hit by bus

I was driving home from Koreatown on the 110 Northbound today, after a fantastic lunch with my sweet and badass, next-big-thing-in-rock friend Luis today when my car was rear-ended by a bus.

Yup, a big, blue, LAX Flyaway bus no less. The driver didn’t even notice he rear-ended me, and took the 6th street exit. Meanwhile, I took the 3rd street exit, dialed 911, shaking with anger and shock, and waited for the CHP. Three cop cars came, with six cops, I gave them the physical description of the bus driver, and the license plate that I read off the bus (which apparently came off wrong, I must have inverted numbers). They took my information and gave me a police report ID number. Then I called my insurance and they gave me a claim number.

Four things stand out from this experience:

1) I kept thinking of the delicious Korean BBQ I ate with Luis in K-Town.

2) One of the cops had an iPhone, which I commented on, and he said they were so useful for cops.

3)I overheard the cops talk and say “It was a BO number” referring to the bus license plate number. when I asked them what “BO” meant, they said “it’s cop speak” then I asked, “what does it stand for?” and they said they weren’t really sure. Probably “Bad Operation”, but it’s a slang they use for any mistake.

4) One of the cops told me “I don’t mean to sound like I’m taking his side, but that’s kind of what bumpers are for.”

Eye candy: Intelligentsia cafe

This is a new category: simply eye candy. One photo post. Once in a while, I’ll just post a nice photo, just for the heck of it. I took this one at Intelligentsia, a really nice coffee shop at the Sunset Junctions, where I went with A and D. A good time (and good coffee) was had by all.

25 degrees

So today, breaking all the rules of my health-related diet (no wheat, no red meat and no cheese) Nic and I went on an adventure to 25 degrees, deemed best burger bar in LA by some food critic in an airplane magazine I picked up on my way to the US last month.

It’s named for the number of degrees that makes the difference between medium rare and well done cooking for the meat, and the decor, as the web site aptly describes is “bordello meets burger bar”. I guess that’s why I felt like the place was seedy…

Burgers were fine, wouldn’t “break three legs off a duck”, if you know what I mean. Mine was better than Nic’s :-) but what I found interesting was the listing of cheeses on the “build your own burger” menu:

THE CHEESE 1.50

farm house cheddar / cow / lightly sharp / firm / england

st. george / cow / waxy / porous / semi hard / tart finish / california

crescenza / cow / soft / creamy / grassy / tart / california

midnight moon / goat / gouda style / semi hard / lightly sweet / nutty / california

mezzo seco jack / cow / firm / dry / mild finish / california

emmi gruyere / cow /woody / robust / swiss alps

smoked mozzarella / cow / creamy / smooth / smoky oak /california

american / cow / classic / oils / america

red hawk / cow / triple cream / lightly salty / long pungent finish / california

benedictine / sheep / goat / cow / creamy / mushroom taste / long finish / wisconsin

prelibato gorgonzola / cow / salty / soft / long pungent finish / italy

burrata /cow /soft /mild / california

Now that’s pretty impressive…

Picture of Nic’s food:

The best part of the day was driving from Westwood to Hollywood, which was a lot of fun…sunny, clear, good music.

Nic showed me where Nicolas Cage lives, which made me LAUGH as I admired his beautiful brown dobermans, it was my first drive through Bel Air and I kept hearing the Fresh Prince soundtrack in my head (to which I think I know most of the words).

Then, we drove through Sunset, which was lovely, in a strange way. The wide avenue with the short buildings, straight as far as the eye can see, terraces everywhere, big billboards with movie posters and Gucci ads, the mountains in the distance…LA is surreal, bustling, but surreal.

On the way back from the restaurant we had our pictures taken at Grauman’s Chinese Theater with a scary horror movie figure who has a white face punctured with nails and carries a sickle.

As I nestle next to him to take a picture, he turns his sickle blade towards my camera-wielding brother, who can clearly read the word “TIPS” painted in red bloody ink.

:-)

LA.

Food

I buy food that I don’t eat because I want my shelf on the fridge to be stocked full. I already don’t feel so at home in the house, and not having any food here would just make me feel like I’m really in a hotel. Not that I cook…I just buy the food. Then when the expiration date is way passed, I have to throw it out. I just went shopping tonight, and bought veggies, fruit, some soup. I was walking around the supermarket in that familiar daze, not remembering what I used to eat when I was in Paris…what did I cook? I just can’t remember…

Things have been so frantic, that I’ve been either out running errands, getting settled or spending time with friends so I’ve eaten out and haven’t had the time to cook. When I do end up at home, with nothing really to eat, I realize that it takes me in general two full months to get used to the ingredients in the new country, at least for cooking at home.

After spending a year and a half in Paris, I really had the routine (which had taken me a couple of months to acquire) down. I knew all the shops in my neighborhood, mostly all the products they carried, had tried them, and isolated the ones I liked, I knew where to get the best and cheapest produce, what yogurts to buy, what foods I ate in a given week and how much I needed, what I needed to buy for the recipes I made…

Here everything is so different! My digestive system has really taken a beating this last month. I don’t know all the shops, and what the differences are or where to get the best value for your money, I don’t know what the products are they carry, and when I see the products I just don’t know what they are a lot of times, or what to do with them! I don’t even remember what I used to make, and I don’t know what to buy. I often walk into stores and just don’t recognize anything and walk out empty-handed. And the food in restaurants is so different, fattier and sweeter, that I have had a mild stomach ache for a month.

So I feel good in general, but I think once I know what to eat and what to buy in grocery stores…it will be much much better. Right now I feel like a stranded hungry-sick tourist.

my brother in Paris

We went to the world’s most famous air show and all-things aerial expo: le Salon du Bourget (there are practically no photos of human beings…i.e. us four that went, but there are some cool pictures of plane spare parts !!! as well as some I think, of the maiden flight of the Airbus A380, the Titanic of planes)

we also went to the Musee d’Orsay, and so can you, since Nic took pictures of almost all the works of art in the museum. Which I think is great, because now I can access them from my computer. Be sure not to miss the “Origin of the World.” It’s the one where we all look like morons posing in front of it.

Nic also went to visit Abdu’l-Baha’s apartment in Paris, in the Trocadero neighborhood (overlooking the Eiffel Tower, which he also visited) while I was in Lyon for a day. I’m impressed he managed to match the EXACT tint of the real-life Eiffel Tower on his photo gallery background. I have been trying to find words to describe that color but for some reason “taupe” just doesn’t cut it.

We met up with some old friends from Congo in La Defense…and because of “budgetary constraints” ate at…Mac Donald’s. It’s not something that readily pops into your mind when you think of Paris, but if you’ve ever lived here, you’re forced to frequent fast-food restaurants at some point, at least if you hang out in large groups of young people: they’re everwhere, they’re not expensive compared to other options, and even begrudgingly, everyone will agree that they can find “SOMETHING” to eat. Now that they have apple slices and large selections of salads (both of which I don’t eat when I end up at Mickey D’s) it gives everyone a healthy cop-out! :-) I think that this slide-show is definitely worth taking a look at, especially for those of you in the US, since you get to see what the dining experience is like at Mac Donald’s in France…

All MD’s in the Paris area have wireless internet and this one specifically is so posh (there are probably over a hundred leather couches) and well lit because it is made to accomodate the corporate crowd of La Defense…

We had quite a good time. If Nic ever puts it together, the best gallery he could compile was “Nic eats his way through Paris photo-gallery”. I was the official photographer of “Nic eating a freaking huge savory crepe, “Nic eating a big Nutella crepe” “Nic eating three pains au chocolat” “Nic eating a huge rose-shaped Italian ice-cream in the Latin Quarter” “Nic eating a delicious mini-raspberry pie” “Nic eating his third quiche Lorraine” “Nic eating a great DONER KEBAB THAT ONLY COST 5 EUROS”. It was very entertaining, and probably one of my best memories of Paris so far…watching someone eat their entire body weight in food in the span of a week. :-)

the steps of Montmartre

You may know Montmartre from Amelie’s scenes, her creperie was a the foot of the Butte Montmartre (the hill) that overlooks Paris, from which you see that lovely panorama (the same you can see from “my” forest, but at a different angle, and…closer. It’s in the 18th “arrondissement”.

Paris is a fantastic organisation of circular quarters, (thanks to Baron Haussman who “redid” the city in the 17th century–I think and may be wrong, but we owe him some landmarks, like the arrondissements, and l’Etoile) starting from the centre, on an island in the Seine. This island is better known for Notre-Dame cathedral, in front of which lies a star, the origin of all of France’s roads (“point zero de toutes les routes de France”). All the quarters sort of follow each other from that one, clockwise, in a sort of spiraling snail, that coils along on top of each other, to the outskirts of the “Peripherique” to make up Paris intra-muros, inside the walls. The real city, not the suburbs. There is a distinction, mind you. Along the “wall” are doors that lead to Paris, and have beautiful names. “Porte Doree”, “Porte de Bagnollet”, “Porte de Vincennes” Porte Maillot, Porte de la Chapelle, Porte d’Orleans…there is a bus that goes around all the doors, and isn’t THAT interesting, other than for a documentary purpose, or to get from one to the other. I took it once, with a friend, some bread and cheese, I think about 5 years ago.

So each quarter has a bit of it’s own feel. The 34d-4th is pretty historic on one end, and Jewish in one part, and commercial in another, it’s the only pre-revolutionary part left, I think of Paris, and is called “le marais”,the swamp. This is where Bastille is. The 5th and 6th are called the Latin Quarter, very hip, this is where Sartre and Hemingway starved and wrote, mostly fueled by (then)cheap coffee and thousands of cigarettes. Etc. The 20th (where my monthly Classical music appreciation takes place, and is a PHENOMENAL, and hilarious experience, given by a very popular young French prof) is the youngest of the arrondissements, and was traditionally more working class, and has more recent architecture.

The 18th was a bit of a painter’s neighborhood. Picasso et al had their studios here, and it’s very touristy, but pretty. The cobblestone streets are small, cute, and mind-boggling, there are outdoor terraces, and great painters in plazas, but it’s more interesting in winter, when there’s no one here because it’s so cold, and the place has a more tangible atmosphere. I took some photos of the basilica that I posted a long time ago in black and somewhere “down there”.

It’s next to the red-light district and the Moulin Rouge, in the same neighborhood.

Two very very good friends recently came to Paris and we went to Montmartre, bought a baguette (which, as I was scolded by the salesman, was a shape and size known as “bread” or “pain” not “baguette, which are thinner and longer–ooops) some stinky cheese, cold cuts, and drinkable vanilla yogurt and we sat on the steps of the park under the basilica, and ate one of the best meals ever. We were in heaven.

It made me realize how fantastic it is to finally live in a place, where I can be as difficult as I want with food, and still be able to eat, well, and happily. Food is good here. Or maybe I just have a French palate, but I keep getting confirmations from visitors. You buy bread and cheese, and it’s a fantastic, flavorful meal. We went out for pizza twice, and it was gourmet pizza, finger-licking good.

We sat, there, perfectly contented, watching the third musketeer guzzle down the last Dr. Pepper in Paris. Literally the last, since they were unfindable after the contract was cancelled off last month. Dr. P must have had un-French conditions or something.

It was a wonderful afternoon, and we walked until our feet nearly came off, found a bus that dropped us off in the Trocadero area and walked around the 17th quarter (very posh) before finding a cafe to park ourselves, to talk, eat rhubarb tart and wait for evening to settle so we could find a place to eat a nice, cheap dinner.

It was so nice to have friends here. It was so nice to speak English…I missed the taste of the language on my tongue. It just rolls off like honey, effortlessly, none of those hard vowels to puncture the fall, and spike it, spice up the flow of words. English is so interesting.

That evening, we sat around, listening to our friends play guitar, and sing their songs, listening to their fingers, run along the strings to find old melodies of their college days, perfectly contented, in from the cold.

I miss them already…

But we’ll always have “Paris”….

the castle park.

I live near Louis XIV’s childhood castle. He was born there, and it was the main royal castle in the Paris region until he came about, for obvious reasons…he built the other ones.

It’s a pretty lovely city, really. Small cobblestone streets, dozens of fancy cafés, bars, restaurants, shops with overpriced, exquisite hand-crafted items. The castle is both beautiful and strange. There is a large park behind it, huge, as usual, but I’ve only ever walked through its adjoining semi-wild but maintained forest.

This past weekend, we did a very weird thing. We set out to go to a chain restaurant, a Belgian chain called “Leon de Bruxelles”, which serves only mussels and french fries, being Belgian. Unlimited mussels and french fries for 10 euros. We got a stupid order of “Moules gratinées”, basically mussles in butter, garlic and parsley, smothered with melted cheese. Good but wicked. I had to order a huge coke with industrial quantities of ice to de-grease my system, in an unscientific but largely psychological sense.

Anyway. We tumbled out of the restaurant, not knowing what hit us, not really walking straight after the quantities of cheese and mussels and fat we ingested, but very happy with a lovely meal, and we drove the ten minutes to St. Germain-en-Laye, to go…”walk it off”. Or so we intended to.

The two passengers were already sprawled in a post-food comatose state, me in the back seat, Mussels from Brussels stretched out in the inclined passenger seat, until our “designated driver” parked the car next to the municipal swimming pool, still enthusiastic, and chirpped, “So, everyone up for a walk in the park?”

Silence.

She pushed her seat back and we all kind of kept quiet, baking in our comfortable positions, sleepy, contented, unable to move.

We all slept for two hours in a public parking lot.

Then we got up, slowly, and laughed at how ridiculous our afternoon had been, heading off for the enchanted forest, its oak, beach, birk, plane trees, towering and majestic, our living cathedral of fresh spring. Awed by the beauty of the forest, we walked and walked, stopping to pick prehistoric stones, notice new plants, talk about forest memories, made fun of our afternoon some more.

We found a clearing that we followed, and saw, over the top of an old stone wall, something that we joked looked like the Eiffel tower.
Making our way through a little doorway, we ended up on one of the main alleys of the castle’s park, and found that it was indeed the Eiffel tower, and a breathtaking view of Paris, from our little elevation. The city, circular within its walls, lay about 15 miles South of us, and we looked, pointing to the different landmarks,neighborhoods, and a few minutes later, headed back into our forest, for more “exercise”.

I think that will be one of my favorite weekend days in “Paris” so far. I did zero of the things I had planned to do, ate a meal I probably will never eat again, and fell in love with my little countyry-side town and its cobblestone streets, enchanted forest, and views.

Finally, we stopped at the grocery store on the way home and bought fresh strawberries, which we slaughtered when we came home and ate, four hours after our greasy mussels, dripping with fresh whipped cream and vanilla sugar.

I’m giving my liver a rest this week…

Jamon Serrano

Again, not for vegetarians, but this was a revelation: Jamon serrano is the best ham you will ever eat….argh!

The rain in spain

I spent the whole train ride to Spain between reading the International Herald Tribune cover to cover, listening to the loud conversation of the two men behind me (who found everyone from kids to old ladies stupid and worth mocking in high-pitched stupid-sounding voices and talked business and computer gadgets for four hours) and devouring the French landscape for any indication of the Basque country side, a scarred mountainous mini-Scotland that I imagined, hungry for the country I´ve been dreaming about since I was about ten years old and heard that Basque people and culture are temperamental, passionate and mysterious…

After five hours of train, finally the flat landscape started bumping up into rugged hills with sheep on the sides, placidly eating, and in between two hills with old houses on the flanks, a beautiful view of churning ocean a light stormy grey-blue under the white waves, and I knew this was the country I´d seen in so many dreams and read about in so many stories.

It rained most of our night and morning in San Sebastian, but we still had a lovely evening running through the streets into stores, walking in and out of the million bars (with the same ¨basque font¨lettering on their overhanging signs) and ordering various appetizers (called tapas everywhere else but here pinchas) and this lovely grape-juice drink called Mosto (always served with two ice cubes and a slice of orange in a thick squarish glass).

We spent a long and leisurely hour in a Churreria eating churros (long thin clolumn-like tubes of fried dough that you dip in cups of melted chocolate) and playing backgammon and then walked in the streets again, until very early by Spanish standards (11 PM) and then I fell asleep instead of going dancing. Too tired…not used to the Spanish lateness yet.

We left San Sebastian this morning after a breakfast and a quick walk and are now in Bilbao, across from the incredible Guggenheim museum and its iridescent expo cubes.