The Law Of Averages

I went to Paris this week hoping to accomplish two things: watch the Inauguration around some other Americans, and find a skirt.

If you remember, I've been on this skirtquest for at least a year. So I was skeptical that I'd be able to find anything, even with the sales on.

The Inauguration part seemed easy. There are lots of Americans in Paris, even in January, plus the French seemed to be interested in keeping tabs on the swearing in of President Obama.

But the idea of standing around some sports bar watching on a giant screen seemed wrong. I saw that they'd be showing it at the American Library so I went for that.

At the last minute a friend invited me over to watch on TV with him and his mother but by then I'd whipped myself into a rare patriotic frenzy and was hellbent on the library.



I emerged from the train station, looked up and the Eiffel Tower caught me completely off guard. It was so beautiful silhoutted there at the end of a deserted street, I knew I'd made the right choice. Stopped off at a bakery and got a pear almond tart. I wolfed it down on the street so I wouldn't be distracted by hunger.

The library was very homey and a little shabby and I felt like I was back in Brooklyn or Nashville or Cleveland, not at one of the big fancy libraries but an outpost. Perfectly unglamorous. The place was pretty full, everyone focused on a screen in the corner of the main room. There were all kinds of people, a lot of them obviously stopping off on their way home from work. American, French, English. Aretha came on the screen in her hat. "You go girl," someone had to say. A little bit of whooping and cheering.



And then the screen went blank. Murmuring, rustling. "The wireless cut out!"

Not to worry. Everyone started shouting suggestions. "Find a TV!"

Precious minutes went by. A lot of people left in search of a bar. The librarian wheeled out a big old TV. Then they couldn't find anywhere to plug it in. Someone found an extension cord and stretched it across a bookshelf. But when the TV came on there was still no picture. "Where's the remote?"



Scuffling, more of an exodus, everyone was getting desperate by now. A camera crew came in, initially to film people watching the historic moment but now getting everyone's reaction to missing it.

I got distracted for a little while in the biography section. I was reading about Julia Child's first trip to Paris, back in 1950, when I heard shouts. "We've got a radio!"

So, we had wireless, the old-fashioned kind. Too bad the French translator pretty much obscured and banalized everything Obama said. I got to read it all in the Herald Tribune next day, on the train back home. A brand new skirt in the Bon Marché bag next to me.

Many Called, Few Chosen

I was in the Intermarché supermarket and I felt myself inflating slightly with American pride when City of New Orleans came piping in amongst the citrus and dried fruit section. Ah, Arlo Guthrie. Hearing him sing the song in person, once when I opened for him at the Keswick Theatre and two summers ago at the Rhythm Festival thrilled me, and it's moving to hear his recorded version. But a line or two in, it became clear that this was a lame lackluster imitation and I felt a double dose of shame. One for that little moment of misplaced patriotism and the other for shopping at lunchtime in France.

I was relieved when I found out the Intermarché nearby is now open all day Friday and Saturday, because we're often too disorganized to get to the store before the usual lunchtime closing hours of 12 to 3. But I felt sheepish limping in there at 1:15 pm or so, and paranoid that the often unpleasant clerks were even more disdainful than ever because shouldn't they be having lunch with the rest of the country?

I'm thinking about America a lot lately. I've had this feeling of anticipation, ever since Obama was elected, that it's only a matter of time before I receive a phone call telling me I'm needed in Washington. There's a petition circulating asking for the institution of a Secretary of the Arts. I know, voting, making some albums, sweating on stage and knowing a Steve Goodman song don't exactly qualify me for an advisory position but there must be something I can do!

Just the other day Eric and I got word from World Cafe that they were going to run our appearance on January 20 of all days. On one hand I thought well they'll surely pre-empt all the regular radio programming that day for inaugural coverage so that sucks. On the other hand, it felt like a call to duty - our way to participate in the festivities, even if was taped back when McCain/Palin was still a very real possibility.

Well, they've changed the date now to February 3. And I won't be over in the US again until late February or so. I've got to find some other way to contribute, or at least celebrate. I guess I'll go to Paris next week. Strange to think it's the closest to America around here, but these things are all relative.

Saying Uncle

I never thought I'd say this, but I simply cannot eat any more oysters and foie gras, or drink any more wine.

That's what the holiday season in France can do to a person. The rare delicacies you see only a few times previously in most of your adult life become so commonplace that you want to go in hiding until it's safe to show up at someone's house again and not be offered such luxury as a matter of course.

Now I'm all about (damn - I swore I would never use that phrase. But at the same time, as I wrote it I felt such a part of things! Maybe I'm alright as long as I stop myself from putting a "the" in front of the next part of this sentence?) I mean I'm concerning myself with exercise, getting my financial mess in order and coming up with that magical list of goals I want to achieve in the coming year. Just like Oprah, and everyone else.

In a few weeks it'll be time to get back on that touring horse. We're heading to Germany, Austria and Switzerland next month and I think we found a new vehicle. It'll save having to wash the old one, plus we're seriously in need of more space. There was a gig we did for a group of attorneys in Birmingham last month and afterwards Eric packed a P.A. system, 3 amps, 5 guitars, a keyboard and various stands and stuff into the back of the humble Ford Escort wagon as the whole law firm looked on in admiration. When he'd finished, one of the lawyers asked if it would seem sarcastic if they applauded - and then they did. I suddenly felt like I was in Chariots of Fire or Goodbye Mr. Chips or something.

We went to look at a van yesterday in La Creuse, one department over. Now we're in a very rural, quiet part of France. So sparsely populated that for the first year or two I was often thinking "These villages are so charming, and it'll really be nice when the people get here." But La Creuse is really empty! Colder, and beautiful,up in the mountains further into the Massif Central. We got to the address where the guy with the van was supposed to be, an old garage, but there was no one around. We walked through the village, Eric, our friend Nick and I and there was nobody. "Look, there's a hotel over there! Maybe we can use the phone." (of course we didn't have a mobile. Remember, we're the only people in Europe etc...) Hotel was closed. "Look, there's another hotel, Hotel Moderne! I bet they'll have a phone." This one was boarded up, and for sale. We finally saw a guy who let us call the van guy and we walked back over to the garage. We had the feeling that our arrival in the village may have been the most exciting thing to happen around there for many years.

We liked the van (an ex-ambulance so that's perfect). If it checks out okay, it's ours. Just the thing for zipping around Europe in. After all the excitement I broke down and had a glass of wine.

Ever Hopeful

"After a long wait, your golden year has arrived, dear Aquarius! On January 5, Jupiter will enter Aquarius and crown you the celestial favorite, a title you have not held since 1997. What lies before you is a glorious year of good fortune. You will have good health, support from VIPs, a real shot at finding true love if you're single, and an opportunity to grasp your dream goal. We only get approximately seven of these magnificent years in a lifetime, and 2009 will be one of those shining years for you."
Susan Miller's Astrology Zone

I know it's only astrology but I want this to be true.

In a few weeks I turn fifty. I'm alternately excited and walking around in panic and disbelief. Will anything change? I'm hoping for epiphany but I'll take...acceptance.

Here And Gone

Our kids were here.

There's something so undeniably mature about that sentence.

"Our" being an operative word, in that Eric and I both have daughters, meaning we both have at this point full and lengthy pasts.

"Kids" is what I kept referring to them as. First jokingly, then not so. We were, after all, the oldest people in the house. So what does that make us?

"Were" in that they have lives of their own, and other places to go back to.

"Here" as we thankfully have somewhere they can come to.

It was like a miracle, having them visit, because we actually ate meals at the table, went on outings, and got to bed before midnight (one night, anyway) for the first time in months. We were transformed into grownups, and it was lovely. We got groceries, doled out advice, and a little bit of money, but how can it ever be enough? I've fought being an adult for years, but having a nearly grown up child makes it not the drag I thought it would be.

I thought it meant ordering sweat pants and turtlenecks from the Lands End catalog. And sitting in those chairs with footrests attached. Knowing all kinds of recipes. Paying more attention to window treatments. With possibly a little light shoplifting thrown in.

I didn't know that those almost impossibly joyful moments you get sometimes with your child could increase in proportion to the years and experiences they have in this world. At the same time, the stress of wanting everything to turn out right for them is almost unbearable at times.

But overall there is so much to enjoy with a grown up kid. Seeing what she wears, hearing what she thinks, about anything. Just being around her. With Eric's daughter too, and her boyfriend. Youth is all it's cracked up to be, isn't it, even if it is someone else's job now. I am definitely in transition - I think the best thing to aspire to at this point is crone-dom. At least then I'll have some helpful insights to offer.

So now it's back to eating whatever, wherever and Play Misty For Me at 2 AM. But if the occasion arrives I know we can crank up that maturity machine, like a time machine in reverse, that puts us in some temporary position of wisdom and authority. Then, when the kids leave, it's back to being clueless as usual.

Lady Love A Duck

We're having roast duck for Christmas - the whole thing so there's no mistaking leg for breast. Eric and I picked one up from the butcher this morning and, though he was kind enough to go behind closed doors to remove the head, we had to watch him do all sorts of intimate things to the poor guy before trussing him up with string.

Then we went to the train station in Limoges to pick Hazel up, with Eric's daughter and her boyfriend who are here with us. They arrived on Monday by train from England, about an hour after we arrived by car from England. Silly, that we couldn't have driven down with them but the car was so full of assorted guitars and P.A. equipment and the odd Christmas present that there was barely room for us.

At the beautiful Benedictins station we all went onto the platform to wait for Hazel's train from Paris when police started appearing all up and down the steps and on the platform. They gruffly directed everyone to go back upstairs for cinq minutes. It all looked pretty sinister. Murmurs that they would be looking for someone on the train.

Of course my mind was fixed on Hazel - was she alright? As the train pulled into the station we could see police officers crouching on the stairs - ready for what?

They kept holding people back from going down the stairs with no explanation, and they weren't allowing anyone to get off either. A man dressed in Limoges-style "casual" civilian clothes (ie v-neck sweater, grey wool trousers, white shirt) pushed through the crowd at the top of the stairs and onto the platform, shaking hands all around. He seemed to be in charge of the whole operation but there was a distinct impression nobody knew exactly what they were supposed to be doing.

Finally they let people off the train but when it pulled away and the last passenger had come up the stairs Hazel wasn't there.

All of a sudden it didn't feel so great to be the only people in Europe without a mobile phone. But we figured she'd be on the next train, and went to a cafe for some lunch.

We've finally found the one decent cafe in Limoges - it looks like you want a cafe to look, with the huge mirrors, dark wood and old murals on the walls. In this case, "old" means possibly late 70's but given that nowadays most cafes have been remodeled and filled with molded plastic and faux marble it's got something going for it.

When we went back for the next train, still no Hazel. We were starting to get worried. In our rush to get the duck and groceries I had neglected to check that the flight had arrived on time. I think the strain and exhaustion of four months of almost non-stop touring probably had something to do with it. It has definitely pushed me over the edge in terms of being able to think straight. Add to that the general holiday muddle, where you just want things to go well and will it to be so. Our plan was to pick Hazel up and go get the Christmas tree and a few more things we needed and goddammit that is exactly how it had to be.

Eventually the poor girl did arrive, but by that time it was too late to get a tree or anything. Still, we were all together and that's what matters in the end - there was foie gras and Champagne and the kids watching Reservoir Dogs. And duck for Christmas, that I'm willing to be cooked to perfection.

Looking For My Lost Youth, And Losing A Scarf

My newly fortified passport in hand, I flew from Limoges to Stansted yesterday, getting to England a few days before Eric who's coming by car with all the equipment on Friday. I was really looking forward to my afternoon in London. Since it's almost Christmas I thought it'd be kind of festive to do a little leisurely shopping and strolling.

I don't know what I was thinking. Since when did the words "leisurely" and "strolling" have anything to do with London? I took the express train to Liverpool Street and parked my bag in the Left Luggage place there easily enough. I was trying to figure out where to go first when the decision was made for me, as I was carried up the stairs by the rushing wool-coated tide, all of whom seemed to be redistributing phlegm: hacking, coughing, blowing, while simultaneously talking into mobile phones.

Out on the street was like being hit in the face repeatedly with a slightly damp leather glove. Lashings of cold air, snatches of conversations, bursts of steam and greasy food smells. And I remembered how it is, with London. In some ways, I love it. But it rarely loves me back.

I got on a bus to Tottenham Court and climbed to the second level. From up there I could enjoy the architectural details of the buildings and look down on all the striding strivers. Everyone was in motion, everybody going somewhere or trying to get things done by phone, except the little knots of smokers outside bars and pubs. The bus wound through Broad Street, Bank Street, past St. Paul's, but then without explanation went out of service. I picked up the next one but it sat in traffic for so long I decided I'd be better off walking.

So I walked, past Holborn, down to the Strand, up through Covent Garden, and all of a sudden I was right in front of Saint Martin's. I spent a year in London once, under the guise of attending art college there, and that's the only reason I can think of that I always end up back in this part of the city. I know there are lots of better places to spend an afternoon but something, call it muscle memory, always brings me back there. Maybe it's an attempt to solve the unresolved mystery of what I was doing here all those years ago.

Down Charing Cross, and I thought of going to see a movie. I was almost tempted by the marquee advertising Reese Witherspoon and Vince Vaughn in "Four Christmases" but that would have been admitting some kind of defeat. Plus it wasn't showing for another forty minutes.

After all the walking I was shaking with hunger. I saw the back of the National Portrait Gallery. It's free to get in and I know they have a decent cafe so I headed straight down there and got some delicious mushroom soup and, because I'd exerted myself so much, warm apple cinnamon cake with lots of double cream.

Too lazy to go back in time before the last century, I strolled around an exhibit of portraits of important Brits, people like the Queen and Prince Charles and Margot Fonteyn and David Hockney, but after the third or fourth picture of Prince Charles I thought "I don't care about these people" (except David Hockney), and because it had been free to get in, I could leave.

Up to Regent Street, into Liberty which is such a beautifully intact old department store. Funny, the conspicuously expensive items on display now seem from another era too. I ran my hands over the pricy scarves and notebooks, just to acknowledge that these things do exist, not as good as owning them but almost. H&M, Zara, Top Shop: for some reason I felt compelled to examine the trendy, tacky stuff too, thinking maybe I could find a gift or two but realizing it was useless. I forget how pointless shopping can feel in these kind of places. I wanted to get back to Foyle's bookstore. "I know it's on Charing Cross, just past that Nando's restaurant there. Wait, is that the same Nando's I passed five minutes ago, or a different one? Is that Pizza Hut the one next to the Starbucks between the Next and Boots or the one around the corner from Superdrug?" The West End always had a lot of tourist crap but way back when there were little corners of civilization and charm that captured my imagination. It gets harder and harder to find anything that isn't a chain store.

I loved looking around Foyle's but I lost my scarf in there. Paranoid, I imagined one of the clerks found it, and the whole staff were sworn to secrecy to keep me from getting it back. No doubt one of them is sporting that red mohair beauty to work today, just like that motel employee in Rochester, NY is still using the brand new bottles of Pureology shampoo and conditioner he refused to acknowledge I'd left behind this past October.

I decided to head back over to Liverpool St. where I was supposed to meet our friend Peter for the 8:30 train to Norwich. I wanted to get a nice glass of wine somewhere. Pubs with names like Dirty Dick's and the Cock and Sparrow didn't hold a lot of appeal, so I settled on, forgive me, Pizza Express. Not a bad chain of jazz venue/pizza restaurants, but - a chain. I shouldn't have bothered - the waiter ejected me when I told him I only wanted to order an appetizer and some wine. Unlike France, where you can sit for hours over one little cup of coffee, this place is only about making money. It's harsh. I found a small wine bar with a good selection but there weren't any seats, no doubt so they can jam more bodies in there. Still, I enjoyed the wine and listening to the boring conversations around me, about where to go on holiday if everyone still has jobs next year.

I collected my bag and met up with Peter - we were going to eat in the dining car. He said the food was good, and there's something special and old-fashioned about eating off of real plates and tablecloths on a train. Civilized, right? Which used to be part of the appeal of visiting England for us vulgar, tacky Americans.

They plan to end the dining service as of next week. Something to do with job cuts, but probably more to do with the service not generating enough money. Take out the tables and they can ram some more people in. Who said life is to be enjoyed?

The dining car was already closed. So we ate bags of potato chips on a train crammed with exhausted people, some of them crouching in the corridors. That hackneyed Samuel Johnson quote kept going through my mind about when a man is tired of London he's tired of life. After one afternoon, I was just happy to get the hell out of there.