The French have these ideas, cultural no doubt, that always crack me up. For one thing, they do not like to make any more change than necessary. For example, if the total of your purchase is something like 10,30 and you give the cashier 15 euros, the cashier will always ask "Avez vous un euro?" (Do you have a euro?) God forbid you buy something cheap and hand over a 20! Last night as I was gathering up my purchases, the couple in back of me bought a box of cookies that were less than two euros and they handed the guy a 20 and you would have thought the couple had tried to pay with small stones! The cashier shook his head and waved his hands around and pursed his lips the way only the French can do and said something in French that was probably "This is too much, I cannot make this kind of change for such a small purchase, no, no you must give me something smaller, this cannot happen." The customer was American (but of course) and simply stood there with the 20 in his hand until the cashier finally took it and disgustingly made change, obviously ruining his entire day.
You feel like you have insulted their entire cultural heritage when something like that happens. I have gotten that look when I order a glass of wine because I point to the price of a large glass and say "un grand verre du vin blanc, s'il vous plat." Ah, no, what? A large glass? What, how can this be? That's the look I get. Now, mind you that a large glass is probably 10 ounces, it's not like a bucket of wine, and the regular size is tiny. Maybe 4 ounces, hardly even worth drinking, it is a mere mouthful! But they bring me my wine and I think they secretly think I won't be able to finish it! Ha! And this is a culture that drinks wine with every meal.... go figure.
The French are very serious about queueing up, waiting in line is serious business and they would never push to the front of the line. Other cultures do not have this stoicism, of course, and will not so subtly inch up to the front of the queue, displacing the French along the way but getting away with it because the French will make the insulted face but will say or do nothing to stop the intrusion. Italians and Spanish are the best at this stealthy move. It takes an American to step in the way of the pushy person and block their forward progress. ( I have done it often, quietly but firmly and it always works.) Germans just pretend they don't know where the end of the line is and they simply walk past everyone to the front. This works for them because no European wants to bully a German, too much history there. But it is amusing to watch this cultural dance, makes waiting in line so much more fun.
On another note, many museums are free the first Sunday of the month, as are many national monuments so I visited a few today. I also finally made it to the 10th arrondisment and got to see the St Martin canal at work. A small boat was coming through and the locks had to work to drain water from one level and add water to the lock so the boat could continue on. It was a treat to see it all happen and it made me so happy that I found a little cafe with outdoor seating where I had an order of foie gras and a large vin blanc for lunch!
Tomorrow I leave Paris, taking the train to Lyon for three days. It's a city I know very little about so I am looking forward to a new experience.
"Bon nuit" I say as you are all waking up.
Sunday, December 2, 2018
Saturday, December 1, 2018
Paris: Demonstrations, degustation, precipitation, ambulation
There were four things on my agenda today: take the Metro to Place Concorde to see Champs Elysees, visit W. H. Smith bookstore, walk to the Les Halle's area to find a couple of kitchenware stores and finally go to the Canal St. Martin area, a neighborhood I have been wanting to visit.
While on the Metro an announcement was broadcast that there would be no stopping at the Concorde station because of the out-of-control demonstrations that have been taking place for the past couple of weeks. The train stopped at the next station, Madeline, and I got off and exited the station to an eerily quiet boulevard. Blue police vans were everywhere, cars were nowhere to be seen. There was no access to Place Concorde but smoke could be seen floating high in the air; it was either tear gas or cars that had been torched. I walked to Rue Cambon and was able to get into the bookstore, usually a very busy spot on the weekend. It was almost empty and was as quiet as a library. From there I walked up Rue Rivoli, closed to traffic, most of the businesses closed, very unusual for a weekend day. In the Tuileries was a Christmas festival, very poorly attended. It was clear the demonstrations were taking their toll on commerce and public gatherings.
Finding the first kitchen store, Dehilleran, was easy and it's an old, dusty place with hundreds of items, from tart molds to knives, cutting boards, rolling pins and amazing copper pans, heavy as bricks. I hung around for a bit, touching things, then ventured back outside where the rain had begun falling. I decided to find a Metro station that would take me to the Canal district but realized that I was hungry and fortuitously passed a cafe that seemed to be whispering my name.
There are few things better than sitting in a French cafe, at the window, watching the wind pick up and the rain fall down, eating a perfect ham and cheese omelet on a Saturday afternoon. The French know how to take three ingredients (four if you included butter) and create something that smells, looks and tastes wonderful: the cheese is melted, the ham is warm, the top of the omelet is just a bit golden from the butter and a little of that butter glistens on the plate. Served with a simple green salad dressed in the ubiquitous French salad dressing (oil, vinegar, spicy mustard) with a little basket of fresh baquette on the side, and a glass of the house white wine and life is good.
Some people come to France to eat in upscale restaurants. If I am traveling with someone I do the same. But by myself, going to a restaurant is too daunting to face alone so I favor the smaller cafes or bistros, the kind that have similar food, where you can get a Salade Chèvre Chaud or Steak and Frites or onion soup. Or the omelet of your choice. There is no rush for you to leave the table, sitting and staring out the window is not just tolerated but almost required.
Because the day had become much colder, wetter, darker, I headed back to my warm flat, deciding to walk instead of finding the Metro station. Turns out that I wasn't far away from my neighborhood and it would have required a circuitous train route, so it was quicker to cross the Seine, pass by Notre Dame and meander up Boulevard St. Michel, ducking under awnings when it began to rain seriously.
It is 6:00 now and because of my lunch, there will be no dinner. I am a one-meal-a-day sort of person here in Paris, mainly because I usually pop into a local bakery late morning and get a croissant, which fills me up for hours. Bad for me yes, but I am on vacation and I have tangerines in the early morning and cheese and apples or pears at dinner time, so I figure that sinfully buttery, flaky creation is balanced by the fruit and the lack of dinner. Or so I tell myself, and really, I have no shame when it comes to real French croissants. None.
While on the Metro an announcement was broadcast that there would be no stopping at the Concorde station because of the out-of-control demonstrations that have been taking place for the past couple of weeks. The train stopped at the next station, Madeline, and I got off and exited the station to an eerily quiet boulevard. Blue police vans were everywhere, cars were nowhere to be seen. There was no access to Place Concorde but smoke could be seen floating high in the air; it was either tear gas or cars that had been torched. I walked to Rue Cambon and was able to get into the bookstore, usually a very busy spot on the weekend. It was almost empty and was as quiet as a library. From there I walked up Rue Rivoli, closed to traffic, most of the businesses closed, very unusual for a weekend day. In the Tuileries was a Christmas festival, very poorly attended. It was clear the demonstrations were taking their toll on commerce and public gatherings.
Finding the first kitchen store, Dehilleran, was easy and it's an old, dusty place with hundreds of items, from tart molds to knives, cutting boards, rolling pins and amazing copper pans, heavy as bricks. I hung around for a bit, touching things, then ventured back outside where the rain had begun falling. I decided to find a Metro station that would take me to the Canal district but realized that I was hungry and fortuitously passed a cafe that seemed to be whispering my name.
There are few things better than sitting in a French cafe, at the window, watching the wind pick up and the rain fall down, eating a perfect ham and cheese omelet on a Saturday afternoon. The French know how to take three ingredients (four if you included butter) and create something that smells, looks and tastes wonderful: the cheese is melted, the ham is warm, the top of the omelet is just a bit golden from the butter and a little of that butter glistens on the plate. Served with a simple green salad dressed in the ubiquitous French salad dressing (oil, vinegar, spicy mustard) with a little basket of fresh baquette on the side, and a glass of the house white wine and life is good.
Some people come to France to eat in upscale restaurants. If I am traveling with someone I do the same. But by myself, going to a restaurant is too daunting to face alone so I favor the smaller cafes or bistros, the kind that have similar food, where you can get a Salade Chèvre Chaud or Steak and Frites or onion soup. Or the omelet of your choice. There is no rush for you to leave the table, sitting and staring out the window is not just tolerated but almost required.
Because the day had become much colder, wetter, darker, I headed back to my warm flat, deciding to walk instead of finding the Metro station. Turns out that I wasn't far away from my neighborhood and it would have required a circuitous train route, so it was quicker to cross the Seine, pass by Notre Dame and meander up Boulevard St. Michel, ducking under awnings when it began to rain seriously.
It is 6:00 now and because of my lunch, there will be no dinner. I am a one-meal-a-day sort of person here in Paris, mainly because I usually pop into a local bakery late morning and get a croissant, which fills me up for hours. Bad for me yes, but I am on vacation and I have tangerines in the early morning and cheese and apples or pears at dinner time, so I figure that sinfully buttery, flaky creation is balanced by the fruit and the lack of dinner. Or so I tell myself, and really, I have no shame when it comes to real French croissants. None.
Friday, November 30, 2018
Those 20,000 French steps ...
About killed me, I am paying for it today. Not just knees but thighs, calfs and hips. Fuck this getting old crap. It beats me up.
Sorry, just had to get that out there, at 9,700 steps today which will be 10,000 after the nightly stroll, this time to the corner and back and it's more a hobble than a stroll.
Before I go farther, I know that this font is really small but I cannot change it on this device I am using so put on those reading glasses and deal with it. Please and I thank you. Basically, I can't change how the blog looks, so we will simply adjust to what we have instead of what I want. Which is, of course, what life is all about. "You can't always get what you want but if you try, sometimes you get what you need."
It's odd, but I gave this some thought today while on the Metro (instead of on my feet) and I can't figure out why I am less sure of myself now than I was 25 years ago traveling. You would think that having been to this city about 15 times in the past 25 - 30 years I would know it well enough to be strong and confident and decisive. Yet I find myself second guessing everything! (Well, most everything, I am still sure that any bottle of wine I get in the local Mom-and-Pop market for 8 euros will be delicious and it always is!) But I took the Metro today and I had to seriously stop and think about the process, which is basically: know the end route, put the tiny ticket in the slot and go. That's it.
It all worked out fine but it brought on a world of confusion just thinking about the process. (Not old age confusion, mind you, just the confusion you get when wondering why something is what it is.) Is it our lot to get more confused the older we get despite our years of wisdom or is it just my rambling mind experiencing this? When younger, it seemed we plowed through things with unsubstantiated confidence and things usually worked out well. Now, at this older point in life, I am at times 100 % sure of what to do and at other times, like today, conflicted. Where's that store of knowledge and experience when I need it?
Last evening I walked to the Jardin des Plantes to see an exhibition of luminaries. It was about a 25 minute walk. Today I took the Metro for a totally different reason and when I exited the Metro station (after an 8 minute ride) when I turned around, there was the entrance to the Jardin des Plantes! It made me laugh out loud.
All this is to say that everything we do, all the time, everyday, is nothing but one more fucking life lesson, whether it is in France or Rome or Pasadena or in the ghetto of our minds. When we stop learning, whether about ourselves or about the world, then that's the time to kick it over the goalpost of life and call it a day. There is no growth without change and there is no change without questioning everything.
So sayeth the small print oracle.
I am going to try and insert a photo here, the view from my flat. It is of Norte Dame but let's see if it shows up.
Sorry, just had to get that out there, at 9,700 steps today which will be 10,000 after the nightly stroll, this time to the corner and back and it's more a hobble than a stroll.
Before I go farther, I know that this font is really small but I cannot change it on this device I am using so put on those reading glasses and deal with it. Please and I thank you. Basically, I can't change how the blog looks, so we will simply adjust to what we have instead of what I want. Which is, of course, what life is all about. "You can't always get what you want but if you try, sometimes you get what you need."
It's odd, but I gave this some thought today while on the Metro (instead of on my feet) and I can't figure out why I am less sure of myself now than I was 25 years ago traveling. You would think that having been to this city about 15 times in the past 25 - 30 years I would know it well enough to be strong and confident and decisive. Yet I find myself second guessing everything! (Well, most everything, I am still sure that any bottle of wine I get in the local Mom-and-Pop market for 8 euros will be delicious and it always is!) But I took the Metro today and I had to seriously stop and think about the process, which is basically: know the end route, put the tiny ticket in the slot and go. That's it.
It all worked out fine but it brought on a world of confusion just thinking about the process. (Not old age confusion, mind you, just the confusion you get when wondering why something is what it is.) Is it our lot to get more confused the older we get despite our years of wisdom or is it just my rambling mind experiencing this? When younger, it seemed we plowed through things with unsubstantiated confidence and things usually worked out well. Now, at this older point in life, I am at times 100 % sure of what to do and at other times, like today, conflicted. Where's that store of knowledge and experience when I need it?
Last evening I walked to the Jardin des Plantes to see an exhibition of luminaries. It was about a 25 minute walk. Today I took the Metro for a totally different reason and when I exited the Metro station (after an 8 minute ride) when I turned around, there was the entrance to the Jardin des Plantes! It made me laugh out loud.
All this is to say that everything we do, all the time, everyday, is nothing but one more fucking life lesson, whether it is in France or Rome or Pasadena or in the ghetto of our minds. When we stop learning, whether about ourselves or about the world, then that's the time to kick it over the goalpost of life and call it a day. There is no growth without change and there is no change without questioning everything.
So sayeth the small print oracle.
I am going to try and insert a photo here, the view from my flat. It is of Norte Dame but let's see if it shows up.
Thursday, November 29, 2018
Another random day in Paris
The random days in Paris are often the best, which is true of a lot of life. Unplanned and unmoored means (sometimes) that there will be few expectations and thus little disappointment. The distaff side of that is also true, of course, no expectation means little excitement which can have its own problematic outcome.
The flight into Paris yesterday was rather turbulent but since statistics show that planes don't normally crash because of turbulence I am less afraid of it than I was in the past. The plane was pretty full but because of my wileyness about airplane seating, I was able to snag three seats to myself and I had no guilt about not sharing them. I read two junky books, watched one movie, slept for about an hour and voila! In Pàris I was.
My flat is fine, smaller than it looked inline (isn't that always the case?) but it has a great view, which I will try to figure out how to share with you.
It had been years since I visited Musee D'Orsay and it had a couple of special exhibits so I spent a couple of hours there and had an excellent lunch in the cafe there and how much more boring can this be? Seriously, no one wants to read about my lunch, nor does anyone want to read about Special Exhxibits at a museum in France! What was I thinking? Sorry about that.
The thing about coming back to a place you have been to more than a dozen times is that you know it is going to be boring and repetitive at some point. One doesn't want that to happen to anything one loves but it can, and then you get divorced. A person gets pissed off at whatever got boring but the bottom line is that EVERYTHING and EVERYONE gets boring at some point and to avoid divorce you need to spice things up a bit, change costumes or venues or try a new cuisine or something.
I am not going to wear a French maid costume or anything but since I know this town pretty well, I am going to try and see new places here. I wish I could say I will overcome my fear of being buried alive and go visit the Catacombs but that will not happen. Today, instead of taking the Metro, I walked a lot, more than 20,000 steps (7 + miles ) and my knees feel it. It was a lovely day for walking, temp around 55, partly sunny and There I Go Again, launching into boredom!
It is close to 11:00 pm, time for a cookie and and another glass of supermarket Bordeaux. Hey, at less than $10.00 US dollars, it's good stuff! Snobby Californians denigrated Merlot for so long, not realizing that it is the backbone of Bordeaux wines and the cornerstone of my drinking habit at this moment.
Please excuse any strange spelling or punctuation. I am using a friend's iPad and it is so touchy and a bit idiosyncratic, like me and many I know. (Thanks, Margaret for the iPad loan.) I will try and get photos on here, stay tuned.
Bonne nuit!
My flat is fine, smaller than it looked inline (isn't that always the case?) but it has a great view, which I will try to figure out how to share with you.
It had been years since I visited Musee D'Orsay and it had a couple of special exhibits so I spent a couple of hours there and had an excellent lunch in the cafe there and how much more boring can this be? Seriously, no one wants to read about my lunch, nor does anyone want to read about Special Exhxibits at a museum in France! What was I thinking? Sorry about that.
The thing about coming back to a place you have been to more than a dozen times is that you know it is going to be boring and repetitive at some point. One doesn't want that to happen to anything one loves but it can, and then you get divorced. A person gets pissed off at whatever got boring but the bottom line is that EVERYTHING and EVERYONE gets boring at some point and to avoid divorce you need to spice things up a bit, change costumes or venues or try a new cuisine or something.
I am not going to wear a French maid costume or anything but since I know this town pretty well, I am going to try and see new places here. I wish I could say I will overcome my fear of being buried alive and go visit the Catacombs but that will not happen. Today, instead of taking the Metro, I walked a lot, more than 20,000 steps (7 + miles ) and my knees feel it. It was a lovely day for walking, temp around 55, partly sunny and There I Go Again, launching into boredom!
It is close to 11:00 pm, time for a cookie and and another glass of supermarket Bordeaux. Hey, at less than $10.00 US dollars, it's good stuff! Snobby Californians denigrated Merlot for so long, not realizing that it is the backbone of Bordeaux wines and the cornerstone of my drinking habit at this moment.
Please excuse any strange spelling or punctuation. I am using a friend's iPad and it is so touchy and a bit idiosyncratic, like me and many I know. (Thanks, Margaret for the iPad loan.) I will try and get photos on here, stay tuned.
Bonne nuit!
Monday, November 26, 2018
Off to my European adventure!
Tomorrow I fly to Paris for 5 nights, then train to Lyon for 3 and then rent a car and drive around the middle and south of France. By Myself. Yikes!
For some reason, perhaps my advance age, I am a little nervous about this trip. I cannot put my finger on why, I have been to France many times and am comfortable there, even with no command of the language. Yes, there are street riots in Paris right now but I can avoid those. Yes, it is more dangerous to travel now than ever before but that doesn't worry me. Maybe it's just that my mind seems less focused lately and I fear I will do something stupid, like leave my luggage somewhere and walk away or lose my passport (been there, done that) or simply act like an old lady. (Which I am quickly becoming.)
But maybe the opposite will happen: everything will go smoothly and I will have an amazing vacation! That is certainly a possibility. Maybe it's just the getting ready to leave that is making me anxious, packing, prepaying bills, cleaning up the house, all that crap.
I am fairly certain that when I get to the airport tomorrow all the pre-vacation jitters will be gone. By then there is nothing to do but get on the plane and let the anxiety go, have a cocktail, read and fall asleep and wake up in a foreign land. That's my plan, anyway.
I will attempt to continue this blog using a borrowed iPad, trying to connect it to foreign websites and we will see how that goes. (I have little confidence in my skills regarding using new devices, of which the iPad is to me.) If you hear from me, then great! It worked! If not, then boo, I am too lame to figure it out.
Au revoir to you all for a few days but tune in on Thursday or Friday and see if I have anything to say.
For some reason, perhaps my advance age, I am a little nervous about this trip. I cannot put my finger on why, I have been to France many times and am comfortable there, even with no command of the language. Yes, there are street riots in Paris right now but I can avoid those. Yes, it is more dangerous to travel now than ever before but that doesn't worry me. Maybe it's just that my mind seems less focused lately and I fear I will do something stupid, like leave my luggage somewhere and walk away or lose my passport (been there, done that) or simply act like an old lady. (Which I am quickly becoming.)
But maybe the opposite will happen: everything will go smoothly and I will have an amazing vacation! That is certainly a possibility. Maybe it's just the getting ready to leave that is making me anxious, packing, prepaying bills, cleaning up the house, all that crap.
I am fairly certain that when I get to the airport tomorrow all the pre-vacation jitters will be gone. By then there is nothing to do but get on the plane and let the anxiety go, have a cocktail, read and fall asleep and wake up in a foreign land. That's my plan, anyway.
I will attempt to continue this blog using a borrowed iPad, trying to connect it to foreign websites and we will see how that goes. (I have little confidence in my skills regarding using new devices, of which the iPad is to me.) If you hear from me, then great! It worked! If not, then boo, I am too lame to figure it out.
Au revoir to you all for a few days but tune in on Thursday or Friday and see if I have anything to say.
Sunday, November 25, 2018
SF Symphony: Beethoven's Ninth, Ode To Joy
Of all the performances I have seen over the past 20 years or so, Beethoven's Ninth, which I saw on Friday, was perhaps my favorite of all. It is a one act of 66 minutes (but who's counting, right?) of astounding orchestral music and a chorus that probably numbered at least 100 voices. We all know the melody of the Ode to Joy and that last movement is so filled with emotion that it was all I could do to keep from cheering out loud half way through the build up to final shout-out to Beethoven's Joy.
Tom and I, in the past, went to the symphony often. But then the recession of the 2008-2009 years were tough on all of us and the money for tickets was necessary for car payments and rent. But this year, being the excellent friend that he is, Tom bought tickets to see Michael Tilson Thomas direct the symphony in this masterpiece. And a masterpiece it was!
Our seats were in the loge area, which means we had roomy seats just a step above the entire orchestra. You can see every instrument and follow the flow of the music not just by listening but by watching the musicians and their grasp of the music. The loge seats are the best in the house (and thus their price reflects that) and the scope of the orchestra gives you a physical sense of the music as well as perfect acoustics.
There is no way to describe the journey this symphony of Beethoven has. It is, as the program described it, a journey from darkness to light. Crashing chords, sadness, pathos and then a slow, gradual climb from depths to middle ground and peace, then the ascent, higher and higher to the platform of joy and wonder and love. What a musical triumph this is!
Here is a short video of a totally different Ode to Joy experience from the SF Symphony but the joy and the emotion are so evident.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=87qT5BOl2XU
And another more classical look:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uooe16ILaPo
I say do yourself a favor, find a good recording of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, take an hour and sit and listen to it. The first movement is familiar, the second less so. The third is so well-known for many reasons and then we get to the fourth movement, the one we wait for, the Ode to Joy with the chorus and every instrument in the orchestra jumping for joy. It will be an hour well spent.
Thank you, Tom, for the early Christmas gift!
.
Tom and I, in the past, went to the symphony often. But then the recession of the 2008-2009 years were tough on all of us and the money for tickets was necessary for car payments and rent. But this year, being the excellent friend that he is, Tom bought tickets to see Michael Tilson Thomas direct the symphony in this masterpiece. And a masterpiece it was!
Our seats were in the loge area, which means we had roomy seats just a step above the entire orchestra. You can see every instrument and follow the flow of the music not just by listening but by watching the musicians and their grasp of the music. The loge seats are the best in the house (and thus their price reflects that) and the scope of the orchestra gives you a physical sense of the music as well as perfect acoustics.
There is no way to describe the journey this symphony of Beethoven has. It is, as the program described it, a journey from darkness to light. Crashing chords, sadness, pathos and then a slow, gradual climb from depths to middle ground and peace, then the ascent, higher and higher to the platform of joy and wonder and love. What a musical triumph this is!
Here is a short video of a totally different Ode to Joy experience from the SF Symphony but the joy and the emotion are so evident.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=87qT5BOl2XU
And another more classical look:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uooe16ILaPo
I say do yourself a favor, find a good recording of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, take an hour and sit and listen to it. The first movement is familiar, the second less so. The third is so well-known for many reasons and then we get to the fourth movement, the one we wait for, the Ode to Joy with the chorus and every instrument in the orchestra jumping for joy. It will be an hour well spent.
Thank you, Tom, for the early Christmas gift!
.
Sunday, November 18, 2018
My love affair with Joan Baez, tonight
It is past my bedtime but I just returned from seeing Joan Baez in Oakland this evening. Left my house early this morning to get to work, left work at 5:20 and got to Oakland just in time to miss the first two songs, but it was worth every wrong turn. What a voice and what a person!
On stage Joan Baez is as natural as a bouquet of wildflowers, there is nothing tricky about her or pretentious or famous. She sips tea, chews on lozenges (and apologies for doing so.) She applauds her guitarist and her son, Gabriel Harris who plays the drums and a young singer who shared the stage with her for a few songs. But when she starts singing and playing the guitar, she is a force. It's not just her voice, it's her entire musical and political persona that resonates on the stage. She admits her voice doesn't have the range it once had but there were times when she hit the high notes and the audience gasped at the purity of that sound.
Yes, this all sounds so fan-like, and so be it. I have been a fan of Joan Baez for more than 50 years and will be a fan forever. How I even considered not driving to Oakland this evening (where I ALWAYS get lost, always, coming and going) is beyond me. I walked in, had a very nice aisle seat and as I sat she began talking about her mother and then she sang "Honest Lullaby" and I began to cry. (Silently, of course.) It's a story about her growing up in the 1950's (lyrics below) and then experiencing motherhood, that you don't get through either of those lifetimes without some true and honest guidance. It's a song I have always liked, hearing her sing it brought the house down for me. But then she sang more, some Bob Dylan, some Tom Waits, so many songs she wrote, many traditional tunes and she read a poem to California about the fires and smoke and ash and our duty as people to stand up and help and fight, the world needs us and our participation.
I could go on and on.
For some reason, for many reasons, my emotions these days are not just on my sleeve but are covering my entire body, usually manifested in tears. I can't read a headline without tearing up nor can I think about the fires and the shootings and our corrupt political world without tearing up in anger and in fear. Things just seem out of balance, I just seem out of balance, waiting for that boulder to tumble into my path or onto my car or for the tree to fall on my house or to be pushed off the brink or ...... something.
Seeing Joan Baez tonight made that unease and latent anxiety go away for two hours. It somehow made the future seem possible for that time.
I parked about ten minutes from the Fox Theater in a loading zone with some other cars who were taking the risk of being towed. Sketchy neighborhood would be kind, but that's probably just my white woman stereotypical fear. But walking back to my car after the concert a guy was walking the same way, same age as me more or less and we talked for a few seconds about Joan Baez. He said "I cried through about half of it" and I replied "Oh, me too! I cannot believe I considered not making the drive tonight." He shook his head slightly and said, softly "We won't forget this, will we?"
Nope. We won't.
And often have I wondered
How the years and I survived
I had a mother who sang to me
An honest lullaby
Yellow, brown, and black and white
Our Father bless us all tonight
I bowed my head at the football games
And closed the prayer in Jesus' name
Lusting after football heroes
tough Pachuco, little Neroes
Forfeiting my A's for zeroes
Futures unforeseen
Spending all my energy
In keeping my virginity
And living in a fantasy
In love with Jimmy Dean
If you will be my king, Jimmy, Jimmy,
I will be your queen
And often have I wondered
How the years and I survived
On stage Joan Baez is as natural as a bouquet of wildflowers, there is nothing tricky about her or pretentious or famous. She sips tea, chews on lozenges (and apologies for doing so.) She applauds her guitarist and her son, Gabriel Harris who plays the drums and a young singer who shared the stage with her for a few songs. But when she starts singing and playing the guitar, she is a force. It's not just her voice, it's her entire musical and political persona that resonates on the stage. She admits her voice doesn't have the range it once had but there were times when she hit the high notes and the audience gasped at the purity of that sound.
Yes, this all sounds so fan-like, and so be it. I have been a fan of Joan Baez for more than 50 years and will be a fan forever. How I even considered not driving to Oakland this evening (where I ALWAYS get lost, always, coming and going) is beyond me. I walked in, had a very nice aisle seat and as I sat she began talking about her mother and then she sang "Honest Lullaby" and I began to cry. (Silently, of course.) It's a story about her growing up in the 1950's (lyrics below) and then experiencing motherhood, that you don't get through either of those lifetimes without some true and honest guidance. It's a song I have always liked, hearing her sing it brought the house down for me. But then she sang more, some Bob Dylan, some Tom Waits, so many songs she wrote, many traditional tunes and she read a poem to California about the fires and smoke and ash and our duty as people to stand up and help and fight, the world needs us and our participation.
I could go on and on.
For some reason, for many reasons, my emotions these days are not just on my sleeve but are covering my entire body, usually manifested in tears. I can't read a headline without tearing up nor can I think about the fires and the shootings and our corrupt political world without tearing up in anger and in fear. Things just seem out of balance, I just seem out of balance, waiting for that boulder to tumble into my path or onto my car or for the tree to fall on my house or to be pushed off the brink or ...... something.
Seeing Joan Baez tonight made that unease and latent anxiety go away for two hours. It somehow made the future seem possible for that time.
I parked about ten minutes from the Fox Theater in a loading zone with some other cars who were taking the risk of being towed. Sketchy neighborhood would be kind, but that's probably just my white woman stereotypical fear. But walking back to my car after the concert a guy was walking the same way, same age as me more or less and we talked for a few seconds about Joan Baez. He said "I cried through about half of it" and I replied "Oh, me too! I cannot believe I considered not making the drive tonight." He shook his head slightly and said, softly "We won't forget this, will we?"
Nope. We won't.
Early early in the game
I taught myself to sing and play
And use a little trickery
On kids who never favored me
Those were years of crinoline slips
And cotton skirts and swinging hips
And dangerously painted lips
And stars of stage and screen
Pedal pushers, ankle socks
Padded bras and campus jocks
Who hid their vernal equinox
In pairs of faded jeans
And slept at home resentfully
Coveting their dreams
I taught myself to sing and play
And use a little trickery
On kids who never favored me
Those were years of crinoline slips
And cotton skirts and swinging hips
And dangerously painted lips
And stars of stage and screen
Pedal pushers, ankle socks
Padded bras and campus jocks
Who hid their vernal equinox
In pairs of faded jeans
And slept at home resentfully
Coveting their dreams
And often have I wondered
How the years and I survived
I had a mother who sang to me
An honest lullaby
Yellow, brown, and black and white
Our Father bless us all tonight
I bowed my head at the football games
And closed the prayer in Jesus' name
Lusting after football heroes
tough Pachuco, little Neroes
Forfeiting my A's for zeroes
Futures unforeseen
Spending all my energy
In keeping my virginity
And living in a fantasy
In love with Jimmy Dean
If you will be my king, Jimmy, Jimmy,
I will be your queen
And often have I wondered
How the years and I survived
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