Monday, December 24, 2007

Season's Greetings!

Last year around this time, I received the following email:
If I get one more pesky Christmas letter telling me in nauseous detail that on the second of January 2005 it rained and on the third it didn't, describing their husband's brilliant doings/redundancy/performance/Viagra requirements, their children's education/homework/sports prowess/exam results/love life/drug habits, and filling me in on all their beastly grandchildren's first teeth/burp/nappy change/word, I might do something I will regret.

I share the writer’s sentiments. Now that everyone has a computer, Christmas year-in-review emails/newsletters are beginning to take on the patina of an established tradition. Ever noticed how some seem to be written by a ghost writer in the third person or the by family dog (ever so cutesy) with the aid of a Microsoft X-mas newsletter template? Occasionally the names of the family members will be penned in but more often the letter starts with a generic salutation like, “Hello Folks!!!”

Bah! Humbug! Frankly I’m not interested in every detail of your kitchen/bathroom/bedroom makeover. And hey, does everyone’s kid ace every thing? Surely not! And as for Chewy, your eighteen-year-old Labrador retriever who you finally decided to euthanize? Okay, so he died on the way to the vet. I’m real sorry but geez, you’ve been sending me Christmas cards for eons, I haven’t seen you for yonks and who knew about Chewy? Now about that vacation at your time share in Kruger National Park…wow, that’s impressive!

As for the extensive description of this year’s weather, I live on this planet too. I know the summers are hot and the winters are cold. I don’t happen to remember the weather from one year to the next but that’s because I don’t make a point of it and those who do, don’t need to be reminded, or do they?

Then there are the lists of people who visited, which read like the Queen’s social calendar. Give me a break! I don’t know all your pals but I’m sure they know who they are and probably remember the visit themselves.

Commenting on these views, one of my email correspondents said: “I know what you mean. There are one or two that are very well done; and there are some that make you want to puke. The worst, I think, are the humble boasting ones to the effect that we have so many blessings, and then going on and on, in detail about all the blessings—the trip to Antarctica, meeting with the Pope, the kid who has to choose between Harvard, Stanford or M.I.T. But the problem is, one doesn't want to air one's dirty linen. In such an impersonal forum, I'm not going to talk about my depression, our marriage counselling, Ken’s failing grades, Evelyn’s teenage pregnancy or the dismay my husband Bob feels over Susie getting married to a man whose faith isn’t Bob’s, or worse, has no faith.”

My guess is that these mundane but ever so newsy missives are written more for the writer than the reader and would be a more honest year’s appraisal if the writer never intends to mail them. Should you still have the urge to write your year in review, let ‘er rip! Then stuff it --in your own Christmas stocking not in an envelope or inbox addressed to me. Pull-ease.

Sunday, December 02, 2007


Santa Baby






He sees when you are sleeping.
He knows when you’re awake.
He knows if you’ve been bad or good.
So be good for goodness sake.

Most North Americans will recognize the above lyrics and can probably hum the tune. Oddly enough, it was our Egyptian tour guide who reminded me of the Christmas jingle. His explanation that an angel sat on each shoulder, one to record his good deeds and the other his bad all in preparation for the final reckoning caused my mind to wander to the ditty.
He's making a list,
And checking it twice;
Gonna find out
Who's naughty and nice.


Santa Claus is Coming to Town penned in 1922, has been performed by Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Perry Como, Nat King Cole, Ray Charles, The Beach Boys, The Jackson Five, Dolly Parton, Bruce Springsteen…need I go on?
I first heard it when I was three years old and didn’t much care for the message. Who was this guy who could note my good and bad behaviour? Didn’t I have a big brother for that? Lest I forget the power of Santa, my parents reinforced the myth and told me he could reward or punish me by giving or withholding Christmas presents.
Newly emigrated from Europe to Canada, we had no television. My brother and I would listen to nightly radio broadcasts charting Santa’s progress from the North Pole to Toronto in time for his annual parade, sponsored for seventy-seven years by Eaton’s, a once prosperous and now defunct Canadian department store.
Well I remember that November day in 1953. I wore elegant hand-me-downs from the daughter of my mother’s New York friend. Her hand-tailored spring coat, transparent nylon gloves and best of all underpants with the back panel totally covered by rows of frills (I sooo wanted to wear back to front) offered no warmth whatsoever. Toronto shares the same latitude as Rome but not its November temperatures, the average being 7°C. All about me, Canadian kids wore knitted hats, woollen mittens and snow suits while I stood in front of my mother with chattering teeth, bone-chilled bare legs and frozen fingers.
I vividly recall that virtually all the parade’s participants wore white gloves but because one’s memory often proves to be faulty, I located a Canadian Government website to verify my recollection. Recorded memories described the penetrating cold that day. Archived film footage of the 1953 parade showed well-bundled children and sure enough, white gloves were the order of the day. That’s what made the next incident so frightening.
Just as a Massey-Ferguson tractor pulled into view a float bearing Santa and his reindeer, out of nowhere, huge white-gloved hands grabbed me from behind, plucked me off the ground, hoisted me to massive shoulders and pinned me there. I did not know whose hatted head I was clutching. Warned never to go with or talk to strangers, what was I to do when abducted?
You better watch out,
You better not cry,
Better not pout,
I'm telling you why:
Santa Claus is coming to town.

Petrified I could not enjoy my vantage point. Who was this guy? Finally, beneath the peaked policeman’s cap the head spoke to me with my father’s voice. “We’ll go meet Santa now.” Wearing his Saint John’s Ambulance uniform under his great coat, my father had been on parade duty that day.
A brief ride on an ancient streetcar, heated by a wood stove, and I was standing with trepidation outside the brass-handled spinning glass and wooden doors of Eaton’s Queen Street branch. I had never seen revolving doors before. With every turn a gust of hot air swooshed out into the street. Eager to be warm, I dashed into an empty partition of the revolving door and got my head caught between the door and the doorjamb. Pandemonium broke out. I may have screamed, my mother too. She pushed my head; my father pulled it. Hours later, or so it seemed, with sore ears and angry parents, I was led to an ‘alligator’. Horrified by the backward slanting slats of an ancient wooden escalator and none too keen to balance on the rickety rolling slats that didn’t quite form steps, I balked.
Indiana Jones had an easier time entering the Temple of Doom than I had reaching Toyland. Amid the bawling, the wailing and the coaxing, I edged toward to the jolly chuckler. The closer I got to him, the more intrigued I became by his sparkling white beard. When it came my turn to sit on his knee, I did so without fear—so keen was I to examine that beard. It was a fake. I said so.
No longer did Santa or his tab keeping terrify me. Before the year was out, my elder brother, an expert in all things then and now, said there was no such person as Santa Claus, but I’d already divined that.
A half-century later, Santa’s surveillance capabilities are no match to those of credit card and cell phone companies, closed circuit television or the Internet Interpol. They know if you’ve been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake.


This piece was published in the Dec/Jan 2008 edition of Hello Basel.

Friday, March 16, 2007

Culture Vulture

Throughout the last turbulent century whether under French administration, German occupation or even after suffering massive damage from American strafing, Strasbourg’s network of ten magnificent museums came into being.
Palais Rohan
Built between 1732 and 1742 as a cardinal’s mansion, the Palais Rohan served as a university under German occupation in 1871. It now houses three museums.
Inside the cardinals’ apartments, you’ll feel like an interloper as you stroll along the mirrored ballroom walls glowered at by rouged, powdered and periwigged ghosts. You can escape their glare in the impressive library with its massive wooden globe or in the chapel, where if you inhale deeply you might imagine catching a whiff of violet-scented vestments.
Within the courtyard is the entrance to the roomy, relaxed Musée des Arts Décoratifs, which houses a collection of 18th century furniture and china, elegantly and stylishly exhibited.
In the basement of this mansion is the Musée Achéologique, with twenty-one rooms of a rich collection of well-displayed artefacts, all discovered in the Alsace. It’s an exploration of Alsatian history from 600,000 years B.C. to 800 years A.D.
Like the cheerful Cambodian curator whose amputated limbs starkly illustrate the destructive force of the remnant but still active land mines and hand grenades he exhibits, Strasbourg’s archaeological museum displays its more primitive but equally lethal weaponry in context, i.e. along side split and fractured skulls. In general, the exhibits are artfully displayed in context, thus no dusty musty fusty fare this museum.
Musée des Beaux-Arts is on the first floor of the Palais Rohan. We were strapped for time and whizzed through it but it too is worth taking time. All in all, it’s rather convenient to visit three museums in one.
Located at the foot of the cathedral, the Musée de L’Oeuvre Notre-Dame houses seven centuries of art from Strasbourg and the Haut Rhin. Strasbourg was one of the most important artistic centres in the German Empire from the thirteenth to the sixteenth century.
During the thirteenth century, the cathedral’s exclusive architects, masons and stone masons constructed and maintained the church (shades of Jude the Obscure) within this building. It must have been a bustling noisy workplace, the antitheses to what it is now, uncluttered and oddly serene.
There’s a treasury where church monies were collected, managed and kept in a safe. The museum houses sculptures, ironwork, tapestries, stained glass, paintings, gold and silver objects, furniture and more. There are two wings to the building, one built in 1347, the other in 1579 that has a fabulous winding stone staircase.
A visit will take two hours or more with an audio guide available in English, French and German.
Musée d’Art Moderne et Contemporain is a bright, spacious, minimalist building with a cosy restaurant. Probably the worst person to review a museum of contemporary art, I can say the gigantic bright orange rhinoceros was cute (now gone) but the ascending row of fluorescent lamps, the single tea towel, the plexiglass office trash can or a man’s suit jacket are not what I travel 90 plus kilometres to see. Except for the ascending fluorescent lamps, mine are on one level, the ceiling, I’ve got all four items in my laundry room. Guess that makes me arty?
I was really taken with an incredibly realistic statue of a blue suited man sitting in a chair until I called my daughter to come and see, got closer and saw it wake up and yawn. Not to be unfair, however, there is considerable wheat among the chaff. Honest.
Musée Alsacien
The door to this museum doesn’t even hint at what lies behind. It’s an aesthetic, extensive museum consisting of two houses characteristic of 17th century Strasbourg and an inner courtyard. Some of the window frames are from demolition sites going back to 1580. Each room depicts an aspect of every day life in the Alsace from the 18th to the 19th century. On display are costumes, furniture, toys, religious objects and work shops. It’s impossible to whip through so allow yourself some time look and see or perhaps return for a second visit. It’s a great place to take visitors since it’s located a hop skip and a jump from town so even if you have to bring all the old aunties, in-laws etc. you won’t mind repeated visits. It’s complete, illustrative and a frankly stunning museum in every respect. Now for the good news: entry to the museum is free throughout 2007 in commemoration of its centennial. Can you think of any reason not to go?
All of the museums mentioned above are within walking distance of each other and the centre of town. For additional information on opening times, accessibility and the history of these museums, check the Internet: http://www.musees-strasbourg.org/.

Wednesday, January 03, 2007

Double Dutch

Perhaps this piece deserves a disclaimer or even a warning:
Adult readers only. The writer refuses any responsibility for lost innocence.
When ever I tell people this story they want more, but I cannot invent more than what happened, much as I try. They say it’s incomplete, unfinished. One reader said, “Hey, it’s not fair! Where’s the rest of the story? Where’s this shop and what’s the name of the saleswoman? Don’t leave ME hanging!”
Some, notably only Americans, have been offended. I think that proves my point so I consider the vignette successful. I was dressed down by an American school teacher who thought I must have better things to write about and just what did my husband think about this? (He, having completely forgotten the incident, laughed.) But then there are those who would burn books before even reading them. So it goes...

I enjoy buying clothes with my husband, his clothes that is. Because he belongs to the tallest race in Europe, he shops in his homeland, the Netherlands. There, pant legs are usually cut long and generously enough to accommodate the sturdy Dutchman’s leg (all cyclists, born with a steel bicycle pedal in their mouths). Virtually everything he tries on fits, and if it doesn’t he takes on the attitude taken by most men, i.e. the fault lies in the cut of the cloth not his body build. For example, take the last time we bought him a suit together. It fit rather well, except in one place.
“It’s too tight in the crotch,” he announced, coming out of the dressing room grimacing.
“That’s the style right now,” the saleslady explained.
“Could be, but they’re too tight for me.”
“Pants are cut differently this year.” Elaborating, she added, “One has to dress in the centre.”
“But 1 happen to dress to the left.” my husband replied matter-of-factly.
“It’s the jeans cut. To wear it, you must dress to the centre,” she insisted.
“That may well be,” he ventured, “but I still dress to the left.”
“You’re probably used to wearing pants with three folds. But this year there’s only one fold. You have to dress to the centre.”
“Could be, but I still dress to the left,” now my spouse insisted.
Did I hear correctly? Were my husband and a
saleswoman amiably, unashamedly and openly discussing the tilt of his genitalia? Trying not to let my North American sensibilities and all too Puritan upbringing show, I said nothing.
“There was a time when everyone wore boxer shorts and could let everything hang nice and loose,” she said, turning to me with a confiding look as if to say, just between us girls, we know what it is to hang nice and loose.
I gave her my best virgin spinster look.
Unfazed she returned her attention to my husband and dropped to her knees in front of him. What was she planning to do I wondered?
“Well,” hubby began, “I’ve never worn boxer shorts and these pants are still too…”
Now I doubted my eyes? The saleslady was reaching up with both hands towards my partner’s crotch.
“Oh no!” I thought. “She’s not going to?”
Then she did. With both hands she rearranged, pulled, patted and straightened his pleats.
“So what do you think, Maddy?” my mate appealed to me.
“I think,” I hesitated, still recovering from what I had just witnessed, “if you’re willing to walk around in a suit you have to pull on the crotch every few seconds to wear comfortably, then go ahead.”
“Can the pants be let out?” my husband asked.
“Of course,” the saleswoman answered brightly, but I thought I detected a certain reluctance in her tone.
Bon Appétit


It was just past dawn when I spotted them in the misty grey light. I am tempted to call them middle-aged, but are people in their fifth decade, "middle-aged"? We are not, all of us, going to live past one hundred years. Without ever completing the comparison, some would call them an "older couple". Let's just say they were in their late fifties, perhaps early sixties, both shod in gumboots, carrying a stout stick each and plastic shopping bags. Poking the undergrowth, they were avidly searching the ditches near our French Atlantic campsite. I wondered why? What were they looking for beneath the brambles? I hesitated to ask, for my French still fails me. I kept mum and walked on, my pooch scampering past.
On the return trip an hour later, the couple was still scouring the roadside where all the campers' dogs, including mine, relieved themselves. With regularity, the wiry little woman retrieved something round and brown that she gleefully popped into her plastic sack.
Could it be mushrooms I wondered? Surely mushrooms were more plentiful in the dung-splattered meadow from which I just came? Then I remembered that eighty percent of fungi grow near trees. Elder trees skirted the road, so perhaps they had found Auricularia auricula or Judas' Ear (named for Judas Iscariot, supposedly hanged on an elder tree). I could almost taste the sliced tree ears in a sauce made with onions, garlic and basil, thickened with crème fraîche then spread on toasted pain paysan.
Or, had they collected the versatile Bay Bolete? (Boletus badius for purists, but who could forget such a name even in Latin?) Could they have picked the highlight of the mushroom season, the fabulous-tasting, Chanterelle? No, I supposed not since the Cantharellus cibarius prefers mossy clearings, it had to be another variety.
Yes! I had it. They must have come across the Shaggy Ink Cap a.k.a. Coprinus comatus, another hard-to-forget name. Everyone knows this common fungus grows on grassy banks and road sides. How had I missed it? A couple of mushrooms, some onions, a little potato to thicken, sweated together and then puréed, made a simple, but sumptuous soup. But her catch was not white and certainly not shaped like the Shaggy Ink Cap. How could I entertain such a notion?
It had to be the Hedgehog Fungus, not your garden-variety mushroom, the
Hydnum repandum. Hard to find and much sought after this gem, but they were looking in exactly the right spot, a drainage ditch. That was it!
But no, wait, the Hedgehog Fungus is cream coloured; their booty was definitely brown. Exhausting my scanty knowledge of mushrooms, I regretted I could not yet accurately identify my prey, especially since I knew that one poisonous pick could contaminate the whole bunch. Fortunately, mushroom collecting is such a favourite and serious past time in France that pharmacists are trained to recognise the deadly fungi in collectors' baskets. However, this pair did not carry baskets.
"Bonjour Madame," I sang my greeting as I approached.
"Bonjour," she sang in return, sizing me up and clutching her precious cargo close to her body.
"What are you looking for, Madame? What have you got in your sack?"
Upon hearing my accent, obviously foreign and devoid of any gourmet undertones she relaxed and smiled, showing her ageing twisted teeth. I suspect she decided her treasure-trove would be safe from the likes of me.I would not return to mine the mother lode. Her husband joined us, the smell of cigarette tobacco lingering about him. Grinning wider, she opened her bag to reveal her find. Our heads almost touching, we stood and examined the loot.
Fifty or more Helix aspersa! Great gobs of slobbering, slippery, slimy invertebrates slithered about, each soft unsegmented mollusc leaving a mucousy trail for its fellow gastropods to navigate.
I have never much cared for snails—and living in France as I do, I realisethe blasphemy of my statement. This dislike is not based on prejudiceagainst all things creepy, crawly and crustaceous, but I've seen snails in their natural environment, and I've seen what they eat. Detritus, the encyclopaedia politely calls it.The fact is, I've always considered hot parselyed garlic butter infinitely more delicious than the rubbery creatures it enrobes, even when they are labelled escargots d'or. I admired the couple's abundant haul.
"Bon appétit!" I called, thinking "Garden snails... chacun son goût."