The "Big Bang" is happening ... and we're still here

One cannot change the past, so there is little use in regretting it.  But one can learn from it and try to move on in a positive manner.  Still, while I cannot change the era in which I was raised and the mentality that generally decreed ... which I accepted all too easily ... that females have no gift or need for math or science, one thing that I truly do regret is that I did not study either in a much more dedicated and thorough manner.  In the final analysis, that I did not is due more to my own decisions than to anything or anyone else.  Had I really wanted to, I probably could have.  Suffice it to say, however, that girls in Montana in the '50s and early '60s were not encouraged to pursue such studies; those who did were more the exceptions who proved the rule.

I like to think that I attempted to remedy that deficit somewhat by having the good sense to marry HWMBO, who is an engineer.  As such, he has a deep respect for and knowledge of both math and science, physical science in particular.  More importantly, however, he has the instincts of a teacher, keeps learning himself and has pushed me, albeit often figuratively kicking and screaming, into the computer age.  Thank heavens for that!

Had I not had this positive and enlightened influence, I would not be nearly so excited by the truly worldshaking events that transpired yesterday, 30 March 2010, in Geneva.  The LHC (Large Hadron Collider), a particle accelerator used by scientists to study particles (the smallest known fundamental building blocks of all things), began sending two beams of subatomic particles in opposite directions at speeds accelerating nearly to that of light so that they would collide head-on in an effort to recreate the conditions occurring just after the "Big Bang."

The LHC is located at Cern, officially the European Organization for Nuclear Research, even though it has retained the original acronym of its long-ago predecessor.  The history, development and timeline of CERN are well described at the CERN website.  Other general information can be found here.  What is immediately pertinent to me, however, is that the LHC is quite literally beneath my feet.  It occupies a 27 km circular tunnel 100 metres beneath the French-Swiss border near Geneva.  Just thinking about all these frenetically accelerating particles makes my own head spin.

Knowledgeable scientists everywhere, particularly particle physicists, are tremendously excited that this is finally happening.  They expect to glean all sorts of knowledge, not only from the happening but also from the process.  Here is a photo showing the dedicated concentration at CERN itself.  Some reports of the event can be found here and here.  Videos can be found here.

This is one reason why I truly wish that I had been intelligent enough to get past the obstacles of my days as a student and learn enough to understand even the smallest bit of what is now happening.   I am very happy to see that several in my family's younger generations have not been deterred, or distracted, as I was.  This milestone is literally fascinating.  To the extent that the knowledge obtained can make the world a better place, it is desperately needed.

Unfortunately, science or knowledge of any sort that doesn't fit with preconceived notions is too often seen as the "enemy" by those who either do not understand or who simply refuse even to try.  They prefer that individuals be ruled by fear and superstition.  Just as Christopher Columbus was plagued by "flat-earthers" and Galileo, the greatest scientist of his age, was tried by the Inquisition for his beliefs - among them, that the Earth circled around the Sun, which we all know to be true today - we have our present-day doubters and Doomsday cults.   That has been the case for CERN's experiments.  Fortunately, the experiments were not halted.

Most of us, fortunately, only know about Doomsday cults from the newspapers.  But I actually had a tangential personal experience with one back in October 1979, while I was living in Montana.  I was aiming to broaden my professional horizons and had prepared a cv for printing, which in those pre-personal computer days meant having to go to a print shop.  Unbeknownst to me, the clerk at the counter was a member of a Doomsday cult that fervently believed that the world would end in March 1980.  As I attempted to discuss formatting with him, he asked me why I was even trying to look for a new job, which took me aback, then amazed me as he explained why.  I responded that I would take my chances, that I wanted my cv printed and, if he didn't want my business, I would go elsewhere.

He printed the cv for me, showing that he either needed to eat or had a modicum of common sense after all.  And here I am today.  Even after yesterday.  Still.

Passe, passe le temps ...

Around three weeks or so ago, the weather around here looked like this:

The Spring solstice arrived almost two weeks ago.  Since then, it's seemed as if the planet has shaken itself into a semblance of more usual climate order.  What had begun as the coldest month of March in the past three years - March here truly having begun like a lion - has since turned into fairly temperate weather, at least so far as air temperature has been concerned.

But March, which will end tomorrow, has still not approached anything like lamb status, with wind rattling the shutters by night and with rain pelting down by day.  In spite of the wind and rain, however, Spring is letting us know that its coming is inevitable.  My forsythia is blossoming, even though I noticed that it is not quite as far along as are the bushes at the Geneva airport.  I have had occasion to make several runs there in recent days.  One more is scheduled for tomorrow morning.  The next rounds of visitors, at least those that I know about right now, will occur in June.  By then, the forsythia should have lost its blossoms and leafed out ... as should the trees, once again hiding most of my lake view with their summer foliage.

Last week, I set out some pansies ... the little ones that some call "Johnny-Jump-Ups."  To my delight, one pansy plant from last year survived both summer drought and winter frost to greet me as well.  Pansies (les pensées = thoughts) are such cheerful flowers.

Even my rosemary plant has been inspired to blossom.

This morning, I walked down to the little park just across the lake road.  One can feel it slumbering, just waiting for the families and children who will populate it this summer ... who will barbecue and have picnics, who will swim at the little rocky beach, who will play volleyball and boules, who will swing on the swings and play on other playground equipment.  Right now, everything is dark and overcast.

But the flowering plants tell me, as they tell us all, that the summer sun will come again.  The graceful swan that swam to the shore to greet me, hoping for a handout, will not be as disappointed as it was this morning.

And once again, the seasons will follow, one upon the next, in this comforting manner. 

Teaching and learning

Many years ago, in an earlier professional incarnation, I was a teacher.  In all, I spent about 15 years as a classroom teacher.  I was primarily a teacher of French, but I also taught English as a Foreign Language (TEFL), English in a US secondary school - where it sometimes seemed as if I were teaching a foreign language - and history.  For one interesting, if unexpected, two-year period in Tangier, Morocco, I even taught third grade.  I loved teaching.  My experience comprised both public and private systems, elementary to university and even non-university adult education.  In my opinion, fully buttressed by historical example, a society that does not encourage and value good teachers and public education is a society that will fail sooner rather than later.

One of many good things that Napoleon Bonaparte established for France was to revolutionize its education system.  However laudworthy, Napoleon's motives came with an agenda.  He believed, for example, that the breakdown in public social order and the resulting chaos and instability during France's revolutionary days was, at least in part, caused by insufficient education.  As he explained, "Of all social engines, the school is probably the most efficacious, for it exercises three kinds of influence on the young lives it enfolds and directs: one through the master, another through con-discipleship, and the last through rules and regulations."  He also believed public schools should form intelligent yet obedient citizens and assist the middle class, in particular, to become successful, making members of the class less likely to revolt in the future.  Acting on these pragmatic and common sense beliefs, he established the bases for France's commendable system of contemporary public education.

I am also a firm believer in public education.  While I recognize that some private schools are also excellent, or at least prestigious, so long as the public schools are well-maintained, well-staffed and allowed to do their most basic job of imparting and nurturing knowledge about the world, the society in which they exist can remain healthy.  If that is not the situation, then a society will ultimately fail, no matter how many elite private institutions may seem to flourish there.  It's as simple and as profound as that.

I could write volumes about the public education system in my own country today, which I believe is ailing for many reasons.  I will perhaps do so in future posts.  But today, my topic instead is a French actor, Gérard Klein, whose long-time role as l'instituteur Victor Novak has personified for many the role of a dedicated teacher, all the while focusing on contemporary problems in French society.  Klein's series, "l'Instit," debuted in February 1993 and ran until June 2004.  Episodes are frequently shown as re-runs on French and Swiss TV channels, as recently as yesterday.

His character, Victor Novak, became an elementary school educator later in life, after first being trained and acting as a magistrate for children's matters.  He does not have his own class in a single school, but rather is assigned to replace elementary educators throughout France, and even in some former colonial French possessions where France still provides staff for schools, who are temporarily absent for whatever reason.  And yes, he does travel to those locations on a motorcycle, to the delight of his young charges.  Each episode is therefore filmed in a different geographical region, is approximately the length of a feature film, and has at least one contemporary social issue or problem that is fully discussed in that context.  That the issue or problem may not always be resolved is more a reflection of reality than a failing of the series.  In brief, the series itself is a wonderful teaching vehicle, both for the French language and for French culture with a small "c."   Most of all, the episodes demonstrate the basic similarities and common concerns among all human beings, French or not.

Novak has his own personal tragedy in that, in his travels from school to school, he is always hoping to have news of his wife, who fled from him years ago, taking their only daughter with her.  While one understands this to be merely a story device, one wonders what on earth could have precipitated his wife's departure, since Novak is, to all appearances, a pretty darn decent guy!

Klein himself is also a pretty darn decent guy.  After announcing his departure from "l'Instit," Klein narrated another educational series called "Va savoir" (Go learn).   Children travelled with him in a yellow bus to learn about various trades and crafts in rural France.  Since then, he has narrated another series called "Gérard Klein autour du monde" (Gerard Klein Around the World), where he shows viewers unusual or little-known places of the world, together with individuals who are working in social or environmental projects there.

In addition to these, he and his wife, Francoise Vallon, have a website known as "Humain sans frontières" (Human Without Borders) on which their 52 minute features of different places in the world ... and the humans who live there ... can be seen. 

If I were still teaching French, I would literally beg, borrow or steal to have these resources for my French classes.

Finding Burton

"The only thing in life is language.  Not love.  Not anything else."  -- Richard Burton

We knew that it was there.  The splendid Welsh actor and bon vivant, Richard Burton, who loved language above all else, whose personal and professional lives were both turbulent - to say the least -  found his final resting place near Lake Geneva in Switzerland in 1984.

This resting place is in le Vieux-Cimetière (Old Cemetery) in Céligny, a tiny municipality, that, while it is surrounded by the canton of Vaud, is formed by two enclaves of the canton of Geneva.  Céligny is within walking distance of my apartment, although it is not necessarily a short walk.  It is, in fact, slightly longer than the 8+ kilometer circuit that is so far my personal best for a morning walk.

The village slumbers somberly throughout the winter, but becomes festive during the late spring and summer when it is bedecked with flowers and flowering plants of all colors.  It is in the midst of vineyards and orchards and not far from other small villages.  With its slightly elevated location, it has a lovely view of the lake with the French Alps as background.

HWMBO and I loved to cycle in the area because it was so scenic.  We especially liked approaching the village from its upper entrance and then gliding down the long slope toward the lake on our bicycles.  We even stopped there on occasion to have Sunday brunch.  They didn't mind that we were still in biking attire, but would generally place us outside on the terrace, so as not to detract from the Sunday diners who were more appropriately dressed for the day.

Both HWMBO and I knew that Burton's grave was there.  According to local folklore, his widow (not his twice-divorced ex, Elizabeth Taylor), Sally Hay, either herself places or has someone else place fresh flowers on his grave every day.  So, on one of our bike excursions there, we stopped to visit it.  We looked at every single grave in the cemetery.  No Burton.

Fast forward to Thursday, two days ago, when Friend D was visiting.  I was driving her around the local circuits and we passed through Céligny.  I mentioned my previous unsuccessful quest with HWMBO, and she entered into the spirit of adventure.  "Let's go find it," she announced.  And so we parked the car in the tiny village center and set off for the cemetery.  The gate there proclaims, "Ici l'égalité" (Here is equality).  However profound, true and sobering this thought may be, it's too bad that too many don't remember it before they are put into the ground.

The gate creaked as we entered and two women who were tending one of the graves looked up at us and nodded at our "bonjours."  After a few moments of gratuitously checking headstones, which was interesting but, in light of my previous visit there likely to be fruitless, we approached the women.  Friend D, proud of her French fluency, asked them where Richard Burton's grave was.  They knew immediately exactly what we meant and answered, "But it's not here.  It's in the other cemetery."  They then proceeded to give us directions to the "other" cemetery.  On we continued for about a quarter of a mile.  Sure enough, around a corner, completely hidden by tall hedgerows, sheltered by evergreens and next to a running brook, was the smaller cemetery known as the "Old" Cemetery.  We were a bit mystified as to why it would be called "Old" when many burials there seemed to be quite recent.  But that is a question that will remain unanswered for the time being.

And there it was, not far from the entrance, Richard Burton's grave, his ruggedly-hewn headstone looking as rough-edged as some of his own life experiences.  And yes, there was indeed one fresh flower placed there.  It was also clear that when the weather turns warmer, other flowers will grow there by themselves. Indeed, I have seen photos where some are shown.  But this is what we saw:

Burton is not the only exile from the British Isles to rest in the Old Cemetery at Céligny.  Scottish novelist Alistair Maclean joined him there in 1987 and his grave is nearby.  I found that especially fitting.  Burton played the starring role in the film version of Maclean's novel "Where Eagles Dare," which I've always loved.   It is a frequent TV re-run on this side of The Pond and I like to think that the two old friends have much to enjoy still.

Rêves de Provence: Part II

According to the forecast for this weekend, which is for rain, our wonderful spring weather won't be as glorious as it has been for the earlier part of this week.  It has been amazing to see how the plants are pushing the reluctant Spring into bursting upon us.  I noticed a green tinge along the fronds of the weeping willows that line one of the streets where I walk and there are some glorious pink blossoms presaging summer fruits.  I've noticed some forsythia plants that seem to be further along than my own, but my own is trying valiantly and should burst into blossom any day now.  I put out some viola cornuta, which most people I know call "Johnny-Jump-Ups," on my terrace this afternoon, in my preferred dark blue and yellow colors, cleaned off the dusty table top and brought out four of the chairs that have been in storage for the winter.  Friend D will have a place to sit and admire the view for the very short time that she's here.  I'll put my favorite nappe provençale (tablecloth) on the table; it's one that's been specially treated so that it's easy to keep clean and, whether it's raining outside or not, the bright colors lift my spirits enormously.

When we were in Provence in 1995, after about three days of pedaling around on our bicycles ... and having a marvelous time doing so ... we decided that we should finish up our stay by travelling to see several villages by car.  We were no doubt helped in this decision by a brisk mistral that began blowing right around the same time.  Battling headwinds while riding uphill is not a cyclist's dream.

We had visited the beautiful village of Lourmarin on our 1993 bike tour, but a day excursion there from Gordes on our bicycles was a bit more strenuous than we wanted in the circumstances, especially because we also wanted to visit a couple other villages in the area.

When we had previously visited Lourmarin, we had the pleasure of staying in the beautiful Moulin de Lourmarin hotel.  It was the first place where I had ever tried one of the regional specialities, les calissons d'Aix, which were left beside our pillows instead of chocolates.  For our second visit, we merely drove to the village and walked around, remembering how we had loved our first view of the place.  Of course, we couldn't miss having coffee on the terrace of our former hotel.

From there, we meandered around driving and stopping as the mood struck us.  But we decided that a visit to Lacoste was a must.  The village of Lacoste has nothing to do with René Lacoste of polo shirt fame, and everything to do with its most infamous resident, the Marquis de Sade.  Sade's best-known contribution to the world is the word "sadism," derived from his scandalous and libertine lifestyle and his alleged habit of abusing his partners in this lifestyle.   His castle in Lacoste was burned and sacked by angry mobs during the French Revolution.   He ultimately had to sell it in its ruined state.  Here is an ominous-looking photo of this former abode of ill repute.

When we were there in 1995, we visited the ruins.  It was true that not much was left at that time.  Since then, however, much has changed.  In 2001, the castle was acquired by the fashion designer Pierre Cardin, who has renovated it since, while still trying to maintain its "karma."

Lacoste is now a trendy and fashionable part of Provence.  One friend even has a lovely mas (farmhouse of provence) nearby and loves to spend summers there with her family.

It's a far cry from the "old days" and one wonders what the Marquis would think of all this!

Rêves de Provence: Part I

Yesterday's post and the great spring weather that we've had over the past couple days have brought back good memories of Provence, one of my favorite places in the world.   Olive groves, fields of lavender, aromatic honey, vividly colored cotton fabrics, the heads of bright red poppies waving among fields of green, vineyards, the tall slender dark green cypress avenues leading to buildings built from yellow and beige stone, the varied red hues of the rich earth of southern France that remind me of the equally rich soil in North Africa, the colors that inspired Van Gogh and Gauguin ... and Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, where Van Gogh died in an asylum.  Of course, among other things are Peter Mayle's A Year in Provence (which resulted in Mayle's being persona non grata there for a time because so many anglophones came to the Lubéron searching for the local characters that he described that they drove the local people to distraction) and, of all people, the Marquis de Sade.  Mayle has been reinstated in French affections; the Marquis, not, at least not yet.

I first saw Provence very briefly while driving through it in 1972 on the way to visit Morocco with my first husband.  That was several years before he became an ex.  I returned in 1982 with HWMBO, but that was also a quick drive-through as part of a long trip that began in Morocco, continued through Spain and France to Germany, through eastern Switzerland and the Lake District in Italy, and then back via the Mediterranean coast to Malaga, where we took the ferry back across the Strait of Gibraltar to Ceuta and from there, back across the border into Morocco.   It was our full-circle farewell to this side of The Pond for several years.  So it was not until 1993, when HWMBO and I went to Provence as part of a bike tour, that I finally got to experience its real flavor for more than a few fleeting moments.  That particular tour began in Montélimar, known for its world famous nougat, and ended in Cassis.

We did not cycle all the way to Cassis, thank heavens!  But we did pedal every bit of the way between Montélimar and Aix-en-Provence.  From Aix, a bus carried all of us across the rugged hills to Cassis.  After our arrival, the more adventurous among us (neither HWMBO nor I counted as "adventurous" for this purpose) decided to cycle the hills around Cassis.  We chose instead to enjoy the lovely cliffside swimming pool at our hotel.  We also explored the port.  Believe me, it was much the better course.

We both enjoyed the area so much that we decided to return to Provence again for our Easter break in 1995.  We had relocated to Switzerland in October 1994, so it was merely a matter of driving down to the Lubéron from Geneva, bikes packed on our rooftop carrier.  We based ourselves in the city of Gordes and, from there, took day-long bicycle excursions around the area during our stay there.

One thing that we had mercifully forgotten from our previous visit, although it did not take long to refresh our recollections, was that most of these beautiful and picturesque villages, having been built during the feudal period in Europe, were perched on hilltops.  This meant that after a long day's biking, a steep hill climb back to the hotel usually awaited us before we were finished.  But we managed to do it, even though we were generally huffing and puffing quite a lot.

We visited the bories, the Abbaye de Sénanque with its fields of fragrant lavender, and Roussillon, with its ocher cliffs.

Roussillon seemed uncannily familiar to me, uncannily because I had never been there before.  But while I was walking through the streets of the village, and continuing to the overview for the magnificent cliffs, it came to me.  Even though the village was full of tourists while we were there, it was still the village from the famous Laurence Wylie classic, Village en Vaucluse, that I had read in my second-year French classes ... many more years ago than I care to remember.  Wylie, who had not named the village in his book, was an American sociologist who lived there for a year shortly after WWII.  His descriptions and photos clearly rang true, even though the village has changed enormously since he lived there and even since his book was first published in 1957.

For the last full day of that visit, we decided to take the car and go a bit further afield to visit some other sites.  To be continued ... .

Visitors from home

The advent of spring has brought the first visitors of 2010.  None are staying with me full-time; they are managing short excursions to Paris or to the ski stations that are doing a booming business this season for the most part.  One friend will spend a couple days here later in the week and we'll take a trip together to nearby Annecy, in France.  But meeting people at the airport, helping out with extra luggage and making sure that they are able to get where they planned to go are all great fun, especially now that I'm not working full-time and have to squeeze such doings into an already-crowded schedule.

So far, this year has been light insofar as visitors are concerned, although the calendar is fairly full for June, if everyone who has indicated that they plan to come then actually does.  But the recent signs of Spring have reminded me of last year when Healer Sis and her long-time Friend L stayed with me for most of April.  Their friendship dates from their high-school days at boarding school in North Dakota.

They arrived shortly before Easter here and we visited a few nearby sights, like the site of the Old Roman Forum in Nyon, where Healer Sis spent a moment measuring up to Julius, the original Caesar.

Most of our time was spent in visiting, playing cribbage and relaxing, including watching, among others, the 14 original Sharpe episodes in DVD.  And oh, how we laughed and enjoyed ourselves! 

Our most ambitious excursion involved travelling to Provence, where we spent harrowing moments literally inching around the center of Aix-en-Provence because we had, unfortunately, arrived during rush hour.  I didn't have a GPS in my car so we kept missing the turn to our hotel until the third endless circle.   I literally do not know how any of us ever managed to navigate without a GPS, one of the most wonderful inventions, IMO, of the last century! 

We did finally find our hotel, more by accident than by design.  I had booked the room on-line and one of its attractions, other than price, was that it had a parking garage.  The "garage" was barely that, because only about five cars could be parked there, with very careful navigating.  It required all three of us to get the car actually parked correctly.  I had convinced my visitors that staying in a two-star hotel could be quite funky ... and funky it definitely was.  But at least we had a two-room "suite" although I use the term loosely.

From Aix, we visited Les Baux-de-Provence and enjoyed wandering around the very picturesque village, since 1642 the property of the Grimaldi family of Monaco even though it is located in France.

Then we headed further south to Nice, where it was unseasonably cold during our stay.  But we did have a view of the Mediterranean from our hotel window.  Of course, our visit also happened to be timed during a major marathon that was being run in the city.  The loud speakers were located right below our hotel window and announcements started blaring at 7 am.

So we spent some time at the market, which is always fun. 

Then, we wandered around to some of the museums, ate lots of ice cream, and ended up watching the ferries come into the port from Corsica.

Their visit was much too short ... there is too much to see and do.  But just being with those we love is the most fun of all.

Welcome to Spring and Happy Nowruz!

I'm never sure whether Spring officially begins on 20 March or 21 March, but I believe that it is safe to say that Spring has officially begun ... whether the weather is cooperating or not.  According to information that I can find on the "internetz," Spring officially began in 2010 on 20 March, at least for those of us in the Northern Hemisphere, so that my greetings are at least a day late.

Having lived in an area that was ravaged by la bise noire a few weeks back, I am happy to say that temperatures, and meteorological events in general, have become much milder.  Last Friday was, in fact, one of the most glorious days for this time of year that I can remember.  Since then, the cloud cover has settled back in.  Today, we've had rain.  My brightly-colored tulips are still valiantly bringing cheer to my somber apartment and I look forward to my forsythia's blossoms.   Here is a peek at last year's blossoms ... when construction fences were still about.

When HWMBO and I spoke on Skype today, I noticed that his Skype greeting cheerily announced "Happy Nowruz!"  HWMBO spent four years living and working in Iran in the seventies.  While it is probably not correct to say that he enjoyed every single moment of his time there, he certainly did enjoy most of them.  He grew to admire the Iranian people greatly and, for him, it was an unparalleled life experience.  He lived for one year in Tehran and three in Shiraz.   In Shiraz, he was joined by his younger son, who lived with his father and attended the international school there.  HWMBO's daughter and older son also visited during his time there.  All of this happened some years before we realized that our lives were destined to be forever linked.

I am very sorry that I never was able to share those experiences.  I am also personally very sorry that my own nation and Iran appear to be largely on a collision course, as unfortunately occurs all too often in this imperfect world today.  I am thankful, however, that cooler and wiser heads seem to be prevailing these days, at least in my own nation.

But Nowruz, aka the Persian New Year, is something that has remained, not only with HWMBO, but with the preponderance of those Americans who shared an experience of living in Iran.  The holiday dates back to the time of Zoroaster (aka Zarathustra), and Zoroastrianism, a monotheistic religion that was based on his teachings, although much of Zoroastrianism has since been subsumed into Islamic teachings.  Still, Nowruz marks both the first day of spring and the beginning of the year in Iranian calendar.  It is celebrated on the day of the astronomical vernal equinox, which usually occurs on or about 21 March.   In fact, 21 March has, since 2010, been recognized as the "International Day of Nowruz" by the General Assembly of the United Nations.

Nowruz provides an opportunity for complete spring cleaning to symbolize the new beginning.  The festival is typically celebrated within the family unit.   The Wikipedia article that I linked to provides a fairly complete description of Nowruz and all those objects that are meaningful to its celebration, particularly the seven that are linked to the haft sin table.   I remember watching Jafar Panahi's delightful film, "The White Balloon," that describes these traditions.

But I also remember being struck by something interesting in 1997, when HWMBO and I travelled to Sicily during our Easter vacation.  Sicily, as was the case with many islands in the Mediterranean, was under Islamic rule for a time.  In Sicily's case, it lasted for more than 100 years, from 956-1072.  In those churches that were once Greek or Roman temples, then Christian churches, then Muslim mosques, and finally Christian churches again, both HWMBO and I noticed that most of the very same haft sin items were displayed to celebrate spring and the Christian Easter.

We humans all have much more in common than we do not.  Let us join together to celebrate our similarities rather than let our differences divide us!

"CH" as in CHocolate

Quick disclaimer here: I borrowed the title.  It's my English translation of the French title of a little book called CH comme chocolat that was published here about ten years ago.  The book traces the history of the chocolate-making industry and its rise as an important part of the Swiss economy, as exemplified by some of the major Swiss pioneers in the field.

For those who wonder where "CH" came from, please realize that it is not only a play on the first two letters of the word "chocolate," it is also the international abbreviation for Switzerland.  That is because the country's official name in French is the Confédération hélvétique ("CH"), or Helvetic (or Swiss) Confederation.  The word "hélvétique" comes from the Helvetii, which refers either to one Celtic tribe or, more probably, a confederation of Celtic tribes that likely originated in the southwest part of Germany.  During the time of Julius Caesar, however, they occupied most of the Swiss plateau.  They are, for the most part, ancestors of the Swiss people today.

Switzerland is known for many things.  One of the most thoroughly pleasant and enjoyable of these is unquestionably Swiss chocolate.  And today is the day of the Sixth Annual Chocolate Festival held in nearby Versoix, where I had the pleasure of living until late 2006.  And I say pleasure with understandable nostalgic delight because we lived two doors away from the shop of Marc-André Cartier, arguably one of the best young chocolatiers in la Suisse romande (French-speaking Switzerland).   As if it were not enough to have our chocolate cups already brimming over, we were also situated two blocks away from the Favarger chocolate factory and headquarters.  It was literally like having Willy Wonka for a neighbor, but without the eccentricities of either Gene Wilder or Johnny Depp.

For more about the festival itself, here is an article from last year and here are some photos to give the flavor of past celebrations.  As you can see, even cool and wet weather doesn't discourage attendance.

One never really needs an excuse to appreciate good chocolate.  I should just plaster it directly onto my hips because that's where it ultimately manifests itself.  But even that knowledge doesn't stop my enjoyment.  And Easter is just around the corner.  Chocolate bunnies and candy eggs are popping up everywhere in the stores, like the seasonal tulips that I purchased during my last grocery outing that have brightened my otherwise somber apartment.  I even noticed some brave daffodils tentatively poking their heads from the soil while I was walking today.  The forsythia bush on the terrace, my much-appreciated and most vivid harbinger of spring, is full of buds.  I can hardly wait to see its saffron blossoms.  Their bright color is so welcome after all the whites, browns, blacks and grays of the winter.  

"Cult films" ... and others: Part I

With all the films that are produced each year, and with the quality of global film efforts having improved exponentially as well, the variety available in the selection of films, topics, situations, geographic locations, general treatments, etc. is at an unprecedented high.

As with results in all other professions, some films -- and not always those that one believes will do so -- are hugely successful commercially, at least in the US, while the overwhelming majority of others have little to no commercial success.  What is often interesting is that at least some of those that are hugely successful commercially can largely be forgotten within a few years while at least some of the lesser-known others gradually achieve new life, either via new media (DVDs, etc.) or new markets (sales to TV networks in Europe, Asia, etc.,) where the films may not have been previously released.

In addition to the viewing public's familiarity with and liking for the actors or directors featured, together with plot lines, filming techniques, special effects, etc., in the film itself, part of an initial commercial success can be explained by dedicated marketing and distribution efforts ... but not always.  "The Blair Witch Project" is one film that was primarily publicized on the internet, to great commercial success, especially given that the film itself did not cost that much to make, at least, not initially.   The Wiki link above estimates, however, that while the initial costs for the film were as low as USD 20,000, by the time that the licensing rights were purchased, the budget had increased to as much as USD 750,000, because new sound remixes had to be recrafted and scenes where changes were needed had to be reshot.  The point is that it takes a LOT of money to make a film with any hope of success, and even with a LOT of money, "success," at least commercial success, is never guaranteed.  And commercial success is what gets the bills paid.

Apart from everything else, IMO, there are also at least two wild card factors: LUCK and whimsy.  I have capitalized "luck" because it encompasses a lot of things, including timing, opportunity, fortuitous contacts and perhaps even Divine assistance, in addition to hard work and creativity.  "Whimsy" is something else.  It is that almost indefinable something in a film that resonates with someone so movingly that the individual favorably publicizes the film to everyone within earshot.  Human nature being what it is, the first individual's enthusiasm can cause others to become equally enthusiastic about the film, even where they may not initially have been impressed.  Depending on the general charisma of the film's advocate(s), it can, commercially successful or not, attract a dedicated following and become a "cult film."

I was reminded of this last week by a late-night film featured on SF Zwei.  This is a German-speaking Swiss TV channel that frequently broadcasts US or British feature films and series in bicanal (dual audio) so that if the original language of a particular film or other broadcast was in English, merely pressing a switch on the remote will ensure that the viewer can hear the audio in the original language.  This is true for all Swiss TV channels.  So long as the bicanal symbol appears in the TV Guide, one can watch films and programs in the original English language rather than in French, German or Italian.  That feature has been a lifesaver for me and my guests since I had to give up my international satellite system when I moved to this apartment.  [According to our bylaws, I can't have a satellite on my balcony, no matter how discreet, although I have actually spied a few here since I forewent my own.]

The film was called "Never Die Alone - Karriere eines Gangsters" ("Never Die Alone" is the English title).  It was quite late at night and I was already yawning, so I didn't hold out much hope of lasting through it.  Suddenly, however, I realized that one of the leads was Michael Ealy.  I have very much been a fan of Michael Ealy, dating back to when I first remember seeing him.  That was in the 2005 cable miniseries "Sleeper Cell," where he was excellent as undercover agent Darwyn al-Sayeed.   Besides, Michael is a Maryland native, born and raised in Silver Spring.  Suddenly, I wasn't yawning any more.

So I watched the film and enjoyed it.  According to the Wiki write-up (link above), the film was a critical failure, scoring a "Rotten" with the website Rotten Tomatoes and panned by most critics as a "trashy, pretentious look at a life of drug abuse and violence."  Other critics, however, notably Roger Ebert, had more favorable opinions and found value both in the film and the performances.  I concur with the Ebert following in this.  Wiki also notes that the film, which was a commercial failure, is now considered to be a cult film.  I have a feeling that it will be appearing frequently over here, at least on TV.

This experience reminded me of another film that I watched in the past year, the 1985 "To Live and Die in L.A."  I had never seen it before.  In spite of all the violence ... which I really do not like ... I watched the film because of an actor that I liked.  I also liked the film, although to say that I "enjoyed" it would be a stretch.  There were redeeming moments of very funny -- and very black -- humor, however.  This time, the actor in question was William Petersen.  Although Petersen is much more familiar to most as Dr. Gil Grissom in the original CSI series, I first remember seeing him in "Manhunter" in 1986, long before Anthony Hopkins's portrayal made Hannibal Lecter a name to remember ... with fear.  I've been a fan since.  Unlike "Never Die Alone," "To Live and Die in L.A." was a commercial success at the time, not hugely, but definitely, even though many critics and movie audiences were largely unimpressed.  It has, however, aged well, was recently re-released  on DVD and, as I noticed when I was last in Maryland, was frequently appearing on cable.  It too seems to have attracted a cult following.

So, I can always hope.  No. 2 Son, Big S, Papa to my darling Princess Butterfly, is an independent filmmaker.  Before trying to make his very difficult way in that rarefied world, he worked on several studio productions, the names of which are globally recognizable.  One, "Dante's Peak," seems quite a perennial favorite here, judging by the frequency with which it is televised on this side of The Pond.  I am probably the only person in the world who watches that film just to see the technical screen credits roll at the end.  Mothers are like that.

But his commercial successes since his advent into independence have been few and far between, so far.  He has had critical success with early efforts, but critical success and income do not always seem to go together, as we can clearly see.  One day ... I am sure ... something wonderful WILL happen.

Lá Fhéile Pádraig

Today is the day when everyone likes to be "a little bit Irish," in part because everyone enjoys a celebration.  And 17 March is the day everyone who has even the slightest drop of Irish blood ... and many who don't even have that ... celebrate St. Patrick's Day, the day that is set aside to honor the memory of Patrick, the most generally recognized patron saint of Ireland, and also to showcase Irish history and culture.

St. Patrick's Day was always a special day in our family because my late father was Irish.  If the terrible truth be told, however, he was only half-Irish.  It was his father, our grandfather, who was the 100 percenter.  It did not really matter because my father's names, first and last, were so quintessentially Irish that anything he or we kids lacked in literal genealogy was regained in spades.  Based on our last name, we were presumed by anyone we met to be of wholly Irish ancestry.  If some are born Irish, some try to achieve Irish-ness and some have Irish-ness thrust upon them, we were partly the first and all of the last.  This was the case even though our mother, so far as we are able to determine, did not have even one Irish gene, being generally of English and Danish ancestry.  Whatever the situation, we are all "typical" American "Heinz 57" products, and our Irish blood actually runs more thinly than in some.  Still, we are all proud of what we do have.

Patrick himself, more likely than not, was Irish gene-less.  If he did have any Irish genes, they could only have been a heritage from some remote Celtic ancestor in Britain.  Although accounts of his life are variable and in question, the most generally accepted story is that he was born early in the fifth century in then Roman-occupied Britain to a Christian Romano-British family.   At the age of 16, the tale goes, he was kidnapped by Irish raiders and sold into slavery in Ireland.   After some time in Ireland, he managed to escape and returned to Britain.  From there, he went to study for the priesthood in Auxerre in what was then Gaul (present-day France).   After becoming a bishop, he returned to Ireland in order to convert the Irish to Christianity, which at the time was principally Roman Catholicism.  He was extremely successful in doing so.  Irish folklore tells that one of his teaching methods included using the shamrock to explain the concept of the Holy Trinity (the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit) to the Irish people.  According to Irish folklore, Patrick is also supposed to have driven all the snakes from Ireland.

St. Patrick's Day is also the time for the "wearing of the green."  Technically, this means wearing a shamrock on one's clothing, but in practice generally means wearing any article that is green.  When I was very young, not wearing green on St. Pat's meant that the offending person, Irish or not, would receive a strong pinch from a so-called "friend."  Interestingly, according to Wikipedia, the color originally associated with St. Patrick was actually blue.  Over the years, however, the green of the shamrock and its association with St. Patrick's Day grew so that green is now the favored color.

One of my own most memorable celebrations of the holiday actually took place in Morocco in the early 80s.  At the time, HWMBO, whom I had met there (a story for another time), volunteered me to "corn" the beef for corned beef and cabbage for our expatriate celebration, which would number 100+ persons.  Interestingly, corned beef and cabbage, while thought of as traditionally Irish in the United States, turns out not to be so Irish after all ... at least not according to this article.   But to Irish Americans, it still remains a standard meal on The Day.

Whatever the traditional basis for the meal may have been, I had never before in my life actually "corned" beef.  I had always been able to buy already corned beef at the store and, until then, had never thought about how it got to be that way.  The "corning" process basically cures or pickles the beef in a spiced brine.  The only recipe that was readily available in those pre-Google days came from a friend and was actually a Jewish recipe.  Some ingredients that the recipe were called for were not readily available where we were, so engineers visiting from the US were impressed into service as "condiment transporters."  A Moroccan friend, who managed a restaurant business, purchased a whole beef for us at the souk and had it cut into smaller, more manageable, chunks.  I borrowed as many large plastic containers with covers as I was able to find and cleaned them thoroughly.  Several helpful friends came over to help prepare the beef for the brine, as well as to help prepare the brine solution itself.  It was quite a communal effort.

But that was just the beginning.  Once the raw meat was in the containers with the brine solution, it had to be marinated for several days.  It also had to be turned every single day so that the marinade would reach and cure all parts of the meat.  Fortunately, the house we lived in at the time had a large and cool cellar where we could store the containers.  But I was terrified that the meat would somehow be spoiled.  I don't believe that I slept well at all until it was time to take the meat from the marinade and cook it with the cabbage, carrots and potatoes.  The cooking of the dish was also a communal effort.  But I was afraid either that it would make everyone ill or, in the worst of worst cases, actually kill someone.  Fortunately, however, everything worked out well.  Frankly, it was the best-tasting corned beef that I've ever had ... if I may allow myself to say so.  The biggest hit of the whole meal, however, was an enormous and absolutely divine trifle that was prepared by the Irish engineers who were at the celebration.  I am very happy ... and relieved ... to say that we all had a wonderful time.

In recent years, in honor of my late father, friends and family gather to hold a Memorial Cribbage Tournament in the tiny mountain village in Montana where he spent his happiest years.  Cribbage was his favorite card game.  The tourney is usually held either on the weekend immediately before or after St. Patrick's Day.  As part of the festivities, everyone must wear green and march around the local circle area, as can be seen here in photos from past celebrations.

Whoever you are and wherever you spend it, have a truly magical

St. Patrick's Day!

    

Tyger in the snow

While this is Grandson Prince Tyger's second winter, it is the first winter in his life where he has been able to appreciate what snow really is.  And this year, the repeated snowfalls in Washington, DC have been extraordinary.  Although the city has now dug itself out and is daring to anticipate that Spring might actually be around the corner (after all, the "official" beginning of Spring is next week), it has been but a few short weeks since the streets were snow-packed and white and automobiles were practically unusable ... as can be seen here, on Prince Tyger's street.

So, what did Prince Tyger think about all this?  Well, at first, he wasn't too sure.  It's pretty scary when there are white walls along the sidewalk where you like to walk and those walls are taller than your head.

But so long as Papa (Big T) was around to reassure, it turned out that this snow stuff might not be so bad after all.

You did wonder, however, where everything familiar might have gone, especially when Papa wasn't right beside you.

But then you got caught up in the wonder of it all.

And then it was FUN!