Teachability

It's time for Season 5 of Hell's Kitchen, and not having a cable connection I watch it on Hulu.com.

I watched the first two episodes the other night, and it struck me how Chef Ramsay and Colleen, the 41-year-old cooking school instructor from Nebraska, started butting heads from the very start.

It reached an early low in Episode 2, when he accused her of stealing from her students, he considered her to be such a bad cook.

On first exposure, this seemed over the top and unfair. And possibly dangerous, as I seriously doubt she's going to last on the show much longer, and after talk like this from Gordon Ramsay, who will want to take cooking lessons from her? What if she sues for deprivation of livelihood?

But thinking about it, maybe she's asking for it. Her attitude seems to be that she's what's needed to be a chef in the new restaurant in Atlantic City, right now, just as she is. That her appearance on Hell's Kitchen is all and only about revealing that marvellous reality to Chef Ramsay and the world. She doesn't seem interested in learning anything; in fact, she feels she can teach him a thing or two. Like, his spaghetti sauce recipe can really be improved by adding mascarpone cheese, oh, yeah, and if she mis-cooks a simple salmon filet or uses a dirty pan because she's overlooked five clean ones not three feet away from her, that's not her fault. She has an excuse for everything and her failure in basic kitchen practice shouldn't matter.

I have to contrast her with last year's winner, Christina from St. Louis. What stood out to me about Christina was the way she was always observing and learning. Even during the rewards and the day-off trips, she was always looking, listening, questioning, analyzing, and gathering new information about fine food and its preparation.

This post really isn't about Colleen of Nebraska or Christina of St. Louis. It's about job seekers like me who have to consider whether we're holding ourselves back by a perceived or real lack of teachability. It's about anybody who makes a job opportunity all about themselves instead of what they can offer to the organization. It's also about the difficult balance between the need to be recognized for one's years of experience and the humility required when starting over in a new field or on a different level.

I haven't figured out yet what the precise application of the story is for me. But I can't help thinking about it. Maybe I'm feeling uncomfortable because I've sometimes come off like a know-it-all like Colleen. Maybe I'm afraid, on the other hand, that seeming too teachable will mean denying my true abilities and confine me to the lowest rung of any given ladder.

But maybe this is an object lesson in knowing myself and my own capabilities, in distinguishing between self-confidence that's justified and the kind that's just a hollow shell. Being teachable doesn't exclude being competent. And high pressure and heat will sort out true competence from sham posturing-- even if you're not competing in Hell's Kitchen.

My Cut-Rate Grand Tour: Day Nine

Wednesday, 14 December, 1988
Toulouse to Carcassonne and back again

Made the 9:06 train for Carcassonne this morning. It got in around 10:10. I bought a couple rolls for breakfast at a briocherie in the lower town then walked across the Pont Neuf over the Aude to the old city.

Reminded me somewhat of the village below the abbey at Mont-St.-Michel but with the cloudy weather the effect wasn’t the same. It wanted more people.

Went and saw the church of St. Nazaire first off, since I tripped over it. Romanesque nave and Gothic choir and transepts, almost all glass. Viollet-le-Duc hard at work restoring the vitrame, but at least that meant there was light coming through most of them. They had some rather nice large scale figure sculpture, too.

There were a man and three children in there hammering together the Christmas crèche. For that matter, all of Carcassonne, the Upper and Lower towns both, was decorated for Christmas.

They allow cars and trucks in the Cité. Rather anachronistic.

A great many of the of the shops were closed for the season but there were still an adequate number of tacky souvenir stands open. The forte here is hammered copper (or some facsimile thereof). I contented myself with a few post cards and a guidebook.

Took pictures of all the older-looking houses I could find, going on what I knew from Margaret Wood and that Wooden Houses book Eric* gave me. It was awfully cold and windy, though, and with no sun anyway I decided to take an earlier train than planned back to Toulouse.

But first I would make a circuit of the lists between the two walls. Went partway round before the cold north wind drove me back in to the shelter of the houses. But then the sun started trying to come out so I went back outside and walked along the outer fortifications, and looked at the countryside to the east, opposite from the city. Vineyards and hills, off into the distance.

Popped in and out as I saw a likely-looking gate. There were a few people around, mostly couples. Nearly saw an accident at the Tour St. Nazaire as two cars approached it from opposite directions at once. I could hear the car coming in through the single-lane gate and pointed it out to the driver of the exiting car and he stopped just in time. I can’t believe how closely the other one scraped by, though. Very French.

Back out into the lists, continuing clockwise around the citadel. It occurred to me how isolated it was through there and I mused that it would not be particularly romantic to "fall beneath the walls of Carcassonne," since for me at this time it certainly would not be in pursuit of some knightly deed.

Funny I should think of such a thing just then . . . funny-peculiar. Just about the time I passed this semi-circular cut in the earth (a drain of some sort?) just past the Tour de Cahuzac and the Tour du Grand Canisson I noticed a man, middle-aged, stocky and dressed like a workman in blue trousers and zipper jacket, standing looking over the battlements towards the lower town. From whatever conceit I decided to give him a wide berth. But as I passed him, he turned, came towards me, and demanded, "Donnez-moi votre main!"

Well, as far as I know this is not standard etiquette and I was having none of it. I said, "Non!" and drew away, but the creature tried to grab for my hand anyway! Over and over he babbled, "Donnez-moi votre main! Donnez-moi votre main!" Again I pulled away and began walking fast, whereupon the horrid person sped up, passed me-- and waited for me just inside the arch of the Tour Carrée de l’Evêque. The whole thing was unbelievably absurd and became even more so when, as I came opposite him within the tower, he again came at me and not only tried to grab my hand but also my rear end! I evaded contact and kept on going, while he started saying some other things that it’s just as well I couldn’t understand-- I wouldn’t want them rattling around in my mind.

I got out to the approach to the Tour de l’Inquisition, the creep still at my heels. I wasn’t scared, exactly, because the whole thing was so pointless. For what it was worth, I said sharply, "Laissez-moi tranquille!" as advised by one of the books I’d read on travelling in France. But he just grinned, kept babbling, and inside le Tour de l’Inquisition tried to grab me again.

No, I’m sorry. He did grab my hand. And began to pull it towards his crotch.

Well, that was enough. I was not being over dramatic, this was real and quite dangerous, especially considering the constriction of the lists just ahead between the Inquisition Tower and the Tour du Petit Canisson. Seeing it gave a whole new meaning to the expression "to be in a tight place" and I didn’t like it one bit. I snatched back my hand, gave out a shriek to show him I meant business and would really scream if his aggression continued, and took to my heels. I hoped my being younger would avail me if he came after; I couldn’t hear him following but I wasn’t taking any chances.

The lousy part was up the incline towards the Porte d’Aude. It’s rather demoralizing-- not to mention potentially petrifying-- to realize you can’t run like Thomas Magnum. I mean, if my accoster had really been trying I could’ve been lost right there.

Fortunately I knew exactly where I was, having entered through this gate in the first place. I doubled to the left and back into the cité to where the open shops and restaurants were. I have no idea if he meant me serious harm or if he’s just the kind of slime who likes scaring girls, but I wasn’t sticking around to find out.

My intention was to find a gendarme, or maybe report the guy at the post office. But the post office was closed for lunch and no policemen were to be seen. And my French isn’t good enough to make a random passerby understand what the problem was and help me do anything about it. So I decided to make myself scarce. I still didn’t feel safe-- what if he had followed me in? I didn’t want to hang around. So I found some other people, a couple, and began to follow in their wake. Fortunately they were going in the same direction as I’d decided to take-- towards the Porte Narbonnaise, opposite the side where the creep was hanging out. The carpark is there, and other people, and traffic. So I emerged there and circled round outside the citadel to where I found the way back over the river to the lower town. So help me, if I’d seen that jerk again you could have heard me all the way to Oxford.

Back towards la gare, bought some pizzas for lunch-- by which you may deduce that I was not terminally frightened. But I was impressed by the presence of evil in this world-- and moreover of the utter purposelessness of so much of it.

But it was "while we were yet sinners that Christ died for us" . . . And He knew about all this crap ahead of time!

Back to Toulouse by the 1:29 train. The sun actually decided to stay out so after resting at the hotel a little I took the camera and headed back to St. Sernin to see what I could see.

Much better than yesterday. I do seem to be having better luck with my Romanesque churches than with my Gothic. And today somebody went up and began practicing the organ! Maybe it was the composer chosen--Vierne or Messien or the like, but the playing didn’t seem as fluid and composed as that at Bourges. Still, it was a good thing to hear it. And it was audible out in the place at the west front, too.

Made a Decision and walked over to the rue Alsace-Lorraine and bought Marian*† a cloisonné box shaped like a quail, for Christmas. Around $13 US.

Got some orange juice and a chocolate bar at the Monoprix and came back to the hotel. Consumed much of that and the third 5" pizza from Carcassonne while playing with train schedules for the next week. Spent entirely too much time on that and didn’t get around to washing my silk blouse till after 10:00. Had it in the sink when I noticed the rules and regs notice saying that doing laundry in the room is "interdit." Oops! Well, tant pis, and if it’s not dry by morning I’ll hang it in the closet and no one’s harmed by the enterprise.

Wrote Mom and Janie*‡ postcards. I told them the gray weather is depressing but I didn’t admit I’m homesick-- for England. Kept singing the Simon & Garfunkel song "Homeward Bound" in my head today . . . Wish certain parts of it fit more than they do . . . and certain parts, less.
__________________
†My younger sister
‡The friend who was subleasing my apartment back in the States

Welcome to Sixburgh!

I watched the Super Bowl last night with friends over in the next county, just as I did when the Steelers won Super Bowl XL three years ago. I was told I had to come-- I'm good luck.

(What a nice thought!)

My friend Sarah* is a fellow Presbyterian minister, and her husband Larry* is the organist at her church. We also had Jon*, a young parishioner of theirs, Jon's girlfriend who arrived late in the game, and Sarah's 93-year-old mother Branwen*. Sarah's teenaged children and their friends were there, too, but only semi-count since they were watching on a separate set up in the son's room.

(Which made things interesting towards the end, since somehow the cable feed on their TV was ten seconds ahead of ours down in the living room. "Why are they cheering??" we'd ask each other, till we'd figured it out.)

Oh, yes, the downstairs contingent also included Sarah's new cow-kitty, Riley.

Emotions ran high as so much seemed to hinge on camera angles and replays. When James Harrison ran that 100-yard interception return in the last few seconds of the first half, it was like, "It has to be good! They can't take that touchdown away!! It's too glorious!" We were sure he was heading for game MVP-- until that personal foul in the fourth quarter when he was caught using some Cardinals player as a kettle drum. No. Not a good move.

I'm afraid I was rude to Sarah's mom a time or two. She moved over next to me for the second half and started talking to me about things not necessarily connected with the game. Then for some reason, I forget why, she started talking to me in French. And of course I've got to try to answer in the same language. But as the minutes wound down and matters on the screen got more concentrated and tense, I wasn't conversing politely any more. I found myself saying, "Be quiet! I want to watch the game!"

Jon, now. He was funny. He'd swing from the heights of optimism to the depths of dispair. He'd make plans for what the Steelers should do next. It was all the funnier in that I recognized that I did the same at his age. No point in saying to him, "We don't have it sewn up yet!" when Pittsburgh was up by ten or "Don't give up now!" when the Cardinals pulled ahead-- his sort of chatter is all about working off the nerves.

And nerves a-plenty were justified in the last few minutes. When a holding penalty had Ben Roethlisberger passing out of his own endzone, I found myself yelling, "O noes! Do nawt want!" Which evoked the closest thing to a demonstration of emotion we had out of laid-back Larry all evening. He may not be demonstrative at big games, but he luvs him them lolcats!

Sarah still can't believe the Steelers scored for the win in the last two and a half minutes. I couldn't believe Arizona scored to take the lead just before that. But for Pixburgh, two and a half minutes is plenty, o ye of little faith! When they lined up for what would be the Roethlisberger touchdown pass to Santonio Holmes in the far corner of the endzone, I was thinking, "Ben, Gabriela Montero brought you luck two weeks ago at Heinz Hall. Don't waste it!"

And they didn't!

Eruptions of yelling and screaming from the lady pastors and their friends as the clock ran down! Steelers win! Steelers win! I nearly whapped Branwen in the head swinging my Terrible Towel, standing up just in time. We all jumped up and down in the living room and yelled. We went outside on the front stoop and yelled! Big Ben and Co. did it! Steelers win! Steelers win!

As for the commercials? Our vote was for the Clydesdales. Especially the one with the Clydesdale stallion and the mare-of-his-dreams. The movie trailers? What was the point? Five or six upcoming flicks and all of them with dark backgrounds and accelerating zooms and exploding objects. They all looked alike. Except for the animated feature with the old man in the airbourne house. That we've got to see.

My Cut-Rate Grand Tour: Day Eight

Tuesday, 13 December, 1988
Toulouse

HÔTEL GRANDS BOULEVARDS, 11:30 PM-- When I woke up at the Hôtel St. Antoine around 8:00 this morning and it was still almost totally dark in my room, with only a sickly glow filtering in from the dirty rippled plastic over the inner courtyard, I decided I definitely had to change hotels.

Spent a good part of the morning doing that. Looking for another hotel, I mean. And had one or two interesting experiences in the process.

At one place they were letting little rooms for 100F with little windows high in the wall, up under the roof. I was trying to decide if I could deal with that and asking questions about whether the front door is locked at night to see if that would tip my decision one way or the other, when suddenly the previously amicable patronne changed her countenance, began to go on about how it was all "trop complique" for her, and summarily showed me the door! I wondered what God thinks of such behavior. I know that if I behaved in such a fashion I wouldn’t expect His compliments . . .

Anyway, I ended up in the first place I’d inquired into, the Hôtel Grands Boulevards in the rue de Austerlitz on the other side of Place President Wilson from where I was last night.

Unfortunately, I have to change rooms again tomorrow. Where they're moving me I'll be paying 135F for a chambre avec douche. Very nice, that will be, but the room I have now, with only a sink and bidet, is quite sufficient and has a (nonoperating) fireplace besides. But it’s booked for tomorrow night, it seems . . .

This room is 90F a night, only 3F more than what I paid at the St. Antoine last night, and it has a large window, on the street. That other place was too quiet.

All that settled, I headed for la gare and got my couchette reservation for Friday night’s run to Paris taken care of.

Then I found there’s no bus to Conques so I checked into rental cars. Hertz has the best one-day deal. 490F. If I do that I go to Aurillac the same day. Depends on if I’m up to wrestling with French road signs.

Saw the basilica of St.-Sernin . . . too bad the sun didn’t stay out. But it was still a lot brighter inside than was Chartres. All a very pretty delicate pink. They laid the brick with a tinted mortar, then flattened the excess over the brick, then raked out a V-groove horizontally.

I hadn’t realized how much of the old polychromy is left. Most of that is in the transepts.

Visited the ambulatory and the crypt. They have quite a fine treasury. And it’s impressive to see the plaque commemorating the fact that Charlemagne helped the church obtain many of its apostolic relics.

The choir is pretty well Baroque. Woodwork, mainly. And it’s true-- the piers for the crossing tower do rather interrupt the flow of vision. But the tower is wonderful from the outside.

The west front is obstinately homely, especially compared with the liveliness of the east end chevet. The odd thing is why it’s so much higher than the nave itself. Were they planning on western towers?

Bought a copy of the book that Dr. Gendle† gave me to study from, and a number of postcards. I seem to have lost all but one of these, having held the bag upside down while consulting my map on the street. I noticed I was doing that, stuffed the one card back in, and figured the rest were all inside. Wrong!

At that point I was wandering around trying to find the laundromat. Finally did, and went and fetched the dirty clothes. Did the wash, so, but sitting in laundries in strange cities is, well, strange.

Blew 91F on dinner, around the corner from the hotel on the rue de Strasbourg. Oysters and other mussels on the half-shell for starters and then a compendium of salmon, carrots, potatoes, and mushrooms in a sauce. Had a carafe of Sauvignon blanc which I didn’t finish.

I dined at one of a line of two-person tables, ranged close together along one wall with a long banquette on one side and chairs on the other. The man seated at the table next to me engaged me in conversation. He looked to be in his late 40's or early 50's and reminded me of the guy who played Manolito in High Chapparal. Seems he was born in northern Italy but moved to France at an early age and has been here ever since. Lives in Rodez but comes to Toulouse on business. A certain amount of chitchat ensued, allowing for my downhill French, but I did not take him up on his offer to go somewhere else for a drink (I’d had enough, anyway) or to a discotheque. There’s probably a difference between being company and being a pickup, but until I learn the dividing line I’d better avoid any semblance of either.

Gave the patron of the hotel a good laugh when I returned. Was thinking so intently about what had just happened at the restaurant that I didn’t process the fact that I had an open door and not a sidelight there in front of me. Kept trying to operate the inoperable leaf and wondering why the man, sitting in the lobby watching the tube, didn’t come and let me in . . .
________________________
†My Medieval architecture history tutor in Oxford

The Music of the City

Last night I attended the Pittsburgh Symphony concert at Heinz Hall.

The night began with percussion and the sound of winds, and that was before I arrived at the concert hall. The wind was the panting of myself and other latecoming patrons as we ran along the crowded Pittsburgh streets, hoping to arrive before PSO concertmaster and tonight's conductor Andrés Cárdenes would raise his baton, and the percussion was the impact of fireworks against the night sky, from the Steelers pre-Super Bowl rally at Heinz Field across the river.

I hurried up to the balcony and to my row just as the first piece was beginning. The hall was almost full, and my seat, of course, was in the middle. But everyone was very cheerful about letting me in. And once I got myself seated and had caught my breath, I detached my mind and put myself into that submissive mood were thoughts and impressions rise from instinct and not from analysis.

The piece was Samuel Barber's Symphony No. 1, Op. 9. The only thing I knew about it was that it was in one movement. I didn't read the program notes. I just listened, and as I did I found that the traditional musical terms for the parts of the work rose to the surface of my mind of their own accord. "Yes . . . what a lively Scherzo! . . . or would it be a Scherzetto? . . . . Ah, here's something rather Maestoso . . . . Here's a change, there's the Andante . . . " If I'd been trying to think of this on purpose, I never could have managed.

The second item on the program was George Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue. It was more than appropriate that that would be played in downtown Pittsburgh last night, for it always evokes urban bustle and activity for me: bright lights and cars, people hurrying to theaters and concerts, crowded stylish restaurants full of patrons sitting down to intimate and celebratory meals. And last night downtown Pittsburgh was crammed. All the playhouses and music halls were open, it was this month's exhibit opening night for the contemporary art galleries, and then you add in all the Steeler fans come down to cheer on the team. Traffic was so thick, I had to try five different garages before I could find a place to park-- that's why I was running late. Rhapsody in Blue was the ideal musical theme.

The piano soloist was Gabriela Montero. The playing of the Pittsburgh Symphony didn't quite rise to the level of her performance, but she sets a very high standard. I hate to say it, but the upward sliding call of the opening clarinet was a little bodiless. I had to say, "That was it?" But the brass made up for it later, especially the riffs from the muted trumpet.

There was nothing in the program about more music before the intermission, but I'd say almost everyone there knew what to expect. Ms. Montero is a master of improvisation, in a tradition that goes back to the young Mozart and before. She stepped to the apron of the stage and requested a theme from the audience. One man sang out, literally, "'A mighty fortress is our God!'" in recognition of the Mendelssohn Reformation Symphony to be played in the second half. But through the hubbub Ms. Montero said no, give her something more characteristic of Pittsburgh. And from several places throughout the hall, voices began to call, "'Here we go, Steelers, here we go! Here we go, Steelers, here we go!'"

She went to the piano and plunked it out: "Daa-da-da, da! da! Daa-da-da!"

"That's it?" she queried.

"That's it!" roared back the audience.

Whereupon she sat herself down at the keyboard and took that little call and stretched it, dressed it, inverted it, reverted to it, embroidered on it, and made it an object of classical delight. Classical, yes, then she added variations Romantic, Latin, and even jazz. Whew! What must it be like to have a genius like that! If I could have any complaint to make, it's that Ms. Montero did not, as I had hoped, end her improvisation on Here We Go, Steelers! with a grand fortissimo. Surely, that would have been better luck for the game on the 1st? But I told myself not to be silly-- we were there for music, not football.

Besides, her playing that has got to be good luck for us anyway!

After the intermission, the PSO played Felix Mendelssohn's Symphony No. 5 in D Major, "Reformation." And I do not care what anyone else thought, I found it to be well-played, lively, colorful, and not just the Allegro vivace, either. That second movement certainly evoked Germany at its sunniest, and when music can make Germany seem sunny, that's saying a lot.

It's a good thing I didn't read the program notes on the Mendelssohn until I got home. The writer had the nerve to imply that the quotation of "Ein' Feste Burg" in the Finale "burdens" it with "extramusical meanings." Excuse me!? What is "extramusical" about Master Luther's hymntune? And if it causes the listener to meditate on the ideals of the Reformation or on the history of the Reformation itself, what of it? Will this writer also throw out Vivaldi's Four Seasons or Beethoven's Ninth Symphony or his Eroica because they too carry "extramusical meanings"?

Feh!

Me, I enjoyed the idea that this symphony was a suitable piece to play in this, the 500th anniversary of the birth of John Calvin, even if it celebrates primarily the Lutheran side of things. In fact, wouldn't it be wonderful if musicians could come up with musical celebrations of Calvin this year? Maybe something based on the tunes of the Geneva Psalter!

But the Barber, the Gershwin, the Mendelssohn, and the Montero variations were not all the music we enjoyed in the city last night. I noticed that the intermission went on unusually long, and when the audience reconvened the piano was still front and center on the stage. And here came Gabriela Montero, Andrés Cárdenes with his violin, cellist David Premo, and clarinetist Michael Rusinek to play the John Williams "Air and Simple Gifts" that she had played with Itzhak Perlman, Yo Yo Ma, and Anthony McGill at the inauguration this past Tuesday. Ms. Montero expressed her gratitude for being able to play it this time in "a nice warm hall"-- despite the honor and thrill of being in on the inaugural performance, it was "real torture" playing outside in those frigid temperatures.

I tried sketching the quartet, but I took too long about it and didn't get them all. Funny, but it seemed like a longer piece when I heard it the other day. Maybe because I was wondering how they would manage to finish up by high noon; and as it happened, they didn't! It went very quickly last night.

Of course there were curtain calls after that, and lo! Maestra Montero came out wearing a Terrible Towel! Not only that, but--

I can be very slow about some things. When she first appeared for her solo in the Gershwin, I'd noticed that although her publicity photo shows her as a blonde, Gabriela Montero was wearing her hair in a nice and down-to-earth shade of brown. I'd noted that over black leggings she was wearing a flowing black tunic with a flowing jacket over it, black with a wide patterned dark yellow border over the hem. But now that I saw her with the Terrible Towel, it hit me-- She's wearing Black and Gold! She's in Pixburgh and she's wearing Black and Gold! And when she swung the Towel on her final curtain call, I knew it had to be good luck for Pittsburgh for two weeks from now.

Here we go, Steelers, here we go! [clap! clap!] Here we go, Steelers, here we go! [clap! clap!] Here we go, Steelers--!

(Oh, shut up!)

The Joy of Bloggery

In my last post, which features an entry from my 1988 Christmas break travels around Europe, my 1988 self writes, "What's life for except to be shared? And when you're like me and always taking in and never giving out, because you have no one to give to . . . it all seems pretty pointless."

When I was transcribing that from my handwritten journal, I had to be amazed at how things work out. Twenty years ago, the Internet may have been thought of, but not by me, and the concept of the web log had not been envisioned at all.

And now, here it is! Ordinary people like me who aren't syndicated columnists or publish-or-perish professors or popular short story authors have this forum where we can share life and ruminate on and give out what we've taken in, and whoever calls up our blog page can receive it-- or not-- all they please!

I admit that the forms that appear in blogs are nothing new. They are of old: the political column, the technical handbook entry, the theological pamphlet. The personal blog reproduces the private diary, and the more polished efforts of Blogdom owe tribute to three centuries and more of books of essays by men like Bacon, Lamb, and de Quincy.

But the freedom of publication is new, and it is amazing. Someone like me can broadcast my thoughts in my words over the wide fields of cyberspace, and all I need is a keyboard and a bit of bandwidth!

Four or so years ago, when I first heard of the web log, it was described as an indiscriminate stream-of-consciousness mind-dump indulged in by the terminally self-centered. Back then, I heard, daily or even hourly publication was everything, form and content and consideration for one's audience was nothing.

But I read others' blogs and learned different. I found that writers will display their care or their carelessness, whether they are publishing on paper or on-line. I found that if a blog featuring pure abandoned emotion turns out to be compelling, it's probably because its author is an artist of that style and labors to get the effect just right. I found that whatever the style or genre, the blogger has to mind what he says and how he says it, so his story will be featly told and his opinion aptly expressed, and his readers edified, entertained, enlightened, or, if that's the purpose, even enraged. And in the process, he'll find that his thoughts and opinions become clearer to himself, because he is not writing exclusively for himself, he is communicating with a great unseen audience.

At least that's how it is for me. And whether you, my unseen audience, are many or few, I stand in awe that the world has turned round to the place where I can communicate with you, and for that I am grateful.

My Cut-Rate Grand Tour: Day Seven

Monday, 12 December, 1988
La Côte St. André to Toulouse

ON THE TRAIN, ALMOST TO TOULOUSE, 5:30 PM-- Not sure why, but I feel rather scared. Maybe because it's almost dark and it's raining outside. No real reason to be scared. Toulouse is the end of the line so it's not like I'll miss my stop. And I lucked out in Valence and got this train, which wasn't listed in the Cook Guide. It's one of those that splits. Part went to Nice, part to Toulouse. Happened in Avignon. And hey, I did manage that all right . . . Taking this kept me from needing to change trains twice more. Arrival time about the same.

All sorts of geography since 9:00 this morning. From the foothills at La Côte to the Alps at Grenoble to the Mediterranean at Sète. And now the rugged wine region of the Midi.

Weather tried to clear up for awhile, but I think it's hopeless. Must be monsoon season.


HÔTEL ST. ANTOINE, TOULOUSE, 6:45 PM--

"Aye, now am I in Arden, the more fool I.
When I was at home I was in a better place,
But travellers must be content."†

Took the first stab at a hotel from the Let's Go France: the Hôtel St. Antoine. Yes, the neighborhood looks lively and interesting but they neglected to mention that the corrugated-plastic-covered indoor courtyard affords the only "exterior" light to many of the rooms. And the hotel front door stays open all night, and do I really want to leave my stuff here while I make my day trips to my monasteries?

And have you noticed how the prices are always higher than in the book? This one is at 85F.

Well, I've only paid for one night. I could scout around in the morning.

Meanwhile, I'd like a good cry. It's not so much being here as a stranger in a strange land, it's more the feeling of not having a real home anywhere, not even in Kansas City. Home is someone to go to, and at my age, mothers don't count.

At this point, I think I wish that after I see or talk to Friedl* in Stuttgart I could punt the whole deal and go back to Coverdale* early.


8:15 PM-- Went out for a bit. Pretty shop windows but I wasn't up to really admiring anything. Nor to wanting to go into any of the cafés for dinner. Back to the hotel to consume the cheese and pâté I bought this morning in La Côte.

And to be professionally depressed. I know that it's really very bad. That I should be making the most of this wonderful opportunity, etc., etc. But I keep thinking, what's it all for? What's life for except to be shared? And when you're like me and always taking in and never giving out, because you have no one to give to . . . it all seems pretty pointless.

I find the bathroom here has no lock. The WC in the public corridor, I mean. And the dingy "white" (sorta) chenille (of course) bedspread has funny dark curly hairs all over the topside of it. I'm not looking forward to seeing what the sheets look like underneath-- much less, sleeping between them. The plastic-covered courtyard two floors below is lit with fluorescent lamps that glare into my room, and no telling when I'll be able to get to sleep, even when I do work up the nerve to get into this dubious bed . . . I wonder what it'd do to my bills come summer if for the sake of my sanity I removed to a place a little more like civilization? And put it on my Visa?
___________________________
†Shakespeare, As You Like It, Act II, Scene iv

WIN!!

Stillers win, 23-14!

Mr. Polamalu, u R teh Mann!!

But ow! the injuries! The doctors and trainers will be hard at work the next week. God willing, everyone will make a speedy and full recovery.

Especially our guys who will be needed on February 1st.

This trip to the Super Bowl is poetically appropriate, considering Pittsburgh has just celebrated its 250th anniversary. What a way to cap the festival year! But if you want my opinion, Pittsburgh won because of the two teams, it's the Steelers who were more desperate to go south to Tampa and get out of this freaking cold.

Stiller Lurve

*Looks around surreptitiously to make sure no Balmer fans are watching*

Goooooooooo Stillllleeeerrrrrrrrsssss!!!!!

We luvs u thiiiiiiiiissssssssssssssssssssssssss muuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucccccccccccccchhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(3-0 first quarter. Keep it up, Black & Gold!)

Uh, What Was It That I . . . ?

Last night I was getting ready for bed and I couldn't find my nightgown. It wasn't hanging over the footboard of the bed. It wasn't under any of my clothes lying on the bedspread. It wasn't on the floor.

It had to be there somewhere. So I looked. But no, not under the pillow, not under the covers, not under the bed, not in the basket with the dirty clothes.

Well, it was late. I was half undressed and cold. I have other nightgowns, nice clean ones. So I put one on and went to bed. I'd find the missing garment someplace obvious in the morning.

So then, early this afternoon, I was bringing a clean sweater up from the laundry room. I folded it up nicely and opened my sweater drawer to put it away. And there, lying on top of my sweaters, was my carefully-folded flannel nightgown.

What the . . . ?

Please understand, this was not a matter of my putting something somewhere reasonable and forgetting I put it there. My nightgowns don't belong in that drawer! They don't even belong in that dresser! In fact, technically-speaking, they don't even go in that room! Besides, this one wasn't clean, it had been worn! Whatever would possess me to put it in the sweater drawer? Where was my freaking mind when I put it there?

Oh, gosh. Am I headed for premature senility?

Kitteh sez, Du nawt want!!

But suppose that's what I'm headed for. I guess that means before it's too late I'd better exert myself and finish up all the half-completed projects I've got lying around the house. I'd better hurry up and do all those wonderful things I always wanted to do. I mean, Schubert can leave unfinished symphonies lying around, but not me!

If I'm on the way to losing my marbles-- what I have left of them-- I'd better get moving and start and complete my masterpiece, my magnum opus.

That is, if I could only remember what it's supposed to be . . .

My Cut-Rate Grand Tour: Day Six

Sunday, 11 December, 1988
La Côte St. André

HÔTEL FRANCE-- Hector’s birthday dawned cloudy and gray, which has become typical . . . The sun peeked out only once: oddly, when I was reading in the Mémoires about what a sunny spring day it was when he had his first Communion.

That was after church, when I was waiting for the hotel dining room to open for Sunday dinner.

The salle à manger was filled with jolly family parties this afternoon. Interestingly, at a nearby table there was a young man who had a look of la famille Berlioz about him, especially about the nose and mouth and in his abundant mop of curling light brown hair. But he lacked Hector’s poetry and gravity of countenance. I wonder if there are collateral lines extant around here . . .

I also noticed what I think was the cause of that squeaking noise I heard last night. They have a set of Western-salon swinging louvre doors between the kitchen and dining room, and they give out a creech every time a waiter or waitress passes through.

I shall say something about dinner, since I can’t afford many such, at 125F plus wine. It began with an amuse-guele in an egg cup. Layered, with aspic glaze. First bit tasted of chicken stock then as you ate lower with the tiny spoon there was a kind of vegetable puree mixed in. Carrot and tomato, I think.

Then came a nice bit of pâté chaud en croûte.

The fish course was a cold lobster pâté with a dollop of creme dressing with chives. The slice of pâté was very prettily decorated with chives and red and black caviar. On the side was a decorative lattice of haricots verts with tiny carrot balls inside the squares. A garnish more than anything, but it was cute. This was all quite delicious.

The only real disappointment was the main course. It was bits of duck that came drowned in a brown sauce, served in a copper skillet. The meat was rather overdone and the sauce reminded me too much of the omnipresent stuff the cooks at Coverdale* make from a mix. There were scalloped potatoes on the side and they did come off, however.

I’d pretty well eaten myself into a coma by then but still sampled four kinds of fromage off the cheese board.

And then there were little bonbon affairs and then the dessert I chose, a passion fruit mousse. Thought that was appropriate for celebrating Hector’s birthday . . .

Couldn’t finish any of these, and the waitress asked if I wanted to take it with me. With my bad French I gave her the impression I didn’t and as ungodly stuffed as I was I didn’t make any effort to correct that. Rather wish I had, now.

Chose a white Savoie for the wine. Fine with the lobster pâté but I think a red would have worked better with the duck.

I’m afraid I let my gourmandizing laissez-faire run away with me, however. I know the French take their eating seriously, especially Sunday dinner, and I can spend three hours over a multi-course meal with the best of them, which this afternoon I did. However, my sitting there patiently between courses letting the waiting folk assume I had nothing to do here in La Côte except pack in their cooking really reamed me for time. I barely was able to see the Musée Berlioz and then get back to the church for the concert. And I was late at that, making it for only the last two Faurés. They were the pieces I wanted to hear, but still I had no time to wander around the town and take pictures, at all. And the bus leaves at 9:13 AM tomorrow, which in this land of eternal daylight savings time means it will be just barely light.

As Mr. Chenley† said in his letter, the director of the Musée was most friendly and courteous. He even came downstairs (after I had explained that I was a member of the London Berlioz Society) to where I was looking at the chronology to give me a keyring and medal made for the 1969 centenary of Hector’s death.

What he did not give me was his name, nor I mine. For that matter, I am not even signed in here at the hotel. Madame says last night, oh, it can wait till morning. Very nice and trusting, but I don’t really care for the idea that if I croaked up here this evening they’d only know who I was by rummaging through my baggage.

Anyway, at the Musée it’s hard to tell what room is what, as there’s no way of knowing if the furniture is arranged as it was in Berlioz’s time or if it was just put in to look pretty.‡ I did ask which one was where Dr. Berlioz taught his son Latin. It’s the room opposite the kitchen.

There’s a chair in there that was Hector’s. Forgive me, mon bien-aime, but I’m afraid I was so far within myself that it was only my intellect that moved itself to realize, "He actually sat there."

It’s a charming house, however. Very nice marble fireplaces. And a stone sink in the kitchen. And plaster walls with painted designs.

The music isn’t piped anywhere but into the reception room, to the left of the entry, but you can hear it dimly upstairs. Bits of Harold, the Hamlet Funeral March, the Waverly and Le Corsair overtures . . . Nothing vocal or they might’ve gotten something live.

I had Volume I of my 1878 edition of the Mémoires with me, and showed it to the people on the desk. I didn’t understand all their comments but I gathered it was a reasonably good find.

They gave me a copy of the Bulletin of the French Society. And I bought a monograph on Hector’s childhood and adolescence (plus a few postcards). Tout en française, à bien sûr, meaning I’m in for the long haul with this language . . . but I would dearly love to have a companion with me to whom I could speak English and who could maybe supplement my French . . .

Got back to the hotel (where I dropped off my camera) then over to the church just before they were to do the Cantique de Jean Racine. The director of the Musée was there and very kindly made sure I got in on a student ticket and found me a seat closer to the front. The choir, who I think are called "À Coeur Joie," and the orchestra, the Orchestre de Chambre du Dauphine, did a positively luminous job on the prayer. The Fauré Requiem was lovely, too, but the men were just a tad harsh in places and the baritone soloist was choppy in his phrasing. Still, they did lots better than we did in Hector’s Te Deum last Saturday. And the audience liked it. Set up a rhythmic clapping afterwards . . . but there were to be no encores ce soir.

The acoustics in the eglise St.-André are pretty good. Apparently the nave used to have a wooden roof but it’s rough plaster now. The aisles are ribbed groin vaulted. The nave piers are great fat round Romanesque ones but the arches are all pointed. The architecture is in general rather klutzy and uncoordinated (nothing aligns or matches), but it’s solid and substantial nonetheless.

In spite of or because of what I experienced this afternoon and evening, I’m afraid I feel a bit depressed. The weather has a lot to do with it and so does the language. I can get my physical needs met in it but none of my emotional ones. I hope I pop out of this before the 23rd or else I’m going to make a pest of myself when I see Lukas*. He’s liable to get a hug whether he wants one or not.

Perhaps I would feel differently if I’d been more inspired by what I’ve seen today. But perhaps the voice and presence of men of vision speak more loudly in their works than in the sites and artifacts that knew them in their physical presence. Meaning I wasn’t as moved as I’d expected to be seeing the house where Berlioz grew up and learned Virgil and the first elements of music.

But I just had a rather alarming thought. Over the last fourteen and a half years since I learned and sang the Requiem, Hector's music has become internalized for me. It's become part of my personality as much as of his, and to a degree that’s also happened with the places and things he described in the Mémoires. So when I see them in person and their reality doesn’t fit the concept I had of them in my head, they seem somewhat irrelevant. Worse, they seem to take this person to whom my soul feels so close and remove him from me, to make him a stranger like all the strangers here.

Fortunately, I brought the music along. Oh God, let it not abandon me!

I think I should take advantage of the bathtub again this evening. Heaven knows when I shall have another chance . . .

A silly note here. My missing glove you know about. But here’s the further tally of items lost so far: My luggage keys and their neck chain, pulled off somewhere between Caen and Chartres (nothing was locked, fortunately). My Youth Hostel pass which I left at the desk at Chartres (they’re supposed to be sending it to the PO at Toulouse, poste restante). And I appear to have left my slip at the Auberge in Chartres as well. Now this is really too bad. It was good enough for me to wear but with its shot elastic and safety pins, it’s really no good to anyone else. I shall have to buy another, too. Pestiferous.

I can't hear that squeaky door below me tonight, so I guess the restaurant isn't open Sunday evenings. That's a blessing, at least.
__________________________
†The then-secretary of the London Berlioz Society
‡The Musée was renovated in 2002-03 for the Berlioz birth bicentennial, so this state of affairs may well have changed.

Demoralizing

My 2008 Christmas letter morphed into a 2009 Epiphany letter, and I've spent the day personalizing them and addressing the envelopes, finally to get them sent out across the globe along with copies of my latest Christmas carol.

Being a prudent person (sometimes), I'm checking the addresses of my British and European friends, especially if I haven't heard from them in a year or two. Or five. Or ten.

The Internet is a marvellous tool for the purpose. If you have enough information on a person to avoid outrageous plunges into mistaken identity, you can track down about anyone, worldwide.

And I have to say many of my Oxford former fellow-students and friends have emerged as an illustrious bunch. The man I've tagged as Friedl* is the European coordinator of a major Protestant ecumenical alliance. Another man coaches fencing teams that have taken international championships. Others have posts at prestigious universities and have written enough books on meaty topics to supply half the missing couch legs in Christendom. They shine and shine, whereas I--?

I'm sitting here with no vocation because my church authorities in their wisdom think my next post should be an "easy" one, and easy posts aren't exactly current in the PC(USA)!

It's my own fault, really. I could claim gender discrimination, but plenty of women are wildly successful. I could say I'd do brilliantly were I simply given the chance, but why must the chance be "given" to me? I could argue that I wasn't raised to be ambitious or to have wide horizons, but what did I ever do to fight back against those assumptions?

No, while my grad school colleagues have used their guts and gone on to be wonders, I am a gutless wonder.

And I hope I get a fine sense of accomplishment from getting these letters out. Because unless I think hard about what I should and ought and can make of my life in 2009, that's about the level of fulfillment I can expect.