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
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Anti-foot
London is generally foot mad these days. While the English team has been playing miserably, it can still qualify.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
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!
Monday, June 21, 2010
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 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.
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:
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.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
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...
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"?
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"?
Thursday, June 17, 2010
What is Paris talking about today?
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.
Monday, May 17, 2010
What's wrong with this picture?
It was taken in the garden this morning. Mid-May in SoCal. It's not supposed to rain...
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
La Galerie de Javil
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!
Friday, April 24, 2009
Saturday night... fever (sorry - I tried to resist)
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.
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
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. 
Right in front of us, zooming by, is... Roy Hargrove.
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Waiting for us in the room...
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.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Roy Hargrove
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.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
The world famous post office of Nevis
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
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.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Thursday at dawn, kayaking in Nevis
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.
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.
Strikingly, 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, fresh 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.
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