Early in the morning, busy Parisians prepare for their day.
One quick word about the view from my lovely hotel room: It was indeed impressive, with a north-facing panorama that included the Seine, Sacre Coeur, Notre-Dame, St. Germain de Pres, and many other landmarks. “Where’s the damned Eiffel Tower?” I kept wondering. And then I realized. The monstrous Tour Montparnasse, this awful black glass highrise monstrosity built five minutes before they passed laws against any tall buildings in the city center, was perversely and precisely between me and the Eiffel, rendering it completely invisible. The only way I knew it was there, apart from the mere fact that I DID know it was there, was its rotating light that I couls see sweep around the city. Oh, well, you can’t have everything.
I don't remember seeing this the last time I was in Paris. They were everywhere. The street, the subway, my hotel room -- but that's a different story.
He may be bored by the view, but I am not.
Anyway, it’s Paris! I’ve been here twice before, in 1987 and 1989. The first visit was for sixteen glorious days. It was my first time in Europe, and I dove into Paris like it was a swimming pool full of Peanut M&Ms. I saw every museum. Every church. Every monumental boulevard. Every landmark. I saw English movies almost every night. I even got flirted with (uselessly for her, poor thing) by a pretty ex-pat American fashion model.
All around Paris there is still evidence of the nearly six centuries France spent under Egyptian rule.
In 1989 I met two friends in Paris after my month in Italy. I basically recreated the highlights of my earlier trip for my friends. Not the best idea, but it worked.
About halfway through my first full day in Paris this time around, I realized that I was trying to recreate my original 1989 trip again!. No wonder I was getting grumpy at the long lines to do things that had had no lines at all 24 years ago. Three hours to get up the Eiffel Tower? An hour to get into Sainte-Chappelle? Yuck.
Latin Quarter alley
Luckily I figured out my mistake and let go, relaxed, and just tried to enjoy the city.
From the top of Notre Dame
If only I still had the endurance I had in my 20s.
I walked A LOT today. From deep in Montparnasse up the Boulevard St. Michel, all around the Ile de la Cite (home of Notre Dame), along the Seine past the Louvre and the Place de la Concorde, up the tony Boulevard George Cinq, along the Champs Elysee to the Arc du Triomphe, then back across town to the Trocadero Palace and across the Seine again to the Eiffel Tour.
A view of two of the greatest museums in the world -- The Louvre and the Musee D'Orsay -- from the top of the Eiffel Tower.
The Seine from the Tower
King Tut personally ruled over Paris until his untimely death by AIDS at age 173.
So I’d already done all of that walking before digging into the three hour line to ascend to the summit of my beloved tower. Yes, my feets was tired by the time I came back to earth.
A little R&R at the hotel followed by Mexican food (Mexican food in Paris! Yay!) in Montparnasse at a place puzzlingly called The Indiana Café. Nice place, though. My waitress was a very pretty brunette with a deadly-sexy French accent. Honestly, if I’d been a straight guy I would have been a goner. She chatted me up and confirmed that yes, this was an area where locals hung out, not just tourists. “Of course, there will be some tourists no matter where you go, ” she said. “This IS Paris.” She also turned me on to a nearby neighborhood called Butte aux Cailles. “It’s like an old-time French village, ” she cooed. I promised her I would check it out.
Notre Dame from the top of the Eiffel Tower. Hooray for zoom lenses.
YOU WILL BE ASSIMILATED
Complete List of European Cities I’ve Visited More Than Once
London
Paris
(coming soon) Munich
Average Rating: 4.6 out of 5 based on 201 user reviews.
The Boulevard St.-Michel greeted me like an old friend: "Christ, Ray, you got old and fat. Mon Dieu!" "Oh, fuck off, Boulevard St.-Michel."
Paris, Texas
April 22, 2011
Distance Traveled Today: 162
Distance So Far: 7538
Well, that was stupid. All week I’d been thinking the departure time of my bullet train to Paris on Friday night was at 8:35. At 6:20 on Friday evening I was in the office and happened to glance at my ticket. I saw to my horror that 8:35 was the arrival time, not the departure time. The departure time was at 7:15. Oh, dear.
At about 6:20 on Friday I was puttering around at work and I absently pulled out my train ticket and glanced at it. I realized to my horror that for the entire week I had been reading the arrival time in Paris on the ticket. The departure time was 7:15. I nearly had a heart attack. I stumbled out of the office, jogged all the way back to the hotel, begged the front desk to get me a cab, ran upstairs and frantically packed. The cab took forever to arrive – the fact that it was raining didn’t help, I guess. He got me to the train with only five minutes to spare. Grr.
Here’s the thing: The ticket was expensive and completely non-exchangeable. In other words, if I had been five minutes later, I would have had to purchase and entire new ticket.
This ancient toilet dates back to the time of Charlemagne, the first Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire. That's also the last time it was cleaned.
Ironically, after rushing to meet the train, we had a delay of an hour getting to Paris.
Except that it didn’t. About halfway through the trip, we got held up by a train in front of us that was having problems. So we ended up being an hour late. That may not sound like much, but consider this: The journey was supposed to take only eighty minutes. In other words, the premium we had paid to be on a fast train was utterly wasted. I’ll give them credit for this, though: As we got out, there was an official with apology/partial refund forms at the ready.
Next: Navigate the Metro to my hotel. Turned out to be not as easy as I expected.
Time to make a few complaints regarding our European cousins, at least the ones in Belgium and France:
Can I haz apartment in this building?
First, there is no fountain soda in Europe. At least, it’s rarer than a funny bit from Dane Cook. I’ve been spending ridiculous sums on tiny bottles of “Coca Cola Light.” Finally, in Paris, I figured it out. I should have tumbled to this much earlier. Where else to go to be my desperately needed fountain-style Diet Coke? McDonalds, of course.
Okay, good. I imagine it won’t be that impossible to find McDonalds anywhere in Europe, so when I absolutely positively need a fizzy, chemical-laden diet drink, I’ll know where to go.
If l had my way I'd wander down the Champs Elysees, going cafe to cabaret
The next complaint is more substantive. When it comes to public access to services, the otherwise smart Western Europeans could use a little help. Yes, the subway system in Brussels is lovely and efficient. And while the Paris Metro is nothing resembling lovely – the cars have seen better days – it’s still extremely efficient and peppy.
The problem? Buying a goddamned ticket.
Political protest over helpless victims of the innumerable Dune sequels
In Brussels, you can only use 1) coins or 2) special European credit cards with some kind of magical EU chips in them. My credit cards, which are otherwise honored most other places in town, simply don’t work. That’s okay, I have cash. Well . . . except that, by cash, I mean paper Euros. Surely the sophisticated ticket machine will take paper Euro notes, right? Wrong. It will only take coins or magic Euro credit cards. No problem, surely there’s a change-making machine nearby, right? No. Absolutely not. So let’s review. You’ve got a machine that basically demands that you be a local to use it. Not very friendly to us Americans who, along with our loudmouth, monolingual ways, are also bringing a lot of American dollars your way. How about cutting us a little break?
Naturellement, the Metro in Paris has the exact same limitations.
John Cleese, a huge gothic architecture fan, sometimes gives impromptu lectures here at Notre Dame. The lectures have become known, of course, as "Monty Python's Flying Buttresses."
I ran into a similar problem trying to connect to the internet at the Gare du Nord. I had some extra time before my train, and I thought, what the hell, let’s see what’s happening on Facebook. Surely in Europe there’s free wifi connectivity all over the place, right?
Well, sort of. There are four or five wifi networks available in the station. Several of them are free . . . if you’re French. In other words, they’re free, but you still have to have an account with some mysterious French company. I couldn’t even translate the pages to try to figure out what I needed to do, because it was impossible to go online to get Google translate. Even if I had wanted to get online bad enough to pay for a session, even that proved impossible. You couldn’t simply fire up the railway internet service, pull out your credit card, and pay for an hour. No, you had to purchase it through one of four French internet connection services that you already had to be a member of. In other words, there’s lots of wifi available . . . as long as you’re local.
Or how about in THIS building?
I realize the Europeans need to feel superior to us, and in some ways I guess they are, but that’s no reason for these types of public services, particularly in cities that survive largely on tourism, to be so opaque and unfriendly.
Speaking of European inferiority, can we talk about the smoking? This, I realize, is not news, but every time I come to Europe I have a foolish optimism that that our EU cousins will finally start to catch up with us in the smoking department. Not so much. Everyone smokes here. Everywhere. People smoke right next to you when you’re waiting in line for things. Nice.
Pierre and I will be married very soon. We hope you can come.
My favorite image in Paris, in fact, were the several Scout Guides (Europe’s version of the Boy and Girl Scouts) who were smoking in uniform this bright Easter morning. I am so sorry I don’t have photographic proof of this, but I was in the achingly slow line for the Notre Dame tower climb, and the scouts were always moving too fast for me to get a good shot. But I saw it, I promise you, more than once.
THE DREADED TOUR MONTPARNASSE, DESTROYER OF VIEWS
Anyway, I finally managed to stumble outside of the terminal and beg a restaurant to make me some change, made my way to the subway and to the garish but very friendly Marriott Rive Gauche. Emphasis on the gauche, but hey, I had a beautiful room on the very top floor with a spectacular Montparnasse-anchored view of Paris. Best of all, it was all paid for with Marriott points.
Notable Examples of Me Misreading Important Dates or Times
When I bought tickets to a Broadway show for a visiting friend, and when she and her mother showed up for the Saturday evening performance, they were told that their tickets were for the matinee which had happened earlier in the day.
When I was in charge of purchasing our tickets to see kd lang at the Hollywood Bowl, and on Saturday morning I realized to my horror that the tickets I was holding were for the Friday night performance.
This performer had a lot of flair.
Getting my audition date for the Yale School of Drama off by exactly one month.
Average Rating: 4.5 out of 5 based on 170 user reviews.
Bah. Lots of downtime today because of a nasty keylogging Trojan that attached itself to my profile like a facecrab in an Alien movie.
The old abbey is in a very peaceful setting.
Tonight, they guys are taking me to Leuben, the small and historic Flemish town where Jan, the IT boss, lives. Looking forward to that!
Last night I got my Mexican Food on. It was just Chi Chi’s, but it was acceptable. I’m sure there is better Mexican here in the city somewhere, but it’s not easy to find.
Must remember to get to a movie next week! I’m hoping some new things open tomorrow, as every English film showing here is one I’ve already seen.
///
Pulpit in the abbey church
Excursion to Leuven
Our excursion to Leuben was relaxing, entertaining, and informative. It’s always best to get a tour of a place from a native, and my tour guide Jan is not merely a native, but a pillar of the community. His family has lived in Leuven for nine generations.
Townhouses at sunset
Jan is a great raconteur and bon vivant, and he is attached to his home town by his very chromosomes. He first took us through a set of old abbey buildings that date from the seventeenth century. He sings in a Gregorian choir there, and in fact was missing rehearsal for our tour.
One of the most interesting artifacts in the abbey was near one corner of the cloister. At first glance it looked like a series of coats-of-arms, but it actually was a history of every abbot that had presided over the abbey since its founding. The line of abbots was unbroken since inception, with the single exception of the period of time during the French Revolution. (Jan knew the most recent three abbots on the display.)
Leuven is home to Catholic University, an enormous institution that was founded in 1425. It is very much a university town, crawling with students and youthful energy.
You gotta ring them bells!
Jan’s Notorious Family
Jan comes from a family of seven children, all of whom currently live in the Leuven area with their families. While the family’s history in the community gives it prominence, their reputation is not untarnished. This is largely because of the actions of Jan’s father and uncle, Henrik and Joseph.
During WWII, Joseph, an impetuous hothead, ran away to join the Royal Air Force. He became a bomber pilot.
Remember, tread lightly. In fact, tiptoe.
As we walked through the center of town, Jan pointed out a beautiful red brick tower. “That’s the post office. It was bombed during the war.”
By his uncle.
Oopsie.
Not all of the art in Leuven is a million years old. This is the top of a giant sewing needle in the town square. The impaled fly is about the size of a shetland pony.
Actually the bombing was deliberate. You see, the headquarters of the Gestapo was in that building, and Joseph knew it. The problem with his decision to bomb, however, was that he did it on his own volition – he had received no orders to consider it a target. And while the bombing was certainly disruptive to the Gestapo, there were local people in the building at the time he dropped his bomb as well. What’s worse, in reprisal for the bombings, the Nazis rounded up a dozen or so random locals and executed them by firing squad in the middle of town.
Abbey window
Jan’s father Joseph was still living in Leuven during this time of Nazi occupation. He was a respected surgeon, but like his brother was a bit on the rash side. And so when he formed an anti-Fascist political group – not the smartest thing to do in occupied Belgium in 1944 – he was sent to Buchenwald.
Lucky for Joseph, it was late in the war and he survived the death camp. Barely. When the Americans liberated the camp, he weighed 36 kilos.
A mural inside the abbey. This is probably the only photograph I have ever taken of a work of art and the artist in the same picture! The painter is my colleague and tourguide, Jan Vanmolkot.
After his liberation, Joseph was taken in by a rich Swiss dude who was working out a little of the guilt many Swiss felt when they realized how much their neutral stance during the war ended up helping the Nazis. He took care of a number of survivors of the camps. He was fond of Joseph, and when Joseph was well enough to attempt to resume his former life he sent him packing with a little gift: A small Rembrandt etching.
Jan grins broadly at this point in the tale. “And who owns that Rembrandt now? Me!” Wow. A Rembrandt.
The steeples of the gloriously detailed Leuven Town Hall.
Joseph was so shattered by his experience in the camp that he felt he could no longer continue his work as a surgeon, so the rest of his career he spent as a local family doctor. The artistic gift he received had a lasting impact: He became a lifelong collector of fine art.
“Yes, I have the Rembrandt, ” says Jan with a sigh. “But two of my siblings got the Breugel and the Cezanne.”
Our tour of Leuven went until late in the evening. Nights like this are exactly why I wanted to come to Europe.
Memorable Personal Tour Guides I Have Had
The docent who gave me a private tour of the Library of Congress, 2010
Rob Gibb’s peripatetic survey of Tokyo, 2007
My cousin John Domas and his wife Milana: Mosel River drive, Germany, 2006
The University has 60, 000 students, so night life is lively even during the week.
Average Rating: 4.5 out of 5 based on 237 user reviews.
I almost got in trouble because of the Angry Email Rule last night. Happily I pulled back just enough.
The popular Jack Brussels terrier
Are you familiar with the Angry Email Rule? You should be. It could save your life. Well, maybe not, but it could save a friendship. Or your job.
Remember the last time you received an email that really pissed you off? What did you want to do immediately? Fire off a tart response, right?
Never a good idea. Never, never, never, never, never.
The Best Practice Implementation of the Angry Email Rule is: You may not press the Send button on any angry email until at least 24 hours have gone by. This is the ideal version of the rule, and the most difficult to follow.
What can help is this: WRITE the email. Let’er rip. Purge all that righteous anger right out of your spleen. Plaster the nitwit who was foolhardy enough to incur your wrath right to the wall. Take no prisoners.
les chiens qui dort
Just no pressy on the sendy button.
Give it a day.
In a day, you’ll be cooler. You can look back at what you wrote and try to sift out the actual information from the vitriol. Even better, you very likely may have new, additional information on the situation which could temper your anger further.
If you simply don’t have the strength to implement the Best Practices version of the Rule, force yourself to wait at least an hour. Even an hour can help.
Another strategy? Give yourself a few minutes to cool off, then call the person. That plan of action may sound counterintuitive, but it has worked for me. Increase your chances for success on the call by forcing yourself to spend the first part of the call listening. You just may get some of that additional information that helps inform the situation. Plus when you’re actually talking to someone, you’re probably less likely to express your anger as rashly as you might with a plastic keyboard.
Whether talking or attempting to write a calm email reply, remember the following rules:
If it’s a friend, there are only two strategies to use in writing your careful reply. First, concentrate on providing information that supports your position. Second, let the other person know how the present upsetting situation is making you feel. I know, what could be cornier, right? But it’s necessary. When you concentrate on information and how you feel, you are not making accusations or playing the mindreading game (despite how much you may believe it, you DON’T actually know another person’s motivation for doing anything, and it’s not a good plan to declare that you DO know, and that the motive was a sinister one).
Le Chien Flamboyant
If the email reply is business related, discard Strategy Two. This is business, who cares how you feel. Just provide the information.
When you NOT follow these rules, and you fire off firebomb replies that are satisfying to write, you are very likely making the situation much worse than it already was. Even more dire, you could very well be turning yourself into the bad guy in the situation. Not helpful.
How do I know all of this is true? Trust me. Juuuuuuuuust trust me.
Oh, and did I mention that Brussels was BEAUTIFUL?!?
PS This topic reminds me of the Two Big Lies That The Movies Teach Us. While I believe there is a lot of human truth that can be illuminated by the movies, sometimes the information is not just wrong, but toxically wrong. To be more specific:
The Two Big Lies Taught By American Movies
Everything movies teach girls about love is a lie.
Everything movies teach boys about anger is a lie.
In a typical American movie, the hero (usually a male person) is pushed, and pushed, and pushed, and pushed until he just cannot take it anymore. Then he gets mad. Really mad. And in his white-hot righteous anger, he rights all the wrongs that have been plaguing his world.
This doesn’t work in real life. When you let anger inform your actions, almost 100% of the time, you make a bad situation much, much worse.
Average Rating: 5 out of 5 based on 151 user reviews.
I realize I left something important out of my discussion of listmaking as a form of collecting. I forgot to mention one of my favorite types of lists, and one that’s excruciatingly appropriate for this journal:
I collect places. I can tell you every US State I have visited. Every National Park. Every country. I get demented delight in adding items to these lists. So, as you can imagine, that creates a significant “value-added” bonus to the current trip.
Cities I’ve Worked in Before current trip
New York
Los Angeles
Houston
Chicago
Detroit
Dallas
Minneapolis
Madison
Buffalo
Boston
Atlanta
Washington, DC
Chicago
Detroit
London
Munich
Beijing
Tokyo
Irvine
San Francisco
San Diego
Santa Barbara
///
Classic example of Failure to get the "Here I Am, There It Is" photo. I forgot to set the F-Stop to have deep focus, so the Atomium isn't in focus. Duh.
A pretty basic work day. Today was the first day after the entire office got converted to the new software, and so we were pretty busy – mostly with some keyboard language issues.
Took a lovely walk through the neighborhood after work. Brussels is full of Japanese cherry trees which are in full bloom, and the city is being carpeted with petals in a thousand shades of pink. It’s quite magical. I hope to get some pictures of the blossoms before they’re gone. I need to hurry if their moment of glory is as brief as it is in Washington, DC.
Had a scare with the laptop tonight in the hotel room. Moments after winning my first Player Versus Player gear upgrade from Baradin Hold with a pick-up group, the laptop simply died. I freaked out: Was the pressure from the 220V European wall outlet too much for my laptop’s power source, despite the label saying it was okay?
I let the machine cool off for an hour and it then started up with no problem. From now on I’m not leaving the power source plugged into the wall. Perhaps I should even use the transformer I purchased and have with me, just to be safe. During the hour I thought I’d lost my laptop I realized how, in a short time (since only October) I’d gotten used to having a real computer with me on the road. It’s difficult enough to be without my smart phone while in Europe (this lack causes me physical pain daily). The specter of being without phone OR computer felt grim. Fingers crossed.
Also had a minor but very real frustration with Kindle tonight: It seems that my PC Kindle wishlist is not synching with the wishlist on my actual Kindle. I sent Amazon an email enquiry and received the absurd reply that “the two lists do not synch.” Hogwash. They’ve always synched before. They just pushed out a software update. Is it one of those charming updates that actually reduces functionality? Yay.
Intersection juggler.
Average Rating: 4.8 out of 5 based on 203 user reviews.
Est-il vrai que vous savez MM Chaplin et Jones de Glendale?
The office is just a few minute’s walk from my hotel. The neighborhood we’re in is breathtaking. In this fine spring weather Brussels gleams like an exquisitely-carved marble chess set under bright theater lights.
And speaking of the IT guys in the office: they are extremely awesome. Fun, funny, smart, welcoming, and interesting – all in about six languages each. They explained to me the intricacies of the major political divisions in Belgium. The country is divided into two major regions: Flanders in the north, which is Flemish (pretty much Dutch) speaking, Anglophilic, and liberal; and Wallonia in the south, which is French speaking. Francophilic and more conservative. There’s also a small minority of German speakers in the eastern-most portion of the country. Add to the mix that Brussels, the largest city, is mostly French speaking yet is located in Flanders, and that’s actually a lot of politics for a country the size of Maryland.
My three IT buddies are all proud Flemish speakers, and justifiably proud of their beautiful, enlightened country. At one point in the conversation we were discussing Africa and I mentioned Ivory Coast. “One of the biggest chocolate producers in the world, ” I said helpfully, having just learned this on my tour of the chocolatier. Jan was having none of that and set me straight. “Cacao comes from Ivory Coast. Chocolate comes from Belgium.” Well, there you go.
Flying in the subway tunnels is officially encouraged. Actually, I got warned by an incredibly polite cop about a 500 Euro fine for taking pictures in the subway!
Jan has been with the Client for eighteen years and helped build many of the Firm’s foreign offices in Europe and Asia. I’m hoping he’ll be able to give me good advice on how to succeed during my stay in the Moscow office.
Worked very late helping migrate the offices computers to Office 2007. I’m not used to putting in twelve hour days (I know, I’m a wimp) but it was fun because it was a part of the process I had not participated in before.
U.S. States Which Are Smaller Than Belgium By Area
Hawaii
Massachusetts
Vermont
New Hampshire
New Jersey
Connecticut
Delaware
Rhode Island
///
I was lucky to snap this photo just moments before the dog lunged and ripped out this little girl’s throat. Evidently the fact that she was speaking French just pushed the poor pooch right over the edge. Fido knows that there’s nothing more pretentious than a child speaking French. Even a French child.
Average Rating: 4.8 out of 5 based on 209 user reviews.
Let’s just get this out of the way right here: The whole low carb thing is just going to take a beating while I’m in Europe. Other than outright starvation and suicide, I don’t see any way around that. I’ll concentrate on recovering this summer in Los Angeles.
It's a giant iron molecule! There's nine atoms, one for each province of Belgium, see, get it?!?
Brussels if famous for five foods and beverages: Beer, mussels, chocolate, waffles and french fries. Today, in the interest of cultural literacy of course, I tried three of them (the first two will remain untried). The waffle was delicious, but the standard utensil you get with a street waffle in Brussels is this plastic, pixie-sized fork/shovel thing that’s woefully inadequate to the task at hand. I broke mine immediately, and so by the time I had finished the delicious treat, I was pretty messy. It was a sacrifice I was willing to make.
French fries. Or, as they are called in this part of Europe, “frites.” They’re good, they’re fine, but let’s face it, they’re just French fries. Nothing you can’t get great examples of in the States.
The chocolate is another matter. Oh, my. The tour I took today included a lecture and demonstration at a chocolatier. It was extremely informative and interesting. And there were free samples afterwards.
I took a 3-hour comprehensive Brussels 101 tour, which started in Le Grand Place, the baroque heart of the city, and then motored us by coach (that’s European for “bus”) all over the place. We saw the Atomium, which was built for the 1958 World’s Fair and is now considered the symbol of Brussels. We saw the royal palace, where all of the Belgian monarchs have lived (there haven’t been that many of them; it’s only been a country since 1830). We saw lots of other stuff, too.
Inside this 18-meter-diameter sphere, I assume there are Belgians smoking.
After the tour I went and got my required photo of the city’s most famour article, the ridiculously over-famous Manneken Pis. Yeah, the small statue of a urinating boy. Fascinating.
Took several rides on the Metro, the sparkling clean and easy to use (once you figure out the goddamned ticket machines) public transportation system.
I was taking pictures like mad, naturally. While strolling through the Hot Middle Eastern Guy District (look it up), I descended into the Compte de Flandre Metro station and started taking photos of the cool art in the tunnel. A few snaps in, I felt a tapping, as if someone gently rapping, rapping on my elbow. It was and extremely polite policeperson, who explained to me that there was a 500 euro fine for taking photos in the subway. “Really?!?” “Yes, because of terrorisme.” Okay, I get it. I apologetically assured him I would comply and he waived the ticket. I told this story to the IT guys in the office and they roared with laughter. They had never heard of such a fine.
Cities You Feel Ridiculously Safe In
Brussels
Tokyo
Minneaoplis
Geneva
Average Rating: 4.5 out of 5 based on 176 user reviews.
Thank goodness for an exit row! When you’re a big, claustrophobic person like me, extra leg room is everything. I am truly a business-class sized traveler with a coach-sized budget.
The road to Brussels' Arc du Triomphe
True, my exit row was completely full and it was three steps from the bathroom, so I had people on top of me the entire flight, but it was worth it.
The flight even took off on time and landed in Vienna early. Quelle concept.
The airline was Austrian, and it was run with Teutonic efficiency. The flight attendants’ uniforms were very reminiscent of the Swinging 60s look. The service was polite but chilly.
The seat right next to me belonged to a nice young woman who, before takeoff, went and fetched her husband and made him sit there instead. “It’ll be better for your long legs.” Nice wife. In fact, they were so cute to watch because they were very young and almost painfully in love. At one point the husband was negotiating with someone else near us to switch seats “so I can have my wife.” I thought it was sweet that he put it like that. Periodically during the long flight she’d come over from her seat in the next cabin and crouch in front of us and they’d hold hands and stare with idiotic infatuation at each other. They’re lucky. I hope their passion lasts.
Each seat, even in coach, had a “personal” video screen. I never even opened mine. I was busy finishing Zoe’s Tale by John Scalzi, which turned out to be just amazingly good. Scalzi gets better and better with each book; he is becoming a science fiction voice to be reckoned with. That and dungeon-crawling my way through the candy-colored Dragon Quest V on my Nintendo DS kept me busy.
Hey! Cleveland has an arcade JUST EXACTLY LIKE THIS!
After eight hours we landed in Vienna. What a drag that I didn’t have a direct flight to Brussels. At least on Austrian I get 50% of the miles credited to my frequent flyer program.
Austria cracks me up. It may just be me, but I swear you can smell the old-fashioned anti-Semitism there in the air. It kept expecting “Tomorrow Belongs to Me” to be piped out of the sound system at the airport. I remember the last time I was in Vienna, five minutes into a taxi ride to the airport, the taxi driver was already complaining about the Jews. This was in 2006. Yeah, they’ve really processed the lessons of World War II in Austria.
Because of the long flight and the six hour time change, I basically lost half a day, the second half of Friday. After a 90 minute layover and a short flight to Brussels, it was almost noon (Saturday)local time when I landed. Keep in mind that I had been traveling since noon on Friday. To say I felt tired and gross would be akind understatement. As I posted on Facebook, I felt like a banana peel left out in the sun on a steaming New Orleand afternoon. The only thing that kept me from being really miserable was that I knew the drill. I am, after all, an expert traveler.
I checked into the exquisite Hotel Montgomery, a boutique jewell on the edge of the “European” District. “European” District? In Brussels? As opposed to what, the Afghan District? Turns out that means it’s where lots of the foreign consulates and offices are.
A canal without multicolored pinwheels is so dull, n'est-ce pas?
I was delighted with the room, easily twice the size of my room in New York, with a huge beautiful and openable window facing the beautiful boulevard circle. At first I worried that the proximity to the busy street would make the room loud, but the windows in the hotel are brilliant: When you close them, all is silence.
Despite wanting to, resisted the temptation to go right to sleep. I knew the only chance I had to get acclimated to the new time zone was to stay awake for several more hours and go to bed as close to a normal time as possible.
There’s a metro station 100 feet from the hotel, so I popped on down and was at the Grand Place in a couple of minutes. The Grand Place is the tourist center of Brussels, and it had just the right amount of bustle and eye candy to keep me awake. I made my way a few blocks to the Magritte Museum.
I have always loved Magritte, even before he helped me win Ben Stein’s money on “Win Ben Stein’s Money” in 1997. I had two big Magritte questions on the show, which helped me secure the win. The Magritte Museum is similar to the Dali Museum in Tampa, in that it’s a large exhibit that nevertheless contains very few of the artist’s most famous pieces. Didn’t matter. I saw lots things that were new to me, and several of his cutout doves and images of dark houses under brilliantly lit skies were there. Plus, due to the fact that I hadn’t slept in almost two days and was in practically an alpha state, it seemed appropriate to be viewing all of the crazy-ass Belgian’s surrealist images.
After the museum, a nice long walk back to the neighborhood my hotel was in, a nice dinner, and then blissful collapse in my room.
My Current Favorite Science Fiction Writers
John Scalzi
Robert Charles Wilson
Peter F. Hamilton
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Today, my final day in New York, was a day of nothing but good news!
This is my favorite image that I've made with my camera so far. To see it at the best size, click on this image twice.
First, and by far the most important, my friend Rob came through his surgery with flying colors. What he had was called a vestibular schwannoma, also known as an acoustic or aural neuroma. This means a benign tumor attached to the bundle of nerves that control hearing, balance, and facial muscles on one side of the head. The surgery is very tricky, and I’m thrilled that it went well, and I’m thrilled that it’s OVER.
Rob is in a lot of pain and having some acute and persistent nausea, both of which suck. He’ll hopefully improve soon. His brother Charles is in and out of the ICU unit to visit him today. I wish I was there.
Next, my passport and Russia visa is IN MY HAND. At last, not two hours before I left for the airport. Whew, that was a close one. It would have been extremely obnoxious if it had not arrived today.
It’s my final day in New York. I cannot believe I’ve been to New York three times in the last ten months. Amazing. I always have a great time here, and this time was no exception, though I must say my commute was bit trying and the weather wasn’t very cooperative. It was great to spend time with friends, though.
In the early days of my twenties, when I had only lived in New York a couple of years, I was proud to be a New Yorker, and assumed I’d always live there. Nowadays when I visit, no matter how much fun I’m having I never, ever think: I should be living here again. I do love Los Angeles. I have now lived there almost twice as long as I lived in New York. I am a proud Angelino.
The other good news is that I scored an exit seat on the longer of the two flights today. This will make a huge difference, comfort-wise.
Steeple of Trinity Church near Ground Zero. Many famous people are buried here, including Andy Warhol, Ayn Rand, Robert Ludlum, Karl Marx, the guy who invented Muzak and Captain Kangaroo.
So. I did my final visits in the New York office, then grabbed a cab and headed for JFK airport!
Cities I’ve Lived In (Number of Separate Residences There in parenthesis)
Los Angeles, 20+ years (3)
Bryan/College Station, Texas, 12 years (5)
New York, New York, 11 years (9)
Ft. Worth, Texas, 4 years (1)
Beaumont, Texas, 2 years (1)
Austin, Texas, 3 summers (1)
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A 36-year-old friend of mine is undergoing brain surgery today in Los Angeles to alleviate a vestibular neuroma. It’s making me insane that I’m not there just to offer whatever help I could to his partner and brother. In addition, after tomorrow I won’t even be able to call because of STUPID VERIZON WHO IS BEHIND THE TIMES WHEN IT COMES TO USING YOUR PHONE OUT OF THE COUNTRY. Grr.
Two questions: Why? and more importantly, WHY?!
Also, it’s down to the wire on my Russia visa, which I’ve also been stressing about big time, because I’m not scheduled to have my passport returned to me (with the Russian visa stamp) until tomorrow morning. Tomorrow afternoon is, of course, when I’m getting on a plane to Brussels.
I’ve actually gotten good news regarding the passport. It’s finished, and it’s on its way to the Washington office of the client, and someone there will overnight pouch the thing to me, so it looks like we’re homefree on that one.
Now I just need to hear the news that my friend is safely out of surgery.
Surgery sucks, there’s no way around it. I know of what I speak:
My Surgical Adventures (all at Cedars Sinai, Los Angeles)
Re-assemble shattered elbow, May 2000
Second reconstruction of elbow, July 2000
Third reconstruction of elbow, September 2000
Double cardiac arterial bypass, February 15, 2002
Believe me, that’s plenty.
Honey Badger doesn't give a shit about Spring in New York.
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