!
It is also formal dress night. I wear a long, satin blue dress with bejeweled straps. It fits quite well; I work on the hair and make up (naturally flushed cheeks...). In the end, I look good (sorry, no pictures - don't blame me), but, boy, do I feel lousy. Dad is quite strapping in his suit.

This turns out to actually be a bit of a disappointing concert. Herbie is not all there. He could actually very well not have been there for part of the set - he plays recorded sounds, which suggests that the rest could also very well be.
However, he does a phenomenal duo with the young Swiss harmonicist of the Marcus Miller band, Grégoire Maret. Plays something on the keyboard, the kid repeats on the harmonica. Makes it harder and harder, longer and longer. And the harmonicist just keeps repeating. The audience are on their feet. That kid is a genius! It's his big day.

After the show, we go to dinner. This time, Ronald has reserved our little table. The menu is somptuous. Unfortunately, I send back most of it untouched; which worries Ronald, not about me - (I haven't said anything about being sick. Who knows, maybe they'd put me in quarantine at the bottom of the ship. I just try not to come to close to anyone.) but about the quality of the food. I keep reassuring him that it's delicious. I even refuse the lemon drop that the sommeliere automatically orders for me - yeah, I'm known around here! Our neighbors are back too. We spend a lovely evening discussing with the father and the two sons. We learn that their dad spent quite a bit of time in France as a GI; specifically on the west coast. He knows Royan and La Rochelle. The conversation changed topic before I got a chance to ask whether he knew Chatelaillon!!! I still don't know their names, but they are totally charming. It turns out one of the brothers (the one from Miami - the other lives in New Orleans) saw dad (and Marcus Miller) at the gym earlier today. So now I have to believe it.

I'm all dressed up, and can't go anywhere. I wish I could go dancing now. Stupid virus.

Friday at sea - flu

2009-04-24T21:39:00.000-07:00

I'm sick... Muscle ache. Fever. Let's see, where were we 48 hours ago? St Barth?
Good thing it's a day at sea. Bad thing, I forgot to bring even Excedrin. Me, the migraine girl, travelling without my Excedrin... And I'm not going back into the bowels of the ship to see the physician. Let's see what dad has in his massive pharmacy. 4 tablets of Denoral. Oy. Let's try one. Takes a good hour and a half to do something and it lasts for, what 3 hours... Sleep. Watch TV. Fabulous caper movie with Peter Ustinov, Maggie Smith, Karl Malden, Bob Newhart. I don't see the first few minutes, so I don't know the title. Will have to look it up when home. Sleep.
Dad goes and work out at the gym. Marcus Miller is pumping iron next to him!
Sleep. I manage to get dad to bring me a cup of tea in the afternoon.
I manage to get myself up for a bit and go rest in the fabulous spa. I particularly love the tiled, HEATED, lounge chairs. Although, I don't really need the heated part today. There is usually no one there. So peaceful. So romantic too.

Waiting for us in the room...

2009-04-22T15:04:00.000-07:00

Almost every night, at bed turning, they brought us a fresh pair of towels, folded creatively. There was also an elephant. But the hanged monkey is a bit creepy. The eyes of the doggie are chocolate. I piled those up to bring back to Arthur.

Roy Hargrove

2009-04-20T21:50:00.000-07:00

Tonight's concert is trumpetist Roy Hargrove, featuring singer Roberta Gambarini. Dad heard her earlier in one of the late night spots, and was wowed. In fact she comes in for only one song and never shows up again. It is very strange. It would have been better with her. He's good but not unforgettable. We stay hungry. I am starting to feel a bit sick too. Bed. We sail away for another 48 hours at sea.

The world famous post office of Nevis

2009-04-14T20:26:00.001-07:00

There is one shop tourists enter: the philatelic office. This is the one specialty of Nevis. The big seller these days is the Obama spread, which flies off the shelves.

Well, that's pushing it. The pace has nothing to do with flying and there are no shelves, just an ocean of wooden boxes behind a little counter. Million of stamps. Two clerks. Amazingly, they find whatever you want very quickly and they do take AmEx. Nothing electronic, mind you. I'll keep the beautiful receipt. I get a dinosaur set for Arthur, one of Marilyn of course, and one of Alexander Hamilton [Note for the Frenchies - c'était le premier ministre des affaires étrangères des US. Un beau gosse, qui aurait sûrement fini président s'il ne s'était pas fait tuer en duel par Aaron Burr, le troisième vice-président.]. He was born in Nevis, and left at 17 to attend... Columbia University (I'm sure Leon and Paul knew this). We missed his house. Well, in fact the house was destroyed in a 19th century earthquake. So we missed the reproduction of his house, rebuilt in a different location...

As there is really not much else we can do here, and hunger pains are coming, we go back to the ship. Obviously, most of the other 1798 tourists had the same idea. There is a loooong line waiting for the tenders, manhandled by the local port authority - as efficient as everything else. The line snakes around and around, with little shade. People are getting cranky. This is the first fault in the perfect organization of the cruise, likely not by their fault. We enter the enclosure where everyone is parked toward the front of the line, and we make our way - up current - towards the end of the line. When we get there, there is no space to extend the line within the enclosure. The only option is to spread out on the street. The port authorities don't want that, so they order us to go start a new line. We were thinking that we'd be in a different location, but that we'd go after everyone. But, in fact, they order us to start a new line, just next to the other one. The poor, red-faced, sweaty people who've been in line for an hour become even more red-faced and start hurling insults at us. Trying to explain that we're just following the orders of the uniformed people doesn't really help. We are going to be lynched. But we are not particularly unhappy to not have to wait another hour before having lunch. After a few minutes, they order a first group to move forward. To calm the crowds, we let a few people go ahead of us. We are part of the second group. They push us into a circular gazebo, and we wait again. As there is only one entrance to the gazebo, the people who were first in line are now stuck at the back of the gazebo... It would make sense that they would gather the number of people that fits in a boat. But that would be too organized. So, we don't get into the first boat. It's a zoo, a stampede. But we learn from our experience and we maneuver to be close to the exit. We end up being just next to Romero LuBambo, Diane Reeves' Brazilian guitar player. He's a brilliant guitarist. But a very normal man in his fifties, with a real wife (not a surgeried barely legal babe), and a bunch of children. No diva attitude here either. They are taking their being trapped in the gazebo in stride.

Thursday morning, Charleston, Nevis, British Commonwealth

2009-04-14T18:15:00.000-07:00

After one final stretch of kayaking, we get to a shipyard. Very Caribbean, too. One guy is hammering away at his colorful boat. He doesn't seem particularly pleased when I take a picture of him.

A conch and lobster fishing boat comes back from an outing at sea. Half a dozen beautiful guys jump ashore. With very little loot for such a large group. They are rather disorganized. Life is hard here, but certainly at a different pace. I feel like I'm in a postcard.

I get to take the prototypical Caribbean picture of the well worn barca against the backdrop of impeccable blue sea.

We have plenty of time to contemplate this, as our taxis are of course not here. A manager paces, punches his cell phone, and curses about unreliable cab drivers. The group of Americans, used to managers taking responsibility, roll their eyes. One taxi arrives but it's not the same one as before. So our stuff is not in there. You know, the dry pants, clean towels, etc... They suggest we go to town in this one, then find the other one there. I'm not going to change on the street in town, and no one wants to risk having the manager disappear too. So we all wait. Except a feisty bunch who clearly cannot waste a minute of their vacation time. They are going to have fun. So they decide to walk to the Four Seasons to have a drink. Since they have not taken the pain to communicate with the locals along the way, they don't know the Four Seasons was closed by the hurricane. They are so obnoxious that we almost let them go...

Diane Reeves sits in the cab with her friend. No diva attitude here. She has no belongings in the missing cab, so she could very well make a fuss and request to be taken to town, as her cab is here. But she just chats quietly with her friend.

The other taxi finally gets there, and they start hurrying us to jump in. I make the case that, after making us wait for over half an hour, that they are going to have to wait a few minutes for us to change clothes.

We return to Charleston, the small capital of Nevis, around lunch time. Uniformed school girls and dressy office employees in heels navigate the pot holes of the uneven sidewalks. It's a happy, cheerful behive in a landscape of tropical decrepitude. Amazing really.

A bar. Closed (hopefully).

There are some carefully maintained historical buildings, next to massive messes.

The market is mostly empty. And the lady there looks like she is out of a period movie.

We didn't see the cemetery, but there is no escaping taxes here either...

Love the firestation, where there is no sense of urgency. The wives are here too, playing cards.

The shops are cavernous, offering an unlikely assortment of anything.

No tourist enters them. There is no lack of tourists, though. The ship has disgorged its 1800 passengers in the small town, each carrying the same light blue towel. There is no mistaking us for the locals... Most of us err back and forth on the main street. As we must look disheveled from our morning at sea, many fellow tourists ask us if we went to the beach. When we say we went to three beaches, there is clear envy in their eyes. It seems we were really lucky to book this kayak trip - nobody else got to see a beach on Nevis. There are apparently none close to town.

We feel a bit out of place, but rather comfortable. We only have a little bit of time, but I wouldn't mind coming back. It's lovely, in a way, and warm. Though I fear the leisurely and inefficient pace might drive the Western tourist crazy in a few days.

Thursday at dawn, kayaking in Nevis

2009-03-29T19:42:00.001-07:00

We ordered breakfast in the room, since we are going to have to get up early. I finally put the iPhone to good use - as an alarm clock. Pretty much all it can do here. But, of course, I am well awake at 6:30 am, though not quite ready to wake up. At 7, the iPhone goes off, and at 7:01, breakfast knocks on the door. It is quickly eaten, watching CNN. The orange juice is frozen, not the divine freshly squeezed one we get at the regular breakfast buffet.

Outside the window is Nevis, a single volcanic cone, with a plume of clouds stuck on the top. There are several stories of how the island got its name. The most popular is that the early Spanish sailors - maybe even Columbus himself who, of course, did come here in 1493, but apparently never set foot ashore - thought it was snow topping the peak and called it after the Spanish word for snow, nieves. Hard to believe that seasoned navigators who'd made their way through the Atlantic would be that wrong, at least in any kind of sober state. My theory, which I have not read anywhere, is that it's named after the highest peak in the British Isles, the Ben Nevis. Which (my theory too) is thought to be the highest point because they've never actually seen the top, so miserable is the weather in that part of Scotland!

The reason we are up so early is that I have signed us up for a kayaking trip. We meet the rest of the group in the nightly concert lounge, which is very strange when fully lit. There is the same feeling as when you are in Bourbon Street in New Orleans in the morning, when the only other visitors are a few guys cleaning away the signs of the previous night's revelries. We embark on the first tender, and land in a different world. Where everyone was white and French in St Barth, here it's finally the Caribbeans, with natives. Well, at least the natives we brought a couple of centuries ago, courtesy of our free transatlantic voyages... As Nevis is part of the British Commonwealth, the gardens and the people look, I kid you not, English! They drive (insanely fast) on the left. The school kids wear plaid uniforms.

Roosters roam in neat gardens overflowing with bougainvillea, in front of small colorful white-shingled houses. But also, many houses and hotels along the way are boarded up or just abandoned.Our guide says that, two months ago, a hurricane destroyed a lot of the beaches and, most dramatically, closed the Four Seasons hotel. The only modern hotel of the island. (There are several venerable plantation-type institutions on the slopes of the volcano, which I'd love to pay a visit to, but that will have to be for another time - any volunteers for the field trip?!). Closed until at least 2010. There are insurance fights, lawyers,... Our guide says that 90% of the economy depended on the Four Seasons, so it's big drama on the island.

When we get to the kayak shop, there's no one to meet us. A guy prepares bikes for other tourists.

Finally, a dude show up and tells us we can only take a towel for two and our money on board the kayak. The rest has to stay in the taxi that, supposedly, will meet us at the end of the kayaking journey. We are also warned that everything that is not in the tiny "dry bag" is going to get wet. Dad takes his pants off so that he'll have something dry to change into afterward; I opt to keep mine to avoid sunburn.

And off we go - 13 cruise members on 7 kayaks, and, one another kayak with the picnic, one guide. Who doesn't guide much. We have to guess which direction he wants us to go. We actually start paddling around Nevis counter-clockwise. It is beautiful, very lush, with dry, austere, big sister island St Kitts in the distance.

After rounding the first cape, we stop on a small beach of purely black sand.

This one was clearly very damaged by the hurricane. It is littered with debris. But also some magnificent shells - orange, pink, yellow - that we are not allowed to bring back.

Some of the debris is quite photogenic...

Here, we get to snorkel. I swim far to reach the cliff. I cross a freeway for fish, but mostly it is sand, sand, sand. There's nothing left after the hurricane. Next to the cliff, I see three types of fish, a bottom feeder of indistinct color, yellow-tailed snapper and a black-bodied blue-finned species that stumps the guide. Very damaged indeed. It'll come back. I'll have to come back.

We get back in the kayaks, and paddle to the next bay. The scenery is again different here. There is a small section that looks like a mini-Etretat or maybe like Laguna Beach here (the fake Italian architecture of the house at the top of the cliff is more Orange County than Normandie).

We stop on a very large blond sand beach. So different from the previous one. But there is no one here either.
Striking ly, here as we saw during the short taxi drive, most palm trees are dead. I inquire about whether this is also to be blamed on the hurricane. No, that's a disease. Double whammy.
We have a feast on the beach, fre sh guava juice, home baked super moist (and not with water!....) fruit cake, star fruit, orange slices, and a fresh coconut machetted open by our guide.

Suddenly, the lady in a white bathing suit starts wailing. In a good way. She and her friend had a lot of trouble with the kayaking. Couldn't get it to move in the right direction, or forward, for that matter. But here she is, big, black and beautiful, waving her arms, her body rocking back and forth, and...wailing. An odd, plaintive, soulful song in a language I don't recognize. My, my, oh my. It's DIANNE REEVES. She can't kayak, but man, can she sing...
Dianne Reeves (left) and her friend on the blond sand beach.

Wednesday evening, salsa and pyjama - part 2: pyjama

2009-03-22T09:43:00.000-07:00

After the concert, it's dinner. Ronald has not done his job, and our lovely little table for two in the fathers-and-kids corner is taken! Ronald apologizes and brings in the manager for this area of the restaurant. He says there is no reserved seating, and helps us find another table for two in an adjacent section. The table is next to the railing of the huge spiral staircase that leads down to the other level of the restaurant. On this table, there is a "reserved" sign... The manager swiftly takes that away, proving that there is indeed no reserved seating. There will be two more upset people later tonight. The view is great, but service in this section is not as impeccable as in the other. The wine steward is inept, and we wait between courses. I mean it's not hell, but it's a clear departure from the unbelievable service the ship provides everywhere else. We have been very spoiled.

At 11 pm, it's Pajama (or Pyjama) party on the Lido deck, poolside. We are in PJ's too, like the rest of the crowd. Dad had to buy a pair for the occasion, as he feared that following the instructions ("come dressed for bed") wouldn't get him very far... I'm in an oversized man's shirt with heels. Leaning on the railing of the 10th floor deck, we watch the zoo below. There is a competition for the best outfit. As it's the Playboy jazz cruise, there are a lot of Hugh Heffner wannabes in velvety smoking jackets and fewer bunnies. I guess the demographics of the passengers make it easier to dress as an over-the-hill priapic pervert than to trod in skimpy outfits with ears and fluffy tail. But one of the winners of the competition is precisely one of these - a petite woman well into her seventies, the body and the bodice of a (cancan) dancer. We had noticed her before; her rather excentric way of dressing made quite visible, especially when in St Barth or San Juan. Tonight, she is in a firehouse red bustier with matching stockings and stilettos.

J'ai une faiblesse pour les vieilles dames indignes.

After the competition, we go to bed. Tomorrow, we have to get off the ship at 7:50 am for our kayaking adventure on Nevis. Good thing we napped.

Wednesday evening, salsa and pyjama - part 1: Salsa

2009-03-22T09:08:00.000-07:00

By popular demand - here is a cartoon of the trip with ports-of-call.

Back on the ship, we nap. It's really exhausting all this planned doing nothing. We are hungry at 4 pm, and the one thing they are not good at on the ship is tea time. No towering display of cucumber sandwiches. No scones with Devonshire cream and strawberry jam. The cute three-bite croissants and pains au chocolat we have at breakfast are not served for "goûter". Apart from unappetizing pizza slices sitting under an infrared lamp and pool-side burgers, there's nothing available in the middle of the afternoon. The lunch buffet closes around 2:30 and dinner will reopen around 5:30, but in between the various stands of the food court are open only to the 900 employees of the ship. Can you believe those people eat too?... And not in the galley either...

I see a lonely croissant, sitting in a basket behind the curtain of a closed stand and charm a guy there to give it to me. That'll do very nicely. We enjoy the croissant in the descending light on the Lido deck. Then it's ping-pong. The two tables on a corner of the deck serve as drink tables at night so they're not particularly clean, but we have fun.

Then it's time again to dress up for the 6:30 pm concert. Tonight, Poncho Sanchez on congas and his crazy band. In between the rows of bolted seats of the concert room, the organizers have regularly added folding chairs to accommodate the potential 9oo attendees to the concerts (half the number of passengers - the other half is having dinner). Tonight, with salsa in the air, people start folding the chairs that are foldable, and everybody is dancing in the aisles. Doesn't really look like a concert anymore. And toward the end, we just jump from our comfy white pleather seats and join the dancing crowd in the lower row. One of the party animals - a loud, friendly, tall, overweight Asian woman in her fifties, with a diverse group of friends and a ton of energy - tells me that my husband can dance. When I let her know it's my dad, she needs to know how old he is, and her jaw drops. Dad glows.

St Barth - Shell Beach (en Francais dans le texte !)

2009-03-18T14:58:00.000-07:00

After our enlightening chat in the Marchand de Journaux, we make our way back to the taxi station, just next to where the tenders dock. People are still coming off the ship, so there is still quite a bit of activity at the little cabana here (where they distribute the ship-specific baby blue towels) and a ton of people trying to orient themselves and find a ride to beaches. The taxis are trying to fill their vans with people going to St Jean. But, I don't want to go to St Jean. I want to see the pristine, undeveloped, top-10-in-the-world beaches... Well, the taxi drivers are being very Parisian. They just refuse. The sea is too rough at those beaches today. That's OK, I just want to see. But there's nothing to do on those beaches. Well, that's precisely why I want to go... But you have to walk from the road to the beach for a little bit, in the woods. Do I look like I'm a cripple? Anyway, they just leave with other customers for St Jean and ignore us... We are not going half way around the island to sit on a beach where the biggest attraction is watching planes land, with restaurants and night clubs all around. So if we can't see paradise, we decide to go to the little beach in Gustavia itself, at least for a nice dip in the Mer des Caraïbes. Shell Beach, it's called - in good French. We cross the village again, through a few pleasant, sleepy streets and reach the beach. It's rather small, but the water is bleu-des-mers-du-Sud and warm.The other side has no sand but pretty rocks and surf.

The air is balmy, not scorching, and after a dip in the water, I sit comfortably on the sand, my toes grazing the mounds of sea shells that give the beach its name.

Alain hesitates for a while, pretending the water is too cold. But once he's in there, he doesn't seem to be able to get out of it... (This one for my gay friends who can't get over how good my dad looks in bathing suit - I predict increased traffic on the blog today).

The odd-looking 17-year-old trombone and his father are here.

And amid a big family group is.... Keb'Mo!

Now we know who the woman is, the one relieved him from his love for all "women".

We almost know, actually. There are two tall light haired women with a little girl, a Maribel look-alike. We've seen that toddler and the two sisterly-looking tall women all over the ship before.

The kid is Keb'Mo's daughter!!!

And one of the tall women must be the woman, the other her sister.

But it's not entirely clear which is which.

Maybe I'm being too conventional here...

The chubby white boy with male-pattern baldness is part of the entourage. Oh, and yes, Keb'Mo stayed fully clothed and on his cell phone the whole time...

When dad finally makes it out of the water, I'm well on my way to sunburn and we eat a panini bought at the little shack on the beach. A fresh passion fruit-watermelon-strawberry juice. It's just a simple tuna salad/mozzarella panini, but man, the French Caribbean tuna salad doesn't taste like it does in LA. I have to find the recipe and reawaken your dull senses, friends. This IS how it should taste. It tastes like Provence.

Life is good after all.

As we walk back, we come across... Marcus Miller, with a pal, on a tiny street. He is looking for the beach too. He has an easy and cheerful smile. On the way, we mail a post card for Arthur - at the local post office, which is as cheerful as any French (or other) post office - and board the tender, then the ship. The view of the bay is decidedly ugly, but we'll keep the memory of lively and lovely Shell Beach.

You know you're in France when....

2009-03-13T09:57:00.000-07:00

"Interdit aux annexes - no dinghies". No comment.

Saint Barthélémy - a little oh! so French corner in the Caribbeans

2009-03-10T17:10:00.001-07:00

After a night of smooth "sailing", we pass a big island - St Maartens/St Martin, the Franco-Dutch twin of the small (21 km2) island we are to disembark onto. From the distance, it doesn't look like much. Lots of little volcanic peaks emerging from the water - probably tricky to sail around here.

We have arrived at Saint-Barthélémy, a French territory known as a wealthy people's playground. Saint-Barth, you'd call it. As in "For Christmas, we are renting a villa in Saint-Barth, just next to that of Johnny Halliday". Of course, it's not quite the same as "we're spending Christmas at Mick Jagger's house on Mustique with the Bruni-Sarkozys", but you get the idea.

From closer up, it's not much more charming. The hillsides are dotted with red-roofed, very boring, decidedly non-Caribbean-looking houses. They are probably hurricane resistant, but it's not particularly esthetically pleasing. We are reminded that early settlers here were Swedes. The houses wouldn't look out of place in Skåne. Actually the small capital town is called Gustavia. Apparently, at some point in history we exchanged St Barth for a warehouse somewhere in Göteborg then bought it back a few years later, when the Swedes lost interest and couldn't figure out what to do with it. Columbus landed here, as everywhere else (just a year later) and named the place after his brother. But for some reason, Spain never actually colonized the place. Maybe they couldn't figure out what to do with it...

Un promène-couillons dans le port de Gustavia.

The harbor is of course way too small for the massive ship, so we reach land via tenders. Gustavia is only a few streets, narrow and over crowded with small French cars, driven by French-driving drivers. Zooming down the narrow passages. Parked everywhere. Hard to take pictures of anything at all.

Christmas decorations are still up and look very odd on a Caribbean island.

The shops are Cartier, Dior, Bulgari, Van Cleef, Chanel, Choppard. A nightmare. We have some hope when we see people congregating upstairs in a... bookstore. We join the crowd. Unfortunately, the place is packed because it is closing down! The shelves are mostly empty and the reduced prices on the leftover merchandise are still rather high.

One sign of design. Phew.

The town does not have much of a tropical flair. No flowers. Very few palm trees. It reminds me that in some areas in nearby Guadeloupe, it felt like Scotland. It's not the case here, but it's still odd.

Can't say there are no palm trees, now, can I?

The KLM-Air France agency is cosy. Papa, si t'as pas encore montré le blog à Gérand, c'est peut-être le moment...

The Lutheran church, avec les mobs garées devant.

We buy a St Barth firehouse Tshirt for Arthur. The shop tenant is rather French too... We make a stop in a "marchand de journaux", those typical shops where you can buy newspapers, magazines, postcards, cigarettes and lottery tickets. In most French resorts, they are the life of the town.

This one is amazing, but not in a good way.

Before you enter, you are warned that you can get newspapers only if you ordered them in advance.

I swear.

Inside, the woman behind the counter has an I.Q. of 80. The only customer here is explaining to her that the Lotto machine can finish filling the grids automatically.

She had no idea.

I promise I'm not making this up.

We chat with the customer for a while. A younger guy, who says he pays 800 euros a month for his one room apartment, and looks a bit beat up by life, but reminds himself every day that the view on the Caraïbes beats that of the Périphérique anytime. We ask him about the best beaches on the island. He concurs with what I've read. There is Saint-Jean, just next to the airport and with large hotels, bars, restaurants, night clubs. The most beautiful ones, which remain undeveloped, are the Anse du Gouverneur et the Anse de Grande Saline. We can't walk there, but taxis will take us. He also explains to us that the roads are terrible on Saint Barth, but maintained purposefully so to try and prevent people from driving too fast. They also keep the prices high so that not too many tourists come and bother them. He says it helps maintain security on the island, as opposed to what happens on Saint Martin (qu'il décrit plus ou moins comme un coupe-gorge pour les touristes). Everything to make the tourist welcome, really....

Bed bug bites - deuxième épisode

2009-03-08T17:10:00.001-07:00

On Wednesday morning, I wake up early - 6:40 am. To a new set of bites. Different type, not itching (the ones from yesterday are starting to itch), but 6-7 bites at a time, in a neat circle. Arms. Neck. Still the bed pattern - nothing on the ankles for example.

After breakfast, I show my misery to the lady at the front desk. She hasn't heard of any one else on the ship getting this. You can tell that she's starting to worry for the reputation of the company. So she suggests I go show it to the doctor. Gotta try all the activities on board, don't I! The place, on the lowest deck open to the public is not easy to find. Only one set of stairs get there; I take a few wrong turns; there are no signs. Better not have an emergency...

When I get there, there is already a line in the little corridor/waiting area. Privacy is obviously not a major concern, and we get interviewed right there by a nurse in uniform. One older guy ahead of me looks pretty sick, rather green in fact. I came too late to hear where he hurts, but he'll get a chest X-ray. I hear the physician ask the nurse whether there is a decent hospital on St Barth, our stop of the day... not good. A twisted ankle and a whole swollen red allergic reaction-type arm are in front of me in the line. Nothing Benadryl and a hydrocortisone cream won't cure. That's what the doctor sells both of them. Actually the swollen ankle will give the Benadryl from her own pharmacy to the swollen arm, to save the $10.

Then it's me. They haven't seen this before. Don't know. The poor doctor, it's only her third day on the ship - any ship - like us. She says that the pattern of bites is called "breakfast, lunch, dinner" because the same bug goes triple dipping. Well, that works for yesterday's bites, but the ones that attacked last night, man, those guys are on a six-meal a day diet!

She suggests I order a complete clean up of the room. She doesn't charge me - I am really showing up here for the good of Holland America, to let them know that the ship has been infested before the whole 1800 guests start scratching like mad. But she does tries to sell me the Benadryl and hydrocortisone cream...

Tuesday night concert and dinner

2009-03-07T13:45:00.000-08:00

We re-embark on the ship and run to the room to refresh and change. There's another concert waiting for us. First part is a one-man show by Keb'Mo, as wonderful as the previous show. The second half is the James Carter trio - he on the sax with a organist and a drums guy. These are the only ones I won't remember or recognize later. They are entertaining for a while; but then, they play higher and higher and faster and faster, and it becomes cacophonic. And we are kind of happy when it stops, sadly.

At dinner, we find our nice little table for two next to two walls. Ronald, the adorable waiter from last time is here. The sommelier is a woman, who brings me a delicious lemon drop. The food is really excellent. The conversation too - I talk to dad more than I have in the last ten years. Next to us is only one table for four - it says "reserved". So we wait to see who comes in. Three gentlemen. From where I am, I can only see one. When they leave, they say "bonsoir" - in French. So nice. Dad says they must be two brothers, as they look very much alike. I was facing the dad. It's the dad and kids dinner corner!!!

Ronald promises that he's put a "reserved" sign for us too if we want.

2009-03-06T11:13:00.001-08:00

A friend who grew up in San Juan (and did an internship working with aplysia at the pink neurobiology institute!) says that the slums are slums, maintained so by the drug dealers themselves who live there. That way no one wants to get in there and it's a safe haven for them. He also says that tourists are usually strongly discouraged to go there. Ooops.

Last stroll in Old San Juan

2009-03-05T14:51:00.001-08:00

As you may have guessed by now, I really loved this city. So here you go - a few more pictures.

Loved the pigeons who matched the color of their belly feathers to the wall.

Loved the narrow streets, overflowing with flowers.

Loved the arched passageways. Many of them first go through a shop, and lead to a courtyard restaurant. We don't have time to explore much, but it seems lovely.

Loved the strange creatures you find behind palm trees...

...and the silly shops that attract them.

They even have the token Arts Deco building.

And while we are on the subject of banks - Scotiabank is liquidating here as elsewhere!

It's time to leave. We walk back to the ship. On the waterfront patio of the Sheraton, Eldar and his accomplices (I would definitively never recognize the drums dude on his own) are enjoying cocktails.

2009-03-02T18:22:00.000-08:00

On the way back into town, we find the blue tiles again. As dad notices, San Juan is very civilized with all the street corners with handicapped passages.

Told you it was civilized. These in front of a small art gallery, in a short cobblestone street ending in a staircase, which reminded me of The Marais in Paris.

If you are interested, the former Belgian consulate is for sale...

And the neighbors appear beyond reproach...

Old San Juan, second fortress

2009-02-27T14:17:00.000-08:00

At the end of the Malecon of sorts sits the second fortress. As in Havana, it is called El Morro. Which makes it even more unsettling when you are greeted by uniformed American park rangers.
To reach it you need to cross a massive grassy area, where moms come play with their babies and local youths demonstrate calisthenics.Inside, it is as empty and sternly geometric as San Cristobal.

Even the pigeons match.

Alain en contemplation des horizons lointains.

Still don't know what that pink dome is - it looks out of place, but is certainly handsome.

On imagine facilement le lieu inspirant au Brassens local une supplique pour être enterré sur la falaise de San Juan.

La petite maison rose sur la falaise

2009-02-27T14:09:00.001-08:00

At the very end of the cliff, there is a solitary palm-shaded sleepy pink house. The gardens look a bit unkempt, but again the view on the ocean must be grand.

It's actually the institute of neurosciences - sabbatical, anyone?

We won't see any other part of the medical school, but this isn't bad.

2009-02-26T11:14:00.000-08:00

I have a hard time fathoming who really lives down there. Clearly, I wouldn't want to go there on my own, but here on the kilometer-long cliff-top road, it never feels unsafe. It's probably only a matter of time until this piece of prime real estate is taken over by a Four Seasons or other.On the large and largely empty boulevard, along which we are walking, cars ramble by, and a few humans go about their business, but we are definitely the only tourists.
There are signs of life everywhere - here a freeze of dozens of ceramics collages made by the children of a local school adorn a wall.

The teddy bears pinned up on the wall - now, that's really creepy.

Les bidonvilles de San Juan

2009-02-26T10:19:00.001-08:00

We leave the fort and start walking along the fortifications that line the cliffs on the North shore. There are houses below there. The first thing we see is a colorful basketball court.

Used mostly by chickens at this time of the day.

In fact, it's an entirely different world down there. Can't think of another word than slums.

But again a schizophrenic version of slums. Abutted to the historic walls, with fabulous ocean views, half the houses have no roofs and no windows, but the cars are fine and cute dresses are drying in the warm wind. Everything is derelict, but the streets are clean. There are no kids running in the mud. In fact there are no kids at all.

The omnipresent satellite dishes are heavily rusted.

The signs hesitate between hand-written Feliz Navidad or Che (that one for Eric's collection) and advertisement banners for American beers (no doubt, a way to make a bit of money).

Can't remember his name, but this guy sure looks happy to see me...

Old San Juan, first fortress

2009-02-22T12:38:00.000-08:00

Old San Juan is on a small island on its own, linked by a bridge to the modern town that we will not see. It's protected by two massive forts. We head up for the closest one on the right and the largest, el Castillo de San Cristóbal. Can't miss it really. It fills the landscape everywhere you look.

By the sheer size of it, I don't remember seeing anything quite like it; no wonder this city is on UNESCO's World Heritage list.

With its Bristish green lawns filling every flat surface, over half a dozen split levels, it evokes a Dantesque golf course. Of course the endless courtyards, abutted to each other on different levels, with massive walls in between each, offer great protection and many opportunities to lock up the enemy who might have been able to breach the first wall. They originally were gardens too where the soldiers grew crops of plantain, sweet potatoes or yucca to supplement military rations!

Hard to believe they haven't put a putting green down there yet.

It's magnificent and highly photogenic. Those of you who've seen my collection of pics of walls will realize I was in heaven there. Oh the beauty of decrepitude! Cast away Botox, collagen fillers, laser resurfacing, contour thread lifts, rhytidectomies,... - here's to aging gracefully.

This one is especially for JaVil, a new hit in our endless quest in seeing heads and people and animals everywhere we look. Pretty cool, huh?

I promise - no photoshopping.

Although the impressive pile of paint cans at the foot of one of the walls raises questions of how these amazing ochres and burgundies were achieved... Hopefully it won't be stuccoed and painted over next time I'm there.

The garitas (les guérites des sentinelles), sentry boxes are all over San Juan. Prime real estate,with unparalleled ocean view and no neighbors noise. Must have felt quite lonely though.

Premiers pas à Old San Juan

2009-02-21T10:25:00.000-08:00

I first notice the gorgeous blue tiles - that's where the cars drive, not the sidewalk. I have never seen those anywhere else. I wonder what they are made of.

You know you are somewhere in the New World when there is a statue of Columbus.

You get a schizophrenic feel at first glance in Old San Juan. It's an American territory, so stamps, license plates, etc. are American. But the rest is Caribbean. Road signs are in Spanish. Men stand in groups at street corners or sit on the ground in entryways. The Cuban behavior with the Western hustle and bustle. It's odd, but definitely not unpleasant.

There are magnificent courtyards. The Spaniards have left some nice influences behind.

Première image de Old San Juan, Porto Rico

2009-02-21T10:21:00.001-08:00

"Hated the connection on the ship

Use and fast and Clear

Internet & phone calls"

Now you know why I didn't blog in real time....

Tuesday afternoon, terre, terre

2009-02-20T23:02:00.000-08:00

We have docked.

Old San Juan looks magical in the distance.

As our cabin is midship, just above the main exit, we get to observe the preparations on the dock. The red carpet is unrolled, the ropes put into place, and... the towels piled. Let us not forget the ubiquitous distributor of disinfectant. The amount of Purel consumed on this ship must be pretty impressive - it's offered everywhere.

When all is set, we prepare to go down, but the line snakes in front of our cabin, so we just sit at our window and watch the entertaining disgorgement of people from the boat onto the Puerto Rican terra firma. One of the first people to come off, from a different exit, is.... Herbie Hancock!!!!

Tuesday morning, bed bug bites

2009-02-17T22:03:00.001-08:00

Woke up at 10 am. WOW. First time in, what, six years? Of course, that's only 8 hours of sleep and a wake up time of 6 am, Los Angeles time. But it still feels good.

Until I find the bed bug bites, that is. Two typical fang-style bumps on the left hand. Left arm. Right arm. Bilaterally on the hips too. Sets of two or three. Itch. Itch. Naturally, dad doesn't have a single one.

Today is our first stop in San Juan, Puerto Rico, where we are supposed to dock at 3 pm (after 900 nautical miles, or 45 hours at 20 knots). The seagulls have arrived - we are getting closer to shore. Maybe they brought the bugs too.

We have breakfast. Daddy looks rather content at his ocean-view table. The Inca-looking trumpet of the Marcus Miller band is here too. The 17-year-old trombone who played with the New Birth Brass Band, with his father. The big-haired Armando Something bass player of the Eldar trio, together with the drums guy whom I'd never recognize on his own. Romero LuBambo with his whole family, a bunch of kids, a woman, friends.

We could attend the 10-to-12 autograph session with Dianne Reeves and James Moody, but lounge instead on the upper deck, where it is very windy, but also warmer than yesterday. Guys are practicing on the basketball court. Later in the week, there will be a shootout with Marcus Miller. Later today, there is a cooking class with Marcus Miller. What a guy. I hear he plays music decently too...

En tous cas, il donne de sa personne.

Monday night; wait, there is more!

2009-02-17T20:34:00.001-08:00

After Dianne Reeves, it's dinner. When we get there, the little table for two we had found last night is taken. We cannot find another one. So we sit by the window at a table for 8. I'm not in a mood to chat, other than with dad. Of course, although I had wrapped my arm around the chair next to me to ward off potential neighbors, a couple sits next to us. And they talk, and talk, and talk.... They are Canadian, he a retired chair of a university science department exuding the satisfied confidence of a successful life. And yap yap yap. Of course, the subject comes to NIH funding.... They commiserate, but I'm not really ready to think about this now. They are also veteran cruisers, and explain to us that this is the best cruise line, pointing out the fresh flowers on each table, the linen (not paper) napkins etc. I guess we are really spoiled, the best cruise line and an exceptional line up. Don't think I'll ever be able to cruise again! Just like the souvenir of my first Crème Brulée, eaten at a Michelin-starred restaurant in Burgundy, ruined all the following ones. Just like my first.... oh, never mind.

The Canadians are really nice, but talk too much for me. Even trying to have a conversation with dad in French doesn't shush them. Another couple, have joined us. The guy is wearing a funny knit hat and is very knowledgeable about jazz. All warmly recommend tonight's act, Keb'Mo.

Dad waits until the end of diner, and our cheese plate, to finish my glass of Marlbrough shiraz - to make sure he doesn't break the three-hour rule of the masseuse...

We go back to the room to freshen up a bit, then it's off to the Vista Lounge again for the 10:45-12:15 (another full show) Keb'Mo concert. Keb'Mo is a blues man from Compton. I have of course never heard of him, but that's clearly not saying much. He was actually featured in Martin Scorsese's "The Blues" miniseries documentary. He has collaborated with everyone from Eric Clapton to Jackson Browne, Bonnie Raitt, or the Dixie Chicks; has been in an episode of the West Wing; and has written one of the theme songs for the Martha Stewart Living show... So it's my lack of culture, not his lack of a career!

Tonight, he is accompanied by the Marcus Miller band. The band is huge and it takes the sound engineer for ever to balance all the instruments. Huge drum set for a mad man named Poogie Bell. At least three keyboards arranged like a fortress. Marcus Miller's bass. A guitar, a lanky white dude with scraggly blondish hair, who is also their music director, and looks like he's been partying with the Stones and the Who and Rod Stewart every day since the '70s. A trombone. An inca-looking guy named Patches on the trumpet. A sax tenor and a young geeky-looking, but brilliant, kid on alto sax, whose name is Alex Han, and will be unfortunately nicknamed Han Solo by Marcus Miller for the rest of his life. A crazy harmonicist from Switzerland, Gregoire Maret. And, of course, Keb'Mo' guitar and mike. Phew.

When they finally start, it's worth it, even though at the beginning Miller's bass is way to strong and it hurts your eardrums and pounds your chest. If it stays like that I'll just leave. But then, they find a better balance, and the bluesman from Compton is just phenomenal. Marcus Miller is the host for the cruise, so he's the one who chose the line up. And it shows - obviously he wanted to jam with the guy and they are clearly having a blast. Keb'Mo is a tall, thin smooth talker, with a cool hat, and the moves of a jungle cat. His act is as much comedy as it is music. He looks like an up and coming kid, but I will learn later that he is really 58. He writes a lot of his own songs, a mix of blues and humor. The first one he sings is "goat milk cheese", and he gets every one in the public cracking up and yelling "goat milk cheese" when he pauses on purpose before the chorus.

Apparently many in the public have followed him over the years and call out for his standards. Aficionados recognize the first few bars of a song, and scream "Suitcase". Or "France". Of course, he sings a song about loving "women". Poor woman on whom he'll settle, or has settled.

Anyway, quite a show. Time for bed. Although, if we wanted to, we could still catch the end of the Alonzo Bodden's comedy act or head to the Crow's Nest for DJ Logic until dawn. This vacation thing is exhausting.

Monday night - Dianne Reeves

2009-02-12T09:34:00.000-08:00

The magic gold card lets us in again 10 minutes ahead of everyone else, and this time we explore the orchestra level. On our way down, in the left "snail" - the balcony loge reserved for friends of the performer and special people (we are not that special) is Michael Lazaroff, the Executive director of the Jazz Cruises. He is handsome, smiling, very smart in a crisp white shirt over jeans. He's clearly thrilled at how the cruise is going. He should be, the sponsoring by Playboy for the first time has brought a fabulous line-up (if no bunnies).
We spend our privileged 10 minutes exploring the various options - folding chairs too hard, seats too low, too much to the side, too close to the bank of loud speakers... We find a pair of plump white pleather bench seats on the first row that's slightly elevated, almost in the middle. Perfect. There is a constant ballet of cheerful waiters offering to fetch you drinks. This is really very civilized...
Dianne Reeves just sails in and starts scatting away. "How are you today? I am well thank you, except I couldn't find my sea legs today." But after a few Alka-Seltzers, she's here today. A very sensual presence. An incredible voice range going up and down, softly to fortissimo in no time. A diction of Fitzgeraldian perfection. Too bad the song choices don't talk to me much. The piano player, Peter Martin who was playing solo last night in one of the clubs, is excellent. The fabulous guitarist is Brazilian Romero LuBambo. For his niece, who is on board and just turned 10, she sings "when I was nine (I remember it as if it were yesterday)". There's also an easy-on-the-eyes bass player from St Thomas, Virgin Islands, she says she likes for his very, very, very, long and sexy.... hands. She jokes that he doesn't mind handling big things (she is an imposing presence). If those two are not having an affair, it's very well imitated.
She tells the story of her trip to L.A. as a high-schooler. Her brother had been in a band with a famous jazz drummer, and he took her along to a memorial concert after the drummer's death. So there she is, backstage, all starry eyed, a bit lost. She goes and sit on a sofa, next to a woman who seems to be nice. The woman asks her her name, what she does. "I sing". "And who do you listen to?" "Sarah Vaughan". And she starts explaining to the lady why she loves Sarah Vaughan, why she is so great, etc. A guys comes and tells the nice lady, "hey Sass' you're on in 5". Dianne Reeves goes on and on... Well, of course, the nice lady was Sarah Vaughan and young Dianne disappeared from the wings before the idol came off stage... I suppose every one has such a story, when they get good and famous enough that it becomes funny to tell.
As a tribute to Sass', she gets into a rendition of Misty that gets the crowd roaring and on our feet. Scatting again, "I particularly like the way she took the ending of a song and made it her own", then proceeds to do just that for several minutes. Dizzying. Dazzling.
She also tells a story of her two and a half days work with director George Clooney on the set of Good Night and Good Luck, the movie about legendary journalist Edward R. Murrow and his debunking of the McCarthy bullshit. (I know, Frenchies have clearly never heard of that particular legend - not sure if the movie made it across the Atlantic - let me know if you read this). When I get home, I'll need to watch again that intellectually stimulating ode to men with balls and ethics. As I remember it, the black-and-white cinematography is breathtaking, the message and language powerful, and if that doesn't do it for you, you can just drool over George Clooney or Patricia Clarkson flirting a storm with Robert Downey Jr. And David Straithairn. Ahhh.

For the story, the seductress is back on, explaining how she sang her songs for George - "I did it as many times, for as long as he wanted, and every way he asked me to....". George, by the way, if you read this, it's been years, and you haven't even emailed the girl. Shame on you.

Lundi, Em wears a Playboy T-shirt

2009-02-07T13:36:00.000-08:00

Time for the Playboy free-booze-for-all-except-for-freshly-detoxified-me Party. I go to the cabin to change into the T-shirt, and do my hair. It's bad enough I have to wear a T-shirt I didn't get a chance to customize, I can't go down there looking like a witch, even a detoxed witch. When I finally make it there, it's worth it...

The New Birth Brass Band is channeling Cab Calloway. Interminable trumpet solos that makes your soul drip inside (I know, I keep dripping...), and just when you'd decided it's time to jump into the pool and drown, they go back into a spirited Hi-De-Hi-De-Ho that reconciles you with the world and makes your hips sway independently of your brain. Everyone has a silly smile on their faces. Jazz does that. It's amazing to see it in full day, by a pool, in the middle of the Caribbean sea.

Lundi at sea, Em out to lunch

2009-02-07T10:23:00.000-08:00

I return to the changing room a changing woman. I just sit there, by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking into the empty infinity outside. I am mesmerized by the water just at the vertical of the ship. It does not look like water at all, more like anthracite sand dunes, constantly remodeled by a gentle wind. I can't take my eyes away. There is now an island in the distance, flat and nameless. I feel unbelievably spoiled, ill at ease. I stay there in contemplation while a few women come and go behind my back. I feel guilty, but also strangely at peace. Everything will be alright, after all. I peel myself off, finally, and go back to the sort of real world that can be found on the lido deck. Dad has grabbed a different table, and is sitting there, doing absolutely nothing with an unerasable grin on his face. We go eat - no red meat, no alcohol. Not too hard - it's only 11 am (8 am, LA time). I think I'll live on their buffet of cheese, tuna-filled veggies, and fruits. It's clearly easy to overeat on a cruise, but it's also easy to eat healthy and appetizing stuff, a big change from the over-portioned crap on campus.

After snack, we go explore the top deck. Aft, there's a

pool and a basketball court. Windswept lounging chairs. And pretty much no one on them. I can look at the ocean for ever, provided there is enough wind to drown out the sounds of the world.

Monday - Em at the spa

2009-02-06T15:51:00.000-08:00

Overnight we skipped an hour forward, and my appointment at the spa is at 5:30 am Los Angeles time. Somehow, I'm not on LA time anymore. The sleepless night in Fort Lauderdale, the new life on the boat... My body is a bit lost, though not malcontent. I'm here for my sea-weed wrap, which is going to give me the body of a goddess, if we believe the spiel I got yesterday at the open house. A detoxified goddess, too.

In the spa, the locker room has floor-to-ceiling windows. The 15th-floor vertical view on the limitless ocean below is unreal. I am not supposed to be here. It feels so inappropriate to be here, in the middle of winter, when everyone else is slaving away on their grant submissions (I did get two out before I left).

I move to the waiting room, which has the same view, just better seats and start filling the two-page questionnaire of silly questions. "Do you ever experience symptoms such as: skin dryness, blotching, under eye swelling, redness, breakouts, small wrinkles.." Duh! The list goes on for half a page in small characters. "On a scale of 1 to 10, how stressed are you?" "What goal are you looking to achieve by your session here today?" How much time do you have? Oh, half a line. OK, forget it.

Noticing that I hadn't made much of an effort at filling the questionnaire, the pretty Philippina (yes, I asked) looks me up and down, and sighs "OK, I'll do the whole-body assessment as we go". She gives me a pair of highly esthetically pleasing, black, disposable, one-size-fits-most, panties. (Can't help wondering how it'll look on my dad - maybe they have manlier versions...) and instructs me to lie on my back, head forward; the small towel is for the breasts. When she returns, she expertly wraps my hair in another towel and starts slapping away the warm sea weed concoction all over my body. No smell, just the heat. When she's done spreading the marinade, she wraps me in a gigantic piece of alu foil, then in a rubber survival blanket, and... removes the plank under my back. I am dipped into the water. A baptism of sorts (never too late, is it?!). Except you never get wet - you float in a waterproof hammock in a big bath tub, swaying at the rhythm of the ship. Being both steamed and boiled at the same time. Poached, maybe.

That's when the scalp massage starts...

Now, before you hate me completely, let me say that this one is not going to be in the orgasm-inducting category of scalp massages - too much acupressure, not enough stroking. But still, it has the effect of any respectable scalp massage - my sinuses are dripping all inside me. Scalp massages have to be one of my favorite things in the world. Wonder if someone would pay me to write a guide...

After what I'd been told would be 20 minutes, she unfolds the papillote and sends me to the shower - "leave the underwear on the floor". I wash off the green goo and go back to lie down, still on my back but head aft this time, and with the longer towel covering the length of my body. She expertly replaces the towel by the alu foil, and I am re-wrapped - minus the marinade - and re-dipped. This time she starts massaging my feet. She's better on the feet than the skull, but hers is never going to be the type of massage that reverberates throughout your body for hours after she's finished touching you. This time, I'm truly steaming - probably didn't dry my skin well enough after the shower. It starts feeling uncomfortably cramped in there, so I take my arms out and raise them around my head.... Ahh, so much better. After another 20 minutes, I get to shower again, to rinse the sweat (and toxins) off, I suppose.

Then it's time for the half-body massage. I am curious to see what half... this time there is no underwear anymore, and I am instructed to lie face down and cover up with the "first towel". There are three on the table, and it's not immediately clear which one is "first". I improvise. It appears I might have picked the right one, but apparently didn't quite position it as was expected. She slides it up to cover my shoulders (how am I supposed to do that?!). OK, then it's going to be a lower half massage? No, she immediately slides it back down. I guess she's now done the full body assessment and either judged my legs too hopeless, or decided that the upper body needed more urgent help. Anyway, the towel now slides to cover my legs. But not quite my ass. This is when you know you're not in America anymore - it's a Philippine masseuse on a Dutch ship... My butt cheeks will get some of that scrumptious warm aromatic oil that never quite makes it there in the good old U. S. of A.... My face is buried in the torture circle. Yes, it's cushioned by a towel, but you still can't breathe, your sinuses are still dripping inside, and you know you'll have the red mark in the middle of the forehead for lunch! She attacks my right shoulder, with the full length of her forearm and massages her way around my upper half expertly. Apart from some pain between the shoulder blades at the third passage (and the 4th, and 5th - she only stops when I audibly cry. I guess she couldn't see me wince before), it's quite good.

It's over too soon. Technically, it's not a half-body massage, more like a quarter body. I have a full other hemisphere that remained untouched. I get to put the robe back on, get a glass of water, and the check. Only then come the instructions. Drink as much water as you can. OK. Pretty standard so far. "You've got to eliminate all the toxins that all those systems we have activated are going to release". I am starting to feel nauseated imagining years of accumulated old gunk spewed by my kidneys, my pancreas, my liver, my lymph nodes, my adrenals into my poor veins and guts. I am so lost in that image of my interiors that I barely hear the rest. "At lunch, lots of fibers and proteins". OK. "No red meat for three days and no alcohol for 3 hours". Excuse-me?!!! C'est maintenant que tu dis ça, ma poule ?!

The meat I can understand. We don't pay for anything on the ship, so it's cheaper for the organizers if anyone who goes through the spa can't eat the most expensive item on the menu, through half the cruise. But the alcohol - man, if they can't sell the alcohol, they're going down!

I don't get it. Just then it hits me. It's time for the Playboy T-shirt party. Free drinks for 2 hours, provided you wear the Playboy T-shirt they gave us. There's the scam...

Premier concert

2009-02-06T14:48:00.000-08:00

Dimanche soir. I'm excited - it's 6 pm. Time for the first real concert. Someone gave us the advice of trying the balcony for good seating. So we head for level 2 - aka. the lower promenade deck - to the Vista lounge. We make our way past the Queen's Lounge and Culinary Arts Center (I'm not making this up!), the eerie Northern Lights night club, the tables and slot machines of the casino. Then, we face two choices. There is a very long line for the entrance on the right, and a minuscule one for the entrance on the left. We opt for the left - wondering if we are smarter than everyone else or if they know something we don't. Ask the lady who's manning the door. She says there is no difference; that we need to wait behind the rope. A few more people arrive and are directed to wait - outside the rope... Who ARE those people? So I go back to the lady and take out my gold card, to see if it changes her attitude. And, oh, yes, miss, you should wait here - meaning in the line of people who are not in line... When they finally open the doors, we get a seat on the first row of the balcony. The room is HUGE.

The first act is a trio of kids led by a prodigy pianist, Eldar. It's really Eldar Djangirov, an Oscar Peterson-inspired transplant from Kyrgyzstan, who was nominated for a Best Album Grammy last year, and will turn 22 during the cruise. His technique is dazzling - his hands incessantly moving as waves over the whole range of keys. Those compact muscles subtly bulging under his T-shirt and narrow hips swaying on the piano chair don't hurt either... The drummer is unremarkable. And the bass player plays well, but looks ill at ease when he's not playing, not sure how to handle himself during the long moments when he is not the center of attention. But when he finally puts away the electrical bass and switches to the real thing - man... he comes alive and the two kids start duetting madly. Wow.

After the youngest act on the cruise, we get the oldest. Legendary (I don't exaggerate - when he got married 20 years ago, his best man was... Dizzy Gillespie) sax James Moody will turn 84 in March. He still plays like he's 25. His drummer is awesome. Should play with the previous trio. What a night.

Sunday, aprem - tuuuuuut, on est parti !

2009-02-04T22:09:00.000-08:00

The only other thing that's open at this hour, on the same deck, is... the spa. It's open house there all afternoon, so I go visit. The choices are more limited that in a typical LA spa (OK, that's not saying much). In the first room, they offer to detox you by massaging the mysterious content of a syringe on your belly, then pulsating it with electrodes into your skin. Sorry, not getting zapped today; I'll keep my toxins. The second room, on the other hand... I volunteer to test a new contraption. For a few minutes, I get to float (fully dressed) atop a warm bath. It's divine. Maybe that's what it feels being in the womb... No wonder Arthur didn't want to come out, the little bastard... I sign up for that right away, and sign up dad too. Tomorrow is a full day at sea, so I've got to find things to fill my day. That's my excuse.

When I go back out on the deck, dad is still at the same table, which has now become a hot commodity. More and more people keep seeping out of the elevators, pick up a tray and wander, ogling the table with envy. Amidst the sea of people, there is a small army of Philipino boys at our service. Apart from the Dutch girls at the spa, everyone on the staff of 800 looks Philipino, and every single one I've asked actually was. Ninety percent look male (no, I didn't ask...). In any case, they are amazingly efficient and nice.

2:30. We finally get to see our room. It's on deck 1 - so it's back down 8 floors in the mid-ship glass elevators. It's very nice, larger than I expected with a large window, big closets, and a huge curtained shower. The luggage, however, is not here. Around 4, we get dad's suitcase. I'm starting to get nervous - better make sure mine is on board before it's anchors aweigh! Also, by now I really feel like freshening up. The evening is barely starting - I'm exhausted just look at the program.

4:45-5:45 Sailaway party with the New Birth Brass Band, Lido Deck

6:30-8:00 Welcome show hosted by Marcus Miller, Vista Lounge

7:30-9:00 Pianist Peter Martin, in the Ocean Bar

8:30 Dinner

10:30-12:00 Singer Roberta Gambarini, Queen's Lounge

10:30-12:00 Ship's pianist, at the piano bar

10:45-12:15 James Carter trio, Ocean Bar

110:00-close Singles get together, hosted by DJ Logic, Crow's nest

I feel for the ship's pianist. Who's going to go listen to him with the competition around? Seriously, they should give him a week off when they have the Jazz cruise. It's not fair.

The other thing that's missing in the room is the magic passes we were promised. They should have entitled us to a world of goodies, in particular priority access into the concert room 10 minutes before the rest of the crowd. I go inquire at the front desk, gladly turn in our blue key cards, and come back gloriously holding two gold cards. We are not blue or red anymore, just golden. Very fitting in the Obama era.

Back up on the Lido deck, by the pool, the New Birth Brass Band is playing "what a wonderful world" to a happy crowd. Everything else feels soooo far away.

Finally we sail away. Seriously armed coast guards and loads of well-wishers ashore accompany our triumphant exit into the sunset.

Sunday 11 am, boarding

2009-02-03T11:55:00.000-08:00

Time to pick up and call a cab. Five minutes to Port Everglades, where the ship awaits. Of course, Port Everglades is nowhere near the Everglades - sure it's not that far by land, but if you're coming by boat down the Atlantic coast and are already salivating over the crocodile burger you're going to have for lunch in the famous marshes, man, you gotta keep sailing, 'cause this ain't the Gulf of Mexico! So, we are relieved to find out, Port Everglades may not be in the Everglades, but it is a shipyard. It's cliché to say that those cruise ships of new are huge, but it's hard to take in how huge until you're actually standing at the foot of her (I can say that, right, or is this considered sexist?). It's a 15-storey building that runs 285 meters long. That's 936 ft., for those of you live in one of the three countries in the world still using some non-metric system (the other two are Liberia and Burma, if you're wondering...). Yes, if the Eiffel Tower were to lie next to it, it would be a tad longer, but only by the length of the antenna and the male-pattern-balding part of the head.

We are a bit early, but the line has started forming. Maybe 50 people are ahead of us. We abandon the luggage on the tiny and already full sidewalk, with some trepidation. The doors soon open and we are marched into a huge barn-like structure. Uniformed "young ladies" (they call each other that, but it's all relative) direct us to one to the 20 immigration officers aligned behind one long long counter. Photograph. We get a boarding group number (3) and a key card - blue, which indicates that we get to see the earliest of the two big nightly shows (at 6:30) and dine after that (the red-carded do the opposite). The large center is obviously designed to be able to cordon off the boarding masses into organized snaking queues, but right now, it stands empty and we just flow through easily. We are IN, separate from the real world, but not on the ship yet. We are further directed one flight of steps up to... another waiting room. Somehow the word cattle comes to mind. Some pretty spoiled cattle, I must say. Group #3 is called quickly and we walk the plank (in a good way) to the third deck of the ms Westerdam.

A few steps on the deck lead to the bank of elevators - seven of them - which we are instructed to take to deck 9, the only one open at this time. You easily imagine the hundreds of staff folding, cleaning, vacuuming, restocking,... all around in the rest of the beehive, but here it feels curiously very quiet and subdued. The few tourists on board are in a daze. Everything is dark and warm, brass and carpet; the feel that of the lobby of any luxurious boutique hotel. Except the view from the elevators is on the Caribbeans... this is so decadent.

Luxe, calme et volupté - Baudelaire vient à l'esprit.

Then we exit the elevator into what can only be called a gigantic food court. Burgers, tacos, asian food, piles of fruits, cheese trays, teas, juices... Displays are lining the walls as far as we can see and along each turn we take.

As there is not much else to do, we pick up a tray, fill it with food and sit at a pool-side table on the Lido Deck (the retractable roof is retracted), and we do NOTHING. At all. We are happily surprised to find out that the food is delicious. Tables fill up, people err, meet and greet.

Les vieux de la vieille, qui s'exclament en retrouvant les copains. Et les bleus, comme nous, qui marchent en rond, bouche bée.

Not unexpectedly for a jazz cruise, about half of our fellow guests are black. Several carry around instruments. Many look like old pros. They have the cap, the wraparound shades, the 'tude. An air of having seen what life is about, and of not wanting to talk about it any more. Those cheeks could be distended by years of trumpet or trombone. You feel you should know their names, but maybe they're just a caricature. It feels great though.

Dimanche matin, Fort Lauderdale

2009-02-02T21:16:00.000-08:00

8 am. We walk half a block up to the Hilton, order our croissants in French to the Belgian manager, and lounge on cushions with free ocean view, not entirely ruined by the massive boulevard in between. Dad looks positively content, in his best Sheherazade impersonation.

Yes, it's a daddy and me trip. What are we doing, here, you ask. Well, one day I called in to support my local jazz radio station - there is really no audible radio here, so you've got to help the two that you can bear to listen to (that's one thing I miss from France!). I called in at the right moment, and won a passage for two on the first Playboy Jazz Cruise, with an out-there line up and dream ports-of-call (I'm not telling who or where just yet; gotta keep ya readin' da blog, don't I...). So here we are, just 40 kms north of Miami, ready to begin our adventures.

After breakfast, we hit the sand. The beach goes on forever, the water is turquoise, and the sea gulls friendly. The air is warm, even if the water is too cold for a swim. The horizon is dotted with tankers. The ten blocks of ocean front alternate gigantic hotels under construction or renovation, and souvenir shops stuck in time. It's just odd.

Fort Lauderdale is called the Venice of America. Of course, after living for so long in the US, you get used to their ridicule-defying grand statements but, still, we must be missing something. There's supposed to be a lively river walk, with shops and restaurants - must be somewhere else, along the canals. On se croirait coincés à visiter le quartier de la stazione ferroviara à Mestre sans jamais arriver jusqu'à l'Accademia ou la Piazza San Marco...

Fort Lauderdale by night

2009-01-25T07:20:00.000-08:00

Uneventful flight yesterday from LAX (rain) to Charlotte, NC (high 50s, overcast, sunsetting), then Fort Lauderdale, FL (very temperate, soft tropical breeze). The second plane was a 737-400 with cracks in the plastic of the luggage compartments and still the ashtrays from another era. I hadn't taken USAir in a while. You pay for coffee ($1, free refill) and sodas ($2). There is no entertainment at all - not even for sale, not even on the 5 hour coast-to-coast flight. No music, no movie, no games. What is this, 1969? What are we supposed to do? Talk to your neighbor? Read a book? Ah, les amis, la crise, ça craint. (Yes, I write this in English, so the French readers will suffer for my art, but they are entitled to a few compensations - if the anglophones ask, I'll try and translate those brilliant nuggets of French language, if I still can...). Of course, this rant from someone who almost never partakes in in-flight entertainment.

Good pasteurized (I kid you not) crab bisque at Charlotte airport.

Wonder if the hand-picking is done before or after pasteurization...

We spend the night at a drab hotel along the terminally depressing Fort Lauderdale waterfront. A sixties motel in between the behemoth Hilton and the equally huge, not yet open, new Donald Trump venture. An outrageously expensive but excellent dinner on the ocean-facing patio of the Ritz-Carlton restaurant - pretty much the only thing open - does restore us from our travels. The evening is spent sipping a lemon drop and watching the few lost souls, who like us an hour before, err along the interminable boulevard in search for food, a cafe, a place to sit, a shop, a light, any sign of civilization...

Vatican Intelligence

2005-11-18T09:23:00.000-08:00

"Intelligent Design isn't science even though it pretends to be, if you want to teach it in schools, intelligent design should be taught when religion or cultural history is taught, not science."

Here is your quiz of the day: who said this?
No, you're not going to guess.

This dissenting opinion on the recent decision of the Kansas Board of Education to teach Intelligent Design in science classes was proffered by... the Vatican's chief astronomer, Rev. George Coyne. See, you've already learned something reading this. There is a chief astronomer at the Vatican?! Yes, and his abode is not the shabbiest either - the observatory is at Castel Gandolfo, the papal summer residence just outside Rome, and you know how Jesuits always found the best places to settle. The castle has three domes, one the expected Bernini-designed coupola for the chapel, and the other two for the observatory telescopes! I could insert some smart-ass quip on the necessity of the terrestrial envoys of God to actually have to look into the sky to know what's there, but that's exactly the point of Dr. Coyne.
He says that, of course, the Big guy created the whole thing, but that since then he has been pretty hands-off, behaving more like "an encouraging parent", "not continually intervening". God flipped the switch, he says in substance, but "science explains the history of the universe". God in his infinite freedom continuously creates a world that reflects that freedom at all levels of the evolutionary process to greater and greater complexity."

We don't agree on how the switch was pulled, but since neither you nor I know - or can even begin to comprehend - how the world was created, your version is as good as any. It's not every day that you will hear me say I agree, even in part, with the Catholics...

The complete AP article is at: http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20051118/ap_on_re_eu/vatican_evolution;_ylt=AnGYIZ6FZfsLC8s6xQ7B2j6s0NUE;_ylu=X3oDMTA3MjBwMWtkBHNlYwM3MTg-

Blowing up the earth

2005-11-16T15:52:00.000-08:00

You wouldn’t expect the oil industry to waste their hard-earned money funding research to try and compensate for the ill effects of their activity on our planet, would you. Well, they did just that, in collaboration with the Canadian government and the American Department of Energy. It was reported yesterday that an experiment to re-inject carbon dioxide into the underground holes created by oil drilling was successful. They managed to rid the atmosphere of 5 million tons of CO2 and stick it underground.

I am not sure what that represents compared to what we produce, or how much needs to be removed from the atmosphere to hope to compensate for greenhouse gas effect on global temperature. The trumpeting from the experimentators is that, if we did this everywhere over the globe, we could reduce atmospheric CO2 by half, over the next century. Now, I am a pessimist, but is anyone going to first try and calculate the effect blowing up gas into the planet might have? What happens if an earthquake decides to crack the ground above one of these gas stores? Will the planet bolt in the other direction like a suddenly deflating balloon, until it hits Jupiter or whatever planet happens to be orbiting in the wrong place? Sure, this would help the extra-solar system exploration programs, but would we still be here to enjoy the scientific benefits? And, if the repartition of the man-made underground holes is uneven around the globe, as it is, is this intensive gassing going to change the density of one hemisphere compared to the other even so slightly to inch the planet out of orbit?

Of course, you cynics were right – this is not a philanthropic endeavor. The result of injecting CO2 in holes is that it increases the pressure inside the hole, thereby pushing out whatever oil is left there. It is therefore a way to increase the yields of existing holes, and to improve the benefits of oil companies. In the words of the Energy Secretary, "we would see billions of additional barrels of oil and a reduction of CO2 emissions equivalent to pulling more than 200 million cars off the road for a year." Am I the only one who sees the irony of removing CO2 from the atmosphere, so that we can get more oil to power more cars who can produce more CO2?

Moon, Mars and Lemon Drops

2005-11-15T09:21:00.000-08:00

Tonight is a full moon. Get out and watch, Mars is at its closest to the Moon. It is an incredibly bright red toddler-sized dot, next to it's big round mother. At some point during the night, it should even be eclipsed.

Last night we finally found an satisfying recipe of Lemon Drop - a supposedly "girly" cocktail invented in the 70s in San Francisco. It is decadent and delicious, so I thought I'd share. The trick is the superfine sugar - which can be made in a pestle and mortar out of regular sugar.
1 and 1/2 ounce (or whatever your dose is...) of vodka
1 ounce Cointreau
1 teaspoon superfine sugar
1/2 ounce freshly squeezed lemon juice
Add all ingredients to the shaker half-filled with ice cubes. Shake 40 times to get the sugar dissolved. Serve in glasses with a rim of the same sugar. The Délots of all genders loved it.

Premier essai

2005-11-11T15:21:00.000-08:00

This is my first try - let's see how it looks. It will be short because AA is awake.