Our own private lawn at the Louvre...

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

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

Back on the French coast

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?

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

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

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!

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!

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

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...

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"?