It Takes A Village

"All the king's horses and all the king's men can barely put Bill together again."

Remember when you were 26 and you didn't have a regular doctor?  How many y'got now?  I have five and counting.  There's the cardiologist, the ophthalmologist, the dermatologist, the asthma & allergy guy and the Doctor of the Month at UF Health.  I used to have a urologist but I shed that one after I had my prostate removed.  Does that mean I'm 4-1 or 1-4?  In any case, that's just the beginning.

I also have a Thai massage woman named Deborah, whose job it is to keep me from going to an orthopedist.  She beats me up every third Wednesday in her lovely salon on the outskirts of Marion County to keep my back from tightening up.  Sometimes it does anyway, for no apparent reason.  Last Wednesday, Deborah told me I might need to see a chiropractor soon for my annual jolt.  Does that put me up to six or do backcrackers not count?

Anyway, on Tuesday I tootled over to the Chance Chiropractic Clinic in Hogtown for my punishment.  They must be doing something right, said Deborah, they've been around for 40 years (but then again, so has the Republican Party).  When you go to this place, chances are you'll be seen by Dr. Chance because there are four or five of them.  Now some people prefer what they call "gentle chiropractic" in which the doctor taps you on the spine a couple of times with a tiny hammer, waves a wand over your aching body and says a couple of prayers.  Gentle chiropractic doesn't work for me.  I need assault & battery chiropractic, which this particular Dr. Chance was more than willing to render.  In case you've never been subjected to A&B work, it's not a walk in the park.  Something in your back has moved into a bad neighborhood and the doctor must motorcycle in, grab the offending part and shove it back where it belongs without killing you or making you cry for your mother.  My Dr. Chance did this with aplomb, although the scary crunching noise makes you wonder if any body parts were harmed in the process.  I'm not 100% yet, but I'm doing much better.  I have to go to the dermatology doctor tomorrow.  I'll let you know how that works out. 

Bill's Thai massage therapist, Deborah; whiners need not apply

Skin In The Game

Back in the days before Mohs surgery when people lived in caves and ate dirt, I noticed a spot on my left jaw that bled a little after I shaved and never seemed to scab over.  Oh-oh--"sores that do not heal"--Number 16 on the list of cancer symptoms.  I went to a fancy-schmancy plastic surgery place in Ocala owned by an Indian doctor to get it checked out. The main man was busy with expensive breast augmentations and butt tucks so he handed me off to one of the 16 Patel boys working there.  He cut a little off and sent me home.

I was back a month later.  "Didn't work," I said.  He cut some more, which wasn't enough either.  The skin on my jaw was rapidly diminishing and the trips to Patelville were getting tiresome.  The doctor said they could only snip a bit at a time and where the cancer began and ended was tough to determine.  Finally, however, it was gone.  I thought next time I had a derm problem I might go somewhere else.

If you stayed out too long in the sun as a callow youth, which we all did, you've probably had basal cell carcinoma by now.  If there is one cancer you'd prefer to bring home to dinner, this is it, not the dreadful Melanoma or that plug-ugly Squamous Cell.  These days, Mohs surgery performed in a medical center with a lab makes it easy: cut, analyze, cut some more if necessary, all in one session.  No more playing around for a month or more hoping for the best.  By now, I was going to Shands Dermatology for the occasional snip and the annual once-over.  During one exam, my frowny-faced doctor showed concern.  "I don't like the looks of this," he said, pointing to a place on my neck.  Turned out to be a slow-growing melanoma.  They took it out and before you know it a squamous cell took its place.  Must have been a desirable neighborhood, everybody wanted to live there.

If you get a lot of small skin cancers, UF will offer you a mysterious blue-light treatment, in which your skin is scraped clean and a special photosensitizing solution (likely aminolevulinic acid) is applied.  After an excruciatingly long wait for the abnormal cells or oil glands to absorb the medication, you are given protective goggles and an large alien apparatus is slung over your head and turned on.  As Ella once sang, you ain't been blue til you've had that mood indigo.  "That feelin' goes stealin' down to your shoes, while you sit and sigh, 'Go 'long blues.'"  Then they wrap you in swaddling clothes to protect you from the sun on the ride home and lock you in the house for the next two days.  I let this happen exactly once.  When someone suggested it a second time, I threw a lighted match at him.

This latest visit with the lovely and talented Dr. Stephanie at Skin Central was a laugher.  We talked about the wonders of Paris and her upcoming trip to Glasgow while she blasted me with liquid nitrogen in four places.  If you've never had this treatment (which would be a miracle if you're over 60), it feels like you're being assaulted by angry bees after a honey heist.  Liquid nitrogen is like a last warning to basal cell: "You keep this up, Buster, and next time we cut!"  In addition to the jaw, I've had surgery on my nose, back, one ear, both sides of my face and almost my butt.  Say what?

Hong Kong Hattie

About eight years ago, I noticed a tiny lump under my skin right at the crack of my butt.  It made sitting in certain positions uncomfortable so I showed it to Dr. Christina at the shiny new UF Dermatology headquarters at Springhill.  "It might be something as simple as a hair," she said, "but you should get it taken out."  That seemed a little radical, I protested.

"I've seen these things get as big as a golf ball...you don't want that."  No, indeedy.  All the pillows in the world would be useless in the face of the dreaded buttball.  Besides, all the kids at the gym will make fun of you and you'll never get a second date with a decent woman.  Dr. Christina made me an appointment at Shands on Archer Road with an "excellent" surgeon from Hong Kong.  We'll call her Hattie.

I promptly reported for duty on the assigned day and Dr. Hattie, all four feet of her, showed up with her assistant, Clarence.  She had big glasses, wild hair and a loud, raspy voice out of proportion to her size.  She didn't mince words: "Hi!  I Doctor Hattie!  Hear you have butt trouble.  Show us your butt!  Ha ha ha!"  So much for the polite and genteel manners we associate with the fastidious Chinese.

Hattie investigated site and said, "Oh-oh!  Houston, we have a problem!"  What's that, I wondered?  "Too close to...you know...might get bad infection."  But Dr. Christina said it might blow up like a balloon.  "Get bigger, I fix it.  Not bad now."  

Mildly outraged, Christina got me another appointment, this time with a Jewish standup comedian, so now I've heard enough butt jokes for a lifetime.  He demurred also.  Luckily, the offending culprit one day just decided to pick up and move elsewhere.  Dr. Stephanie says if it comes back we'll pound it to jelly, but I think she might be kidding.

Not Dead Yet

November 2, 2026 will be my 86th birthday.  You don't get this far without some combination of excellent doctors, good genes, dumb luck and an innate ability to foil the Reaper.  It takes a village.  Luck certainly showed up when I rolled my t-top Toronado in a Micanopy ditch 30 years ago and again in 2024 when a certified lunatic smashed into me head-on near Fellowship.  I missed meeting Jesus by 20 minutes during a long cardiac infarction when Dr. Daniel Van Roy of CVI popped a stent in just in time.  Prostate cancer took a swing, cleverly keeping my PSA low, but a digital test saved the day and Dr. Li Ming Su extracted the thing with his magic da Vinci machine at Shands.  And no, you will not necessarily be impotent forever after, especially if you make friends with Mssrs. Viagra and Cialis.  Dr. Su offered to introduce me "to a woman downstairs who has a magic pump" but regrettably I eschewed the tryst.  In retrospect, I think it might have been fun.

You have to do a few things own your own.  I'm a big believer in daily exercise, even if it's just a long walk down the street.  I'm not a vegetarian but I'll skip the beef, thank you, along with carbonated beverages and my favorite pastries from Mr. Dunkin's place.  I've been taking a small amount of testosterone weekly via the needle since age 55. and I gobble down a few capsules from Qualia Mitochondria at lunch.  By all means, secure a wife or partner with a fast car and a thorough knowledge of the best routes to the emergency rooms.  Cultivate interesting friends, but stay just to the left of crazy.  And remember, it doesn't hurt to give some unfortunate human a leg up when his or her world is in flames.  In all honesty, it will make you feel better than the person you're helping.  Finally, if you're feeling bad and all is lost, go to Paris, regeneration capital of the world.  You'll leave smiling if you leave at all.

Pardon me, now, I have to get ready for my annual visit to the dentist.  Does anyone know where I can get a low-interest short term loan?

That's all, folks....

bill.killeen094@gmail.com           

 

Soccermania

“Oh, Granny McGee was a menace to all
With whiskey in hand and a mouth like a brawl;
She’d outdrink the sailors, outcurse the men
And fart in confession just to do it again.”

I hate to admit it, but I’ve been watching soccer a lot lately due to the bizarre spectacle know as the World Cup.  I think those bagpipe-playing Scotsmen started it by bouncing down the street by the thousands to Fenway Park to watch a Red Sox game, delighting all the gawking Bostonians in their path with sterling renditions of Flower of Scotland and Scotland the Brave and The Bawdy Ballad of Granny McGee.  After that, they drank up all the beer in Beantown and went out to celebrate at Waffle House.

Before we could say, “Yer head’s full o’ mince,” here came the Norwegians, pretending to be Vikings and rowing up escalators.  The Germans have referred to a visit to Raising Cane’s (not the Grand Canyon) as “life-changing” and were treating places like Walmart and Costco like giant theme parks, marveling at the endless aisles.  Fans from Uzbekistan embraced their heritage by trotting on horses in full armor through downtown Houston before their match with Portugal.  The U.S. State Department estimated that just under 10 million visitors traveled here for the World Cup and half that many hit all three Cup countries (USA, Mexico and Canada).

The visit to Massachusetts was such a smashing success, Glasgow and Boston have become sister cities and New England Patriots owner Bob Kraft is hitting up the NFL Commissioner to schedule a game in Scotland.  The visitors said they were wary of how they’d be greeted after all they’ve been reading lately about America, but the natives treated them like long-lost relatives, especially in the saloons.  Alas, the Scotch soccer team wasn’t as spectacular as its fandom and they headed home with but a single meager win.  Still, after 28 years of non-participation in the Cup, things are looking up not only for soccer but also Scotland’s tourist industry.  The hotel phones are ringing off the hook daily now with eager New Englanders booking rooms with a view on the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.

The Big Show

Now, if you were to ask the average man in the street what he thought about soccer pre-Cup, he’d likely close his eyes and pretend to be sleeping.  But just about everybody likes The Big Show, whether it’s Taylor Swift’s wedding, the World Cup or Rodeo Week in Vegas.  At the Olympics, people watch synchronized swimming and ballroom dancing and curling, where two men with brooms try to beat a large stone down a runway of frozen water droplets.  These are things most observers equate with watching paint dry or tolerating untimed chess under ordinary circumstances, but when national pride is at stake…when it’s The Big Show…they are rapt with attention, even for soccer.

Soccer is frustrating.  It’s like hockey without the brawls, a frustrating back-and-forth on an oversized football field where teams score about as often as Trump leaves a tip.  For anyone with a dog in the fight, this is okay, maybe even exciting, but for everyone else it’s like watching milk curdle.  People like offense…home runs, three-point shots, punt returns for touchdowns.  Most can even live with a nice pitchers’ duel or a courageous goal-line stand.  But 90 minutes-plus of slogging east and west, painstakingly inching forward with tiny little kicks to a neighbor five feet away and waiting for the slightest opening, only to invariably have the ball stolen and taken in the other direction is trying one’s patience to the hilt.  The whole affair is strangely remindful of a date with a Catholic girl in 1955…probe, probe, probe, overstep an inch and the evening is going the other way before you know it.

Then there’s the falling down, pretending to be mortally wounded in the hope that a naive referee will take pity and hand you a bon bon.  People are falling down willy-nilly on virtually every play in a soccer match…like defenseless tenpins at the World Series of Bowling.  Oh, the inhumanity!  Every injury is, of course, a horrendous wound, a threat to life and limb reflected by long-practiced expressions of agony on twisted faces.  Only the death scene from King Lear can compare.  The officials are a solemn, unsympathetic lot, but great showmanship occasionally wins the day, earning a yellow or even a red card for the dastardly villain who perpetrated such mayhem.  The card is hardly out of the ref’s pocket when the pulverized soldier jumps up and returns to the game smiling.

On the rarest of occasions, after hours of fan frustration and reluctance to go to the bathroom, a mighty goal is scored, a feat that shatters the air with deafening celebrations which climb up the hillsides and explode windows five miles away.  The supporters of the scoring club, many dressed for maximum tribal identity and weatherproofing, are overcome with the emotion of five straight orgasms and are liable to break into songs like You’ll Never Walk Alone (Gerry & The pacemakers, 1963) or Vindaloo (Fat Les, 1993).

“The Beautiful Game” has been growing over the years in the United States, whose women’s teams invariably challenge for Olympic and World Cup glory and have often won the prize.  The men, alas, seem to have trouble getting out of their own way.  After an encouraging start in 2026 and playing at home in deafening Seattle against Belgium, the U.S. lads played a timid first half but showed some resilience early in the second, keeping the ball in Belgium’s end the majority of the time.  That’s when the American goalie suddenly remembered he was actually Elmer Fudd and let a wicked wabbit steal the ball away from him and plunk in goal number three for an insurmountable 3-1 visitors’ lead in a contest that will be forever titled “The Belgian Waffle.”

That’s okay, American soccer fans.  We’ll always have that win over Paraguay and the Fenway bagpipes blasting out the lurid strains of Granny McGee.  By the way, how long can you amateur soccer announcers stretch the celebratory announcement “G-O-O-O-O-O-AL?”  Romanian sports commentator Ilie Dobre sustained a shout for 1 minute and 8 seconds on a single breath during a match with Hungary in 2013.  The impressed listeners presented him with a bouquet of peonies, some plum brandy and a meat pie.  Who says soccer doesn’t have its moments?

They Came For The Soccer But Stayed For The Ranch Dressing

Tens of thousands of soccer fans landed in the USA on July 4, 2026, our country’s 250th birthday.  They came for the football but got bully jet flyovers, drone shows and fireworks.  Eighty thousand people from 100 countries sang “Country Roads” like a knockout-round anthem.  They were everywhere, marveling at the free ice dispensers, reverently filming Taco Bell menus and learning the importance of discussing the weather with Americans.

Often portrayed as staid observers, the Germans took a walk on the wild side.  One of them loved Walmart so much he had the logo tattooed on his leg.  Another named FreddyLA7 was so flabbergasted by the size of a Buc-ees, he filmed himself yelling, “DUDE, THIS IS A GAS STATION??”  German fan Sebastian Krause broke down crying on Boston TV because strangers gave him a ride to his hotel.  He said American hospitality shattered every expectation he’d formed from foreign news coverage.

Swedish fan Elsa, like several compadres, went nuts over Ranch dressing in Indiana.  “Why did noone tell us Ranch sauce is like crack?  Europe, get us some Ranch ASAP!”  Many Italians were blown away by free soda refills (France banned them in 2017).  One boisterous Roman gleefully exclaimed, “I ordered a medium coffee and received what we Italians would classify as a bucket.”  A disbelieving Britisher called a 2-litre Big Gulp “One of my favorite things I’ve discovered in America.”  And then there was the astonished Japanese traveler who couldn’t get enough of Waymo driverless taxis.  “I rode in them in Dallas, Houston and L.A.  You can get one from an app without speaking a word of English!”

The soccer, all agreed, was first rate.  But the football couldn’t compare with the condiments.

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com

      

Musings

Most of us born and raised in the United States never give a thought to taking up residence elsewhere.  We are taught from birth we live in the greatest country on Earth, the land of the free and the home of the brave, a democratic republic in which all men are created equal, where seldom is heard a discouraging word and the skies are not cloudy all day.  If that was never 100% true, it was close enough.  Social Science classes taught us a lot about the rest of the world and we thought it might be a nice place to visit but we wouldn’t want to live there.  We had stable politics, highly arable landmass, sufficient energy supplies and we lived in a temperate zone.  Hell, we had Yellowstone National Park, Disneyland and the NFL!  Besides, all our doctors were here.  Aside from living in a yellow submarine, what could be better?

Then came an absurd war in Vietnam, where some of our friends got drafted and eventually killed or maimed.  Potential draftees packed up all their cares and woes and fled to Canada and Mexico.    Some of them never returned.  They wrote back extolling the virtues of socialized medicine, the lack of race discrimination, a better diet, a live-and-let-live philosophy, no guns.  College kids spent summers in Europe and came back impressed by the food, the art and the attitudes.  Magazines published articles about people living longer lives in Blue Zones like Sardinia, Italy and Ikaria, Greece, the Nicoya Peninsula of Costa Rica and Okinawa, Japan.

As life in the USA got more expensive, American retirees who once might have opted for Florida or Arizona began casting an eye abroad for bargains.  They found them in Portugal, Panama, Costa Rica, Ecuador, Uruguay and our old pal, Mexico.  In the latter, large clusters of Americans settled in Lake Chapala, San Miguel de Allende, Puerto Vallarta and Baja California, the latter including the esteemed Bob Simmons, hero filmmaker of Last Tango In Gainesville.  Good old Texas boys like Gilbert Shelton ran off to Paris in 1985 and never came back.  Interesting, but what of it?  Most of us are lifers.  And when them furriners came over here for that World Cup thing, they fell in love with our Waffle Houses, ice machines and ranch dressing.

Maybe, but more dyed-in-the-wool Americans are crossing the pond every year for a look-see at how the other half lives, and only 6% of U.S. travelers to Europe in 2025 said it was their first time flying there.  Many go multiple times a year, so there must be something abroad that captures their fancy, draws them in and brings them back for more.  They might not be ready to move yet, but that old question applies now more than ever: How ya gonna keep ‘em down on the farm after they’ve seen Paree?

Paris Swings Like A Pendulum Do….

Boston and New York are my two favorite cities in the United States.  There’s a lot to see and do there and it’s not necessary to drive.  Both have first-class public transportation which actually makes driving counterproductive.  Same with Paris.  The Metro (subway) and buses are moderately-priced and Uber is everywhere.  And why would you drive when there’s so much to look at?  Paris is esteemed as a receptacle of great art but the city is a majestic art piece itself.  It’s not one museum, it’s 105 kilometers of intentional beauty.  It was designed to be lived in. 

Today’s Paris is not an accident.  In the 1850s-70s, Baron Haussmann tore up the medieval mess and redrew the city, with wide boulevards that frame the monuments like camera shots.  The city is filled with 6-story cream limestone buildings with iron balconies, all the same height so that nothing competes for attention.  Rooflines of zinc and slate turn silver in the rain.  The goal was to make the city feel harmonious from any street corner.  It worked.

Artists call Paris the City of Light for a reason.  The Seine cuts the city in half, and the light bounces off water, stone and glass all day.  Impressionists like Monet and Renoir literally invented a new style trying to capture the way the light hits the bridges at 5 p.m.  Even today, the city mandates warm street lamps so at night everything glows gold.  The large skyscrapers you see in other cities are consigned to an area off in the distance called La Defense, just west of the city.  Most visitors to Paris never go there, but it’s Europe’s largest purpose-built business district.  It’s remindful of old Austinite Tony Bell’s Roach Room.  Give them a section of their own, let them do what they want over there and maybe they’ll leave us alone.

Considerations

Pie reader William Schaaf, an artist himself, posed the question: “What do I have to do to live in Paris?”  After all, before a body can move there, the government of France has to approve.  It’s not like just picking up and moving to Missouri.

First, you need a valid passport, an approved long-stay visa, proof of financial sufficiency (income of around 1400 euros a month), comprehensive health insurance and a confirmed place to live.  That might seem to let you out, Mr. William, but it can be easier for an established professional artist to move to France than the average person.  France offers a specific Talent Passport category for artists and cultural professors, which grants a multi-year residence of up to four years and includes immediate family reunification.

For everyone else, basic A2-level French proficiency is required if you plan to renew your residency card into a multi year permit.  All this may seem a slog but 15,000 Americans move to France every year.  The number has steadily grown and total estimates indicate that just under 150,000 Americans now live in France permanently.

For a stay of 90 days or less, however, everything is a lot easier.  Basically, you only need a passport valid for three months.  If you’re a rookie to living abroad, that three month stay might be a wise first step.  Average temperatures in the first two months of the year range from 37 degrees to 48.  Rents are extremely high if you can even find an apartment, and most residential buildings lack air-conditioning.  Dealing with paperwork, banking and official residency processes is notoriously slow.  For a Floridian, the best compromise might be a 90-day annual stay in June, July and August when the Sunshine State lurches into fahrenheit overdrive.

Many think Paris is worth all the hoop-jumping required, and that includes us.  Need more encouragement?  Here’s what a few of your Francophile friends had to say:

“I Love Paris In The Springtime When It Drizzles.”---Cole Porter

Woody Allen---“That Paris exists and anyone could choose to live anywhere else in the world will always be a mystery to me.”

Thomas Jefferson---“A walk about Paris will provide lessons in history, beauty and in the point of life.”

Allen Ginsburg---“You can’t escape the past in Paris, and yet what is so wonderful about it is that the past and present intermingle so intangibly that it doesn’t seem to burden.”

Victor Hugo---“He who contemplates the depth of Paris is seized with vertigo.  Nothing is more fantastic.  Nothing is more tragic.  Nothing is more sublime.”

Pico Iyer---“And if travel is like love, it is, in the end, mostly because it’s a heightened state of awareness in which we are mindful, receptive, undimmed by familiarity and ready to be transformed.  That’s why the best trips, like the best love affairs, never really end.”

James Thurber---“The whole of Paris is a vast university of Art, Literature and Music.  It is worth anyone’s while to dally here for years.  Paris is a seminar, a post-graduate course in Everything.”

Anne Rice---“Paris was a universe whole and entire unto herself, hollowed and fashioned by history; so she seemed in this age of Napoleon III with her towering buildings, her massive cathedrals, her grand boulevards, and ancient winding medieval streets—as vast and indestructible as nature itself.

All was embraced by her, by her volatile and enchanted populace thronging the galleries, the theaters, the cafes, giving birth over and over to genius and sanctity, philosophy and war, frivolity and the finest art; so it seemed that if all the world outside her were to sink into darkness, what was fine, what was beautiful, what was essential might still come to its finest flower.

Even the majestic trees that graced and sheltered her streets were attuned to her—and the waters of the Seine, contained and beautiful as they wound through her heart; so that the earth on that spot, so shaped by blood and consciousness, had ceased to be the earth and had become Paris.”

Au revoir, mes amis….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com

Open Up Them Golden Gates!

Montmartre

The conversation in our jolly bus to Montmartre abruptly turned to nervous tittering and the occasional gasp as we tootled down the Boulevard de Clichy toward Place Pigalle past an endless flood of sex shops, peep shows and adult theaters.  Was Rolinka, that bastion of propriety and good manners, taking us to the dark side?  No, just to the world-famous Moulin Rouge for photos before the long climb up Montmartre’s historic hill to the massive Sacre-Coeur Basilica at the summit.

Montmartre has long been a refuge for artists, a bohemian haven for the likes of Pablo Picasso, Vincent van Gogh and Henri Matisse during the late 19th and early 20th centuries.  Inexpensive rent and cheap lodging attracted poor and struggling creatives to now-famous locations like the Bateau-Lavoir studio, and the Place du Tertre town square fostered collaboration and community.  Local cabarets and cafes like Le Chat Noir sprung up to provide lively gathering spots for musicians, writers and painters.  You can still see young people scattered across the landscape sketching the scenery as you make the climb, and working artists at the Place du Tertre display their works for sale.  After the group dispersed, we went back and bought a colorful remembrance piece from a seventyish regular named Giovanni Lanna, whose painting is pictured below.  If you’ve got the time, there’s also a vineyard called Clos Montmartre nearby on Rue Saint-Rustique.  It’s tiny—only 1556 square meters—but it produces wine every year, about 1500 bottles.  The city sells it at auction for charity.  There’s a big whoop-de-do harvest festival at the place if you’re there in October.

A visitor could easily spend the day walking the cobblestone streets of Montmartre, enjoying its narrow, winding corridors and old stairways that feel separate from the rest of the busy city.  And indeed, many of the locals consider their place in the sun a separate entity.  Talk to one of them for long and he might tell you, “No Messieur, I do not live in Paris, I reside in Montmartre, where art is alive and well.”  He might live there, but most of the current artists do not.  The art that made the place renowned pushed the rents to the outer limits and few artists can afford to live on the sacred hill these days.  Mr. Natural would say ‘twas ever thus.

Take Me For A Ride On Your Train Train…

For those times when a body needs to get from here to there in a hurry, Paris provides the dependable Metro, a French version of the Boston and New York  subways, but with far more spic-and-span stations.  We’d like to tell you the trains were roomy and smelled of lavender, but that would be a lie.  Siobhan and I, released from the glories of Montmartre, descended the hill and eventually found a Metro Station after much traipsing.  Obviously, an old subway pro like myself would be a natural for this mode of transportation but Siobhan has an unerring sense of misdirection which gives me an even greater advantage—I go the opposite way from which she is trying to send me.

All our rides in Paris required a change of trains, which were often bulging with humanity, but we successfully negotiated the tunnels.  The problem came when we got out on the street.  You’d think that having a tall structure like the Eiffel Tower sitting among buildings mostly 5-7 stories high would make it easy, but not so.  The Eiffel has a tricky habit of ducking out of sight just when you need it most, then popping up to say BOO! when you least expect it.  Fortunately, trial and error works in France just as well as it does here and we never climbed out of the tunnel to find ourselves on the Left Bank equivalent of Crump Boulevard in Memphis at midnight.

“I’m Louis The XIV, I Am…”

King Louis XIV was a really big deal.  Louis was basically the blueprint for modern France.  He ruled for 72 years, from 1643 to 1715, the longest reign of any major modern monarch in European history, and he used every day of it.  He invented “absolute monarchy”—no more squabbling with nobles, the Church or parliaments—with his simple declaration, “L’Etat, c’est moi;”  “I am the state.”  He centralized all power in Versailles.  Nobles had to live at court instead of running their provinces, leaving little opportunity to rebel.  This made France a bastion of stability and unified the country in a way it had never been.  Louis built the biggest army in Europe under his war minister, the Marquis de Louvois.  France expanded its borders east to Strasbourg and north.  Other kings quickly copied his tactics.  He fought 4 major wars and won a lot of land, but also left France with huge debt.

Louis didn’t just rule, he set the style, creating French culture as we know it.  At Versailles, he turned a simple hunting lodge into the most extravagant palace in the world with its 2200 pounds of gold leaf used to adorn gates, statues and interior woodwork.  It became the model for palaces everywhere.  He funded Moliere, Racine and Lully and made French the language of diplomacy and culture for 200 years.  He established a court etiquette, replete with bowing, wigs and ceremony and turned court life into theater.  The whole world watched and followed suit.  His finance minister, Jean-Baptiste Colbert created mercantilism—built roads, canals, a navy and state factories.  Louis’ Haussmann-style projects ultimately made Paris the most beautiful city in the world

Louis believed it was man over nature when it came to landscaping.  He thought it man’s duty to shape a tree into whatever the desired shape, and that plants should not grow and take on forms naturally.  This would later become the iconic style of the French gardens like the Tuileries or the Luxembourg Gardens in Paris.  Directing nature to bloom and blossom as he pleased further solidified Louis’ desire to control everything around him.  Just as the Earth revolved around the sun, so too would France revolve around Louis XIV.

The other Louis.

The Rest Of The Story

One day long after Louis XIV had departed, the French peasantry looked up at all that gold leaf and decided “no more.”  By 1789, the country was in deep national bankruptcy as a result of foreign wars, bad weather which led to severe food shortages and an unfair class system that taxed only the common people (sound familiar?).  Enlightened thinkers were on the prowl, pushing ideas of liberty, equality and fair government representation.  King Louis XVI called a grand meeting to fix the money problems, but once again shafted the common people.  The commoners had enough.  They broke away to form their own government group, and on July 14, 1789 stormed  the Bastille fortress to get weapons and gunpowder, officially sparking the French Revolution.

By 1792, the people had won.  A new constitution was created and the King kept the throne with reduced power.  Fearing worse punishment, Louis XVI tried to escape France with his family, all in disguise.  The were nabbed at Varennes. and the National Convention convicted him of high treason.  Revolutionaries viewed him as a traitor for seeking help from hostile foreign monarchs to crush the revolution and restore his absolute power.  Louis XVI was executed on January 21, 1793.  He died by the guillotine at the Place de la Revolution in Paris, which permanently ended over a thousand years of continuous French royal rule.  Ouch!

Above, the Palace of Versailles; below, the grounds.

A Trip To Bountiful

Rolinka’s brood bused to Paris Montparnasse, then took a short above-ground train ride to Versailles, which is much like Louis XIV left it.  The palace, now a World Heritage site, contains 2,300 rooms and the grounds stretch across 2000 acres and include formal gardens, a park, smaller satellite palaces, a pretend-peasant village with a working farm and fountains which do a little dance on weekends.

The gardens took 40 years to construct.  They feature over 370 statues (more even than the Trump Museum), 55 water features and 20 miles of underground pipes.  The grand perspective aligns directly with the path of the rising and setting sun.  At its peak, the grounds featured over 1400 active fountains.  The Orangerie on the lower terrace houses more than 1000 orange, palm and pomegranate trees in massive wooden boxes.

Siobhan, now reduced to wearing a leg brace part-time, gazed out on the unending terrain and deemed it too much to closely investigate.  We meandered back to the train station and I noticed one of those five-minute bathrooms along the path.  I dipped in and quickly attended to business, lest the door fly open and humiliation be leveled upon me.  I mean, who wants to be the true butt of the joke.  Unfortunately, the inside doorknob was missing and the door couldn’t be opened from the inside without a wrench.  I called outside to Siobhan, who was typically amused at my foibles.  “What do I get if I let you out?” she wanted to know.  “My undying gratitude and the dessert of your choice,” I promised.  Okay, then.  There is nothing so malleable as a woman on the make for chocolate eclairs.

Last Call For Culture

The Musee Rodin in Paris is widely considered one of the most romantic museums in the world.  Located in the 18th-century Hotel Biron where Auguste Rodin once lived, it combines intimate indoor galleries with a seven-acre sculpture garden filled with roses, quiet pathways and iconic masterpieces like The Kiss, which celebrates passion and physical connection.  It also contains some of Rodin’s personal history, recalling the passionate, turbulent love story between the sculptor and his talented muse and collaborator, Camille Claudel, which echoes through the rooms.  There is a large sampling of Claudel’s own work—about two dozen pieces—in her dedicated room.  Outside, you can visit the storied Thinker (originally named The Poet), designed to represent medieval poet Dante Alighieri contemplating the circles of Hell and the fate of the damned.  A visitor can stand in front of the statue and view the Eiffel Tower in the distance behind the statue.

Siobhan and I had a small lunch at a sidewalk cafe around the corner and caught a cab for another look at the Arc de Triomphe, which our bus had circled several times on an earlier adventure.  It’s a massive beauty and we can easily understand why that old copycat Donald Trump might want one.  But come on, Captain Trumpy—it’s forgivable to knock off French dresses and French pastry, but a faux Arch de Triomphe?  Very tacky.

Finally, it was off to our last outing, dinner on the Seine with all our Rick Steves cronies.  If you’ve been on many dinner cruises, you know the food is more likely to die from than to die for, but this meal was an elegant testimony to unfailingly excellent French food preparation.  Not to mention the frabjous boat ride past historic buildings, famous museums and our old pal, the Eiffel Tower.

At meal’s end, the group retreated to a park in the shadow of the Eiffel for a last goodbye.  Rolinka bought everybody ice cream and sent a little movie of our week’s experiences to everyone’s phones.  There were many hugs and a few tears as all the new friends promised to write one other (Vegas odds: 100-1).  My bootie Ann and I told each other we were happy to have learned a bit about one another’s lives.  Then Rolinka, overwhelmed by all the good feelings, rose and said we’d all be getting together again in 2031.  She didn’t say whether walkers and oxygen tanks would be provided for the nonagenarians, but here’s hoping.  Maybe they’ll have escalators installed at Montmartre by then. 

Above, The Last Supper on the Seine; below, Connie's head, Ann, Gretchen & Ben from the tour group.

Au Revoir, Mes Amis!

All good things must end, they say, but we’re not sure why.  A fellow can always dip in to a haberdashery for a couple more pair of socks and some underwear.  Paris is not an easy place to leave…it’s like that stadium the winning fans won’t depart after their team has won some national championship, clinging to the last vestiges of a euphoria that won’t come again soon.

Richard’s promised cab was on time, however, and we dutifully packed in and headed for the vast expanse of asphalt that is Charles de Gaulle Aeroport.  Since we flew business class or Delta 1, the jaunty slew of Air France enablers whisked us through the corridors at warp speed, no fuss, no muss, no long lines of squawking kiddos or bumbling grannies who’ve misplaced their credentials.

Not being regular international travelers, on the way over we’d brought a wealth of information for customs, including letters from our doctors authorizing our medications, written proof that we were not devious immigrants from Morocco and, of course, our membership card from the Edith Piaf Fan Club.  We had visions of our suitcases being riffled through and rendered uncloseable.  None of it was necessary.  Customs these days consists of standing in front of a transparent plastic door with your carry-on plunked in front of you, eyeglasses and hat off, smiling for the camera and waiting for Froggy to plunk his magic twanger, allowing you admittance.  It might be different in Lebanon.

If you are flying business class, you will be treated like the King of Siam, especially by Air France, which hires the smartest and most elegant flight attendants you’ve ever seen, even if they do insist you eat more bread and cheese than is good for you.  Siobhan and I are rookies to such treatment, having economy class backgrounds due to sound fiscal management.

Parsimony goes out the window, however, when you are very old and looking at two eight-hour plane trips within ten days.  You start researching things like blood clots and compression stockings and funny little podlike seats that slide into a bed at the drop of a hat.  For the uninitiated, you sit down normally, but with a much greater amount of foot space in front of you.  About 12-15 inches from the floor, there is a shelf-like goody, the better to raise your legs.  Then, on the armrest, you have controls that allow you to reset your seat back as far as you want.  The vertical part of the seat slides back and the seat itself moves forward, all the way to the little shelf if you like.  Voila!—you have a bed, and all the sleeping accoutrements necessary, including a pillow, blankets, slippers, earplugs, an eyemask and however much wine it takes.  Is this a great concept, or what?  When I got up in the middle of the night to visit the selle de bain, all the little cocooned passengers were wrapped tight while visions of crepes suzettes danced in their heads.  Beats riding the creaking redeye in steerage from Poughkeepsie to St. Paul.  Don’t ask about the cost.

A final word.  People in our tour group marveled at the lifestyle and the wonders of Paris and asked one another, could you live here?  Good question.  To quote John Denver’s paean to Annie, Paris “fills up our senses”…it’s sights and sounds and smells and tastes, the way it feels…is like nowhere else in our experience.

The majority, citing family and friends in the U.S., said tempting, but no.  People without family thought certainly.  Our niece Kathleen, who has been everywhere but Antarctica, said a cottage in the south of France might be an option some day.  It is, of course, unwise to make plans based on little more than a week in Paris.  The first week I spent in Oahu, I was in love with the place.  Two weeks later, I had my binoculars out, searching for my ride home.  But Paris…Paris is a different animal with its laid-back lifestyle, its wealth of things to do and its sheer beauty.  Paris is a happy place with world-class art, incredible food, highly efficient public transit and a rich culture that treats every day like a work of art.  I can see myself sucking down Camembert and Chardonnay at my picnic on the grass at the Louvre or sailing past the Eiffel Tower on the river just before twilight…or merely riding through Paris in a sports car with the warm wind in my hair, ala the unfortunate Lucy Jordan.  Life could be a dream, sh-boom, if I could take myself up to Paris-dise on the Seine.

Could I live without lobster rolls, Gator sports and the Red Sox?  Could I get by without rap music and the Republican Party?  Aye, that’s the dilemma.  Perhaps the day will come when I’ll toss caution to the winds and give it a try.  Until then, may the croissant be with you.  And, all together now..."Vive la France!

Our gang.

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com   

  

With Richard, host with the most at the Londres Eiffel Hotel.

 

Rolinka And The 24 Dwarfs

Our first meeting with the Rick Steves tour guide was Sunday at four p.m. at our new base camp, the tiny four-star Londres Eiffel Hotel in the 7th arrondissement, one of Paris’ prettiest neighborhoods and just around the corner from the Iron Lady, which towers over the terrain.  Nearby is the hallowed Jardin du Champ de Mars with its high-end food shops, renowned restaurants, cute little streets and chic village atmosphere.  If you believe the natives, Barack Obama ate at a restaurant half a block away and loved it.

There are 30 rooms in the hotel and ours was #51.  Better not to ask.  Suffice to say, our group of 24 pretty much filled the place up and was treated like long-lost kin.  The charming concierge, Richard, looked and dressed like Elton John at an earlier age.  Richard knows everything, but everything, about Paris, including how long it takes to get from the hotel to the airport at any hour of any day and who to call to get you there.

When we arrived fifteen minutes early for our introductory meeting at 3:45, Rolinka Bloeming, our shepherd for the next five days, was already in action, kicking ass and taking names.  Rolinka is a tall, lean Dutch woman who goes everywhere in a lightweight duster attached to a small communication device, the better to keep in touch with her brood, which carries similar gadgets.  After everyone had arrived and filled out their paperwork, Rolinka marched us off to dinner at a Brasserie down the street.

Ms. Bloeming has been with the Rick Steves organization for 30 years, so she knows her stuff. She is also a bit of a martinet, so there will be no talking in class, at least when Rolinka is communicating.  Offenders like the irreverent Siobhan Ellison get a little nudge on the shoulder to let them know they have displeased the queen.  If this seems a little harsh, consider the intricacies involved in herding 24 strangers around a big new city.  Somebody has to be the boss.

Rolinka, who has a bit of an accent (quite similar to German), starts off the evening by assigning buddies to each of us.  She unintentionally pronounces the word “booties,” which we like and decide to keep.  My bootie will be the quiet and very nice Ann, while Siobhan winds up with Rolinka.  Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, right?

Rolinka wants us to try speaking a little French in our daily interactions.  She also requires maintaining a healthy pace for the 5+ miles we will walk each day.  We will learn the Metro routes by practice, also the bus lines and how to get the train back from Versailles.  The Rick Steves philosophy is to make you self-sufficient in a strange place because at the end of each day’s scheduled event you will be expected to find your own way back to base, like a homing pigeon.  You will also keep pace with the group or you’ll be shifting for yourself, like a cheery Asian lady named Sharon did when she lingered too long at Notre Dame.  Rolinka gave her an extra five minutes and on we went.  Sharon got home just fine and conceded the abandonment was her own fault.  At the site of the offense I told Siobhan Rolinka would make a good nun.

Above, Bill outside Notre Dame; center, inside the Cathedral; bottom, Rolinka at Sainte-Chapelle.

Cheer, Cheer For Old Notre Dame!

Strict or not, Rolinka was a fountain of valuable information about every aspect of Paris.  On our first trek to Notre Dame, she took on the important subject of public toilets, which are very nasty, by the way.  “You can only be on the toilet 5 minutes,” she said.  “After that, the doors will open up and there you will be in all your glory.”  As tips go, I think we can all agree this one is right up there with “don’t pet the wild bison.”

Despite its flirtation with death, Notre Dame might actually be better than ever.  The intense post-debacle cleaning of the cathedral removed centuries of dark soot to reveal the bright, original limestone walls last seen when the structure was built in the 12th century.  The 8000-pipe Grand Organ was completely taken apart, cleaned of toxic lead dust and put back together piece by piece.  Repair work on the floors uncovered hidden 13th-century stone carvings and architectural pieces previously lost to history.

Engineers installed a specialized, hidden mist extinguishing system and improved the timber framework safety to prevent future disasters.  The rebuilt spire and roof closely mirror the historical design using authentic oak and lead while benefiting from modern engineering strength.  Dedicated workers rejected modern power shortcuts for parts of the timber frame, using hand-hewn axes just like 12th-century builders.  While we were there, workers with mallets were busting rocks in an adjacent street and fitting them in place in the roadway.

Rolinka the Reliable got us to Notre Dame early to avoid the long lines that form in mid-morning.  Inside, the Cathedral’s stained glass was a particular treat for an old lapsed Catholic boy.  The sheer size of the place is, if you’ll excuse us, awesome, and we’re sure God is proud.  By the way, while we’re cheering for old Notre Dame, let’s hear it for Victor Hugo, without whom the place would likely be toast.  The Cathedral was in ruins and slated to be demolished in the early 1800s until Victor came along and wrote The Hunchback of Notre Dame in 1831.  The book’s massive success sparked a public outcry that prompted the government to launch a major restoration instead of killing the church.  So let’s hear it for the writers, once again saving mankind from itself.  Salud!

Above, Rolinka doles out the goodies; center, our heroes at play; bottom, Jewish memorial at Le Marais.

Le Marais Hijinks

Le Marais is a historic and trendy district in the third and fourth arrondissements of Paris known for its medieval streets, aristocratic mansions, vibrant Jewish quarter and thriving LGBTQIA+LMNOP community (just covering all the bases).  The Marais blends old world charm with modern boutiques, art galleries and diverse eateries.  The word itself means “swamp” or “marshland,” which the entire area was built over, like Orlando.  Rolinka brought forth Brad, the professorial guide, to enhance our experience, and he was a fountain of arcane knowledge, familiar with every building on any street.

Le Marais might be the falafel capital of France.  The big dog is L’As du Fallafel on Rue des Rosiers, where the line of would be customers stretches down the street.  The New York Times calls the place “THE falafel destination in France, indeed in Europe.”  You might catch Lenny Kravitz there, waiting in line like everyone else.  Lenny says it’s his favorite place in Paris.  Don’t go on Friday afternoon, though.  The place closes for Shabbat, so every Friday there’s a wild-eyed, panicky crowd beating its way to the falafel counter like maniacs at the Apple store on iPhone launch day.  Oh, and don’t wear white—that tahini gets all over everything.

The Jewish quarter of Le Marais, historically known as the Pletzl (Yiddish for “little place” or “salty bread snack”) features a rich community heritage dating back to the 13th century.  It centers around the medieval Rue de Rosiers, famous for its synagogues, kosher food shops and those merry falafel stands.  Waves of Ashkenazi Jews fleeing persecution in Eastern Europe and Russia settled in the area in the nineteenth century, creating the first Pletzl enclave.  The community suffered devastating losses during the Nazi deportations of the Shoah, but Sephardic Jews arriving from North Africa relit the flame in the 1960s and 70s.  The Memorial de la Shoah right in the heart of Le Marais features a Wall of Names listing the 76,000 French Jews deported and murdered during WWII.  You might need more falafel after that stop.

All You Need Is Louvre

Last October’s brazen daylight robbery of the priceless French crown jewels was not the first big art theft at the Louvre.  In 1911, a handyman named Vincenzo Peruggia, 29, stole the Mona Lisa by simply hiding it in a broom closet overnight, then walking out with the painting hidden under his coat during daytime hours.  Vinnie was no petty thief, he was an Italian nationalist miffed because he thought the Mona Lisa belonged in Italy.  Nobody noticed for 24 hours.  Then Paris went crazy.  Tourism actually went up, though, because everyone wanted to see the hole where the missing painting used to be. Go figure. 

The theft made the Mona Lisa world famous.  Before 1911, she was just another Renaissance painting, but after the heist she became the most famous painting in the world.  Peruggia managed to get Mona into Italy, where patriots treated him like a hero.  The painting was displayed in Florence and in Rome before the Italians gave it back in 1914.  Vinnie got a mere six months in the calaboose.

Don’t try that stuff today, you’ll be beaten to a pulp by security.  The closest you can get is 10 to 15 feet away.  Mona is protected by bulletproof glass 2.5 inches thick and acid-proof.  Alarms go off if her casing is opened or moved and cameras watch her 24/7.  An incredible 20,000 people a day show up to see her, most of them leaving the crush of humanity after 30 seconds.  I patiently weaved my way through the crowd, made it to the front and stood there for two minutes or so, immune to the discomfort, alone in my bubble with the painting.  Then I took four pictures, each better than the one before, tipped my cap to Mona like the gentleman I am, and left her smiling.  It must have been something I said.

Eduardo Talks The Talk

Since the Louvre frowns on large globs of tourists blocking up their hallowed halls, our group was split in two, each with its own guide.  We got Eduardo, an enthusiastic young art historian. who carried an iPad, the better to inform you with, my dears.  Eduardo loved his job, worshipped the Louvre and did his best to describe the inventory in great detail.  He begged us to ask him difficult questions, challenged us to stump him, recited chapter and verse about all the major pieces.  He laughed, he cried, he replied lovingly to dumb questions, twirling his iPad more deftly than a lead majorette.  By the end, we thought we might need to take him home with us to make life simpler, but Rolinka dashed our hopes by giving him another appointment.  Eduardo started in the basement, explaining how and why the building was constructed.

In the year 1190, King Philip II decided he needed a stone fort hard by the Seine to protect Paris from attacks.  By the 14th century, a fort was no longer necessary, so King Charles V decided to move in and making the building a living space.  King Francis I tore down the medieval keep in 1546 to build a modern Renaissance palace, also starting the royal art collection and buying masterworks like Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa.  In the 17th century, King Louis XIV added grand wings but removed the royal court to the Palace of Versailles in 1682, leaving the Louvre to house artists.  In 1793, during the French Revolution, the revolutionary government officially opened the Louvre Museum, displaying hundreds of confiscated royal and church art pieces to the public.  Napoleon Bonaparte expanded the building complexes after adding items from his military campaigns.  In 1989, the famous glass pyramid designed by architect I. M. Pei was added as a new central entrance.

The current Louvre Museum covers a total floor area of 2.26 million square feet, with 782,000 square feet dedicated specifically to public exhibition space.  The collection size is over 615,000 works of art, if you can imagine that, of which about 35,000 works are shown to the public at any given time.  Viewing every single piece of art takes several days, but the major highlights visited by most tours can be seen in 3-4 hours, maybe a tad longer if you place no limitations on Eduardo.

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com 

 

Lafayette, We Are Here!

“How ya gonna keep ‘em down on the farm after they’ve seen Paree?”---Young & Lewis

There is an old adage, almost always true, that anticipation is greater than actuality.  But ooh la la, the statement needs an asterisk when it comes to the reality of the City of Light.  Henry Miller once said, “When Spring comes to Paris, the humblest mortal alive must feel that he dwells in paradise.”  It’s not bad in Summer, either.

Quoting Anais Nin: “Sometimes I think of Paris not as a city but as a home.  Enclosed, curtained, sheltered, intimate.  The sound of rain outside the window, the spirit and the body turned towards intimacy, to friendship and love, an alcove.  Everything designed for intimacy.  Five to seven was the magic hour of the lovers’ rendezvous.  Here it is the cocktail hour”

We arrived from our interminable flight at the St. Germain apartment of our niece Kathleen Ellison and husband Charley McCarthy at a sprightly 8 a.m. on a Friday morning but nobody felt like napping.  Hemingway’s movable feast waited outside in all its intoxicating glory.  It is the only temptress in the universe, the sole siren on a rock that could induce an 85-year-old grump to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous flying.  Then we went outside to play with the kids.

If anyone is unhappy in Paris, we didn’t run across them.  It’s safe to say that seldom is heard a discouraging word and the skies are not cloudy all day.  Morning temperatures while we were there hovered in the mid-50s, with afternoons jumping to 75 and giving way slowly in the evenings.  Most of the citizens do not drive, availing themselves of the ubiquitous Metro and the dependable bus system.  Charley daily walks the 30 minutes from his apartment to his job at the U.S. Embassy, crossing the Pont Royale bridge over the Seine by the Louvre Museum.  “Sometimes I pinch myself when I realize I get to make this walk every morning,” he smiles.  And rightly so.  When he was previously stationed in Kabul, they brought him to work in a tank.

Above, Amar and Zack at the Brasserie; below, Kathleen, Siobhan and Charley linger by the Seine.  Louvre in the background.

“We’ll Always Have Paris…”

On our first full day, a Saturday, we got up early and let our hosts sleep while we went out for breakfast and croissants-to-go.  It was mid-fifties cool and quiet with just the occasional jogger or bicycle-rider to keep us company.  The Saint-Germain-des-Pres area is a chic, historic neighborhood on the Left Bank of the Seine known for its iconic literary cafes, art galleries and deep intellectual history.  The French Prime Minister lives and works there at the Hotel de Matignon on Rue de Varenne, not far from the Ellison/McCarthy digs.

After a short walk, we ran across a Brasserie called SIP.  Though it was not on the menu, Siobhan ordered an egg-in-croissant sandwich, which temporarily bewildered the 3-man French-speaking crew.  Then Amar, who knew a bit of English, figured it out.  “Is poss-i-blay!” he celebrated, then went back and created this new delicacy.  It was delicious, by the way, and next day we went back for more.  We’re hoping it becomes standard fare and they put Siobhan’s picture on the wall in appreciation.

A word about the people we met along the way; they were almost unanimously great---warm, welcoming and often funny.  Stories we’ve all heard of French aloofness, disdain of Americans and utter rudeness were not experienced anywhere except for the occasional Arab cab-drivers whose indifference is legend.  There was little problem with our unfamiliarity with the language.  People went out of their way to provide directions.  When Kathleen went back to SIP after we left, the staff spoke well of their funny American visitors who treated them like old friends rather than servants, especially “le formidable inventeur de sandwich, Mademoiselle Siobhan.”

Views from the tippity-top.

Visiting The Big Guy

Day two involved a wealth of walking…from our hosts’ apartment down to the Seine and across the river to the Louvre area, home of the notorious clip-board women.  Fortunately, we were onto these nasty voleuses thanks to advance notice from our pals at Rick Steves Tours, so we opted not to fill out phony surveys for one babushka while another one stole all our earthlies.  Further warnings of pickpockets plying their trade at the major attractions proved exaggerated.  Siobhan nonetheless bought me a veritable cell phone harness to wrap around my neck and keep my invaluable blog photos safe.

In the early afternoon, we Ubered over to the venerable Eiffel Tower, originally built as the entrance for the 1889 Paris World’s Fair and intended to be dismantled when the party ended.  The city kept the structure despite a ruckus stirred up by writers and painters who complained the massive tower would ruin the classic look of Paris’ stone buildings.  The city government retained the Eiffel, however, because its great height made it a powerful radio and military telegraph station.  It even helped catch spies during World War I.

The Eiffel Tower is a tricky devil.  Walking around Paris, one minute you can’t see it at all, the next it’s tapping you on the shoulder and giggling at your innocence.  You are allowed to climb a bit of the tower, but the 674 steps stop at the second floor, and just as well we say, because that’s 30-45 minutes of octogenarian horror.  Kathleen’s tickets graciously took us all the way to the top in two installments.  The views of Paris below are more than delicious.  As one blurb put it, “Paris lies at your feet.  The noise of the boulevards can’t reach you here, but the wind catches you and your heart begins to race.” 

Siobhan read somewhere that in a healthy wind, the structure moves 3 1/2 inches at the top, slightly more in a big storm.  She said she could feel it.  We gave her a flute of celebratory champagne and she calmed down.   

Vive Les Femmes!

Everyone thinks of Paris as a city for young lovers, and they are everywhere, but the Capital of France is a runway for women of all ages.  The streets are safe to walk at virtually all hours and the ladies take advantage, parading proudly through them in self-concocted fashions in tandem or solo, comfortable in their solitude.  In Paris, you’re allowed to create your own personal fashion, and these women take advantage of their freedom, knowing the look that best suits them and unafraid to flaunt it.  It is not unusual to see a lone woman of 70 strutting down the Champs-Elysees in haute couture or minimalist perfection as if she owned the place---and, of course, she does.

Paris is also the city of eating out, and for this occasion we mean that in the epicurean sense.  Surely, someone must eat at home because we see them in the markets buying escargots and andouillette and cuisses de grenouille, but there are 44,000 restaurants in a city with 2.14 million residents as opposed to 28,000 in all the boroughs of New York City, which has a population of 8.5 million.  It seems like there are lighted Brasseries on every prominent corner with several smaller companions down the block, and none of them are empty.  People-watching from a chair in a bistro is the national sport and everyone wants a piece of the action.  We ate at several, particularly La Terrasse Du 7 on Place de l’Ecole Militaire.  One night for dessert, they brought out a bowl of mixed strawberries and raspberries and another overfilled with whipped cream.  “Vive la France!” I shouted, and ate them every one.  The cream, too.

Gilbert Shelton Lives!

There aren’t many people you can go and revisit after a 64-year sabbatical, especially if they live 4500 miles away, but 85-year-old Gilbert Shelton happens to be one of them.  Shelton has lived in Paris with his wife Lora since 1985 and is perfectly content to stay there forever.  He still has a workshop just off Avenue Voltaire, which he visits an average of two days a week.

I first ran across Gilbert in 1960 while publishing the Charlatan magazine at Oklahoma State University at the same time Shelton was a staffer at the University of Texas Ranger.  There was considerable communication between the two of us and Gilbert later visited me in Massachusetts in 1961, when the notion of a new satirical superhero to be called Wonder Wart Hog was hatched.  I eagerly wrote the script for the first episode and later migrated to Austin in the Summer of 1962 to help new editor Shelton put out the Ranger.  To say it was a memorable six months in my life would be a colossal understatement.  It was more like an awakening to all the possibilities of life I hadn’t considered.

Gilbert Shelton is an extremely unique individual, possessed of great charisma and unlimited talents.  He can write, draw, play the piano and guitar and catch a fast-pitch softball game without a mask or an injury.  A History major at UT, he expected to be a writer but developed a talent for cartoonery and went with the flow, a boon to the zillions of eventual readers who bought up 46 million comix featuring the Wart Hog and later The Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers and Fat Freddy’s Cat.

The Freak Brothers captured the erratic drug-riddled hippie lifestyle of the 1960s and 70s like nothing else could.  It was easy for Gilbert because it was an inside job…he lived with the Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers every day, doted on their fears and their foibles, celebrated their successes and coined their motto:  “Dope will get you through times of no money better than money will get you through times of no dope.” 

I revered my six months in Austin despite being poor as a churchmouse and surviving on one meal a day.  The people I met were brilliant, the city was impossibly attractive, my days and nights were filled with adventure.  I lived with an as yet unheard of Janis Joplin for several weeks there, polished my prose for hours a day in the Ranger office and found my first wife, Marilyn Todd, with whom I later fled to the East Coast, her father chasing close behind.  Settled in Florida, I watched my old mentor Gilbert Shelton rise to preposterous heights in the comic book world and I looked forward to the inevitable day I would see Gilbert again.  Incredibly, it never happened…until now, in Paris, France, when both of us old goats are clinging to the edge of the cliff.

I was ten minutes early, waiting down the street, and I winced when I saw this old fellow with a cane struggle around the corner because I knew it must be Gilbert.  He was very sharp, though, like always, albeit with a bit of a hearing problem in one ear.  We talked about the miracle of Austin ‘62 and life in the good old days, about friends who’ve faltered along the way, about the strange ways the chips sometimes fall, about our own expectations for the future.  After 80 minutes or so, Gilbert walked over to his wall and took down a framed illustration of Wonder Wart Hog he’d done in 2016 and handed it to me.  He wouldn’t take a nickel for it, and I’d hate to guess what it might be worth on eBay, as if that would ever be in question.  Then Siobhan, Kathleen and Charley came by to pick me up.  We took a few photos with Gilbert and I was suddenly profoundly sad and grateful at the same time because both of us realized this was it, there’d be no more meeting at the UT Chuckwagon or the next class reunion.  I looked at Gilbert and told him how pivotal my experience, my time with him in Austin had been to my life and how much I valued him.  Shelton is not one to break down in tears, he just smiled brightly and bade us a final farewell.  See you later, old man.  Long live your fame and long live your glory and long may your story be told. 

That’s all, folks…

bill.killeen094@gmail.com

Tune in next week, Video Rangers, as we meet our pals on the Paris Rick Steves Tour and venture into the bustling world of our camp counselor, Rolinka of The Netherlands.