On Saturday I had a free morning, so I wandered around Bochum. The city was having a cultural festival, with stands lining the main streets. I was fascinated to see three stout and highly respectable German ladies of a certain age at a beer stand, gripping large steins. Mind you, it was only ten o’clock. My German colleagues later told me that the ladies were enjoying Frühschoppen, or an “early glass”—reserved for special occasions.
My hotel backs onto a park with a lovely lake. Yesterday I saw a cormorant at the very top of a tree, poised against the sky with his wings spread. I watched him for at least five minutes as he stayed there, motionless, drying his wings after a swoop into the water. He held his head high, as if he were meditating on something far more serious than the fish population of a lake in Bochum, Germany.
Alessandro arrived last night, and crossing the park near our hotel on the way to dinner, we walked straight into a bunny party. There must have been at least twenty of them fooling around, far too busy having fun to pay attention to us. I could not help thinking about the utter joy at the end of The Velveteen Rabbit, when the toy rabbit is made real because the Boy loved him so much, and he finds himself in the woods, in the moonlight, playing with real rabbits.
Our hotel here in Bochum has a little stand in the lobby called Struppi’s Buffet, with food and drink for visiting dogs. Other things I love about this hotel: the bathroom lights turn on only if you put your room card in a slot. Electricity is saved, and I haven’t misplaced my card once. What’s more, in the shower you choose, via computer, the precise degree of warm water you’d like: no edging the knobs infinitesimally to the right or left, trying to achieve a tolerable temperature.
I have been hearing fascinating stories about the reunification of East and West Germany from the point of view of German Shakespeareans. Before the fall of the Berlin Wall, in 1989, there were two Shakespeare societies in the two Germanys, with two presidents, two boards of directors, two essay collections, and two conferences. We academics care ferociously about our hierarchies—yet when the Wall fell, the two separate fiefdoms had to become one. These days, the reunited Shakespeareans have a cautiously sanguine air, like a couple who remarried after years of estrangement.
While I was listening to studious, thoughtful papers addressing Shakespeare’s work, Alessandro tried out a swimming pool recommended by the hotel. On arrival he discovered that it was, in fact, a “textile-free” spa, a rather prudish description for a place designed for frolicking without clothing. The spa contained a dazzling number of saunas, over fifteen, each offering a different experience—the “Himalayan sauna,” for example, followed by the “TV sauna.” To my mind, the sheer number of saunas suggested erotic activity, but Alessandro strayed into the “Sahara” and found it already occupied by a respectable (if naked) middle-aged couple, who were merely sitting about and sweating together. The swimming pool was kidney-shaped and clearly meant for lounging rather than laps. He wandered about intrepidly, clutching his towel, but said later that it would have been more fun if I’d been there. Apparently everyone else was in pairs. In case you’re wondering, I refused to make a visit.
On the train back to Paris, we found ourselves behind an American couple fighting viciously because, it emerged, he had made fun of her gait. (I would like to add in my defense that it was impossible not to eavesdrop, given the energetic way they conducted this conversation.) She was plump and miserable, and I felt for her, although her reliance on the F-word as noun, verb, and adjective was grating. They had been married three years, it seemed. Finally, she hissed, “You are not so important in my life,” and left. And then I truly felt sorry for her, since she felt that way about the man she’d married. Alessandro is that important in my life. (Though, for the record, he wouldn’t dream of making fun of the way I walk. He has a strong survival instinct.)
After yesterday’s sad train experience, I’ve been thinking about marriage. There’s no getting around the fact the institution leads to the best and the worst of times. The other day Alessandro looked at me and said, “Are you going out like that?” I briefly contemplated homicide. But then last night he squeezed me and said, “Don’t lose weight. I like it when you’re curvy.” I was so glad I hadn’t slain him.
Alessandro and I have discovered a wonderful shop: Heratchian Frères in rue Lamartine, which specializes in produits alimentaires exotiques et d’Orient. As in some epicure pirate’s cave, there are shelves of mysterious cans; huge sacks of tiny orange lentils, barley, and cornmeal; knee-high containers of brined olives; and five kinds of feta. One section was all Turkish delight: rose-flavored, pistachio-flavored, double pistachio-flavored. A shelf glimmering in the corner proved to be crowded with jars containing seven different shapes of silver dragées, edible decorations that really do look like pirate booty.
We decided to pull Anna out of school for a few days because the “centers for leisure” are open, and she seems to learn more French in a day of playing in one of them than in three months of French class. We entered the room to a scene of chaos, kids dashing in every direction. Anna held my hand tightly, and then a teacher strolled out, playing his guitar. They all ran to him, Pied Piper–style. “Anna!” he called with a grin, and her hand slipped from mine and she was off.
I took friends to the Musée Jacquemart-André today. This was my second visit, but before now I never noticed a gorgeous little porcelain Rape of Ganymede tucked in a deep alcove at the top of the grand staircase. Ganymede was the boy stolen by Zeus to become his cupbearer. As the most beautiful boy on earth, he’s often depicted with lush sensuality; here, he’s a slender, wistful youth, on the verge of leaving home.
Another discovery: the extraordinary Paolo Uccello, Saint George and the Dragon, in the Florentine Gallery. In the fifteenth-century panel, a princess—whom Saint George is in the process of rescuing—stands just behind the dragon, which has a perfectly corkscrewed tail. She is wearing a red velvet gown with pearls sewn in flower patterns, and orange slippers, but her finery is diminished by her pale, docile face and her attitude of prayer. She’s making no attempt to run, and I couldn’t help thinking that she’s put a lot of faith in Saint George’s untested reptile-slaying abilities. Luckily, Saint George is, in fact, adroitly skewering the dragon.
Across the street from our apartment is a little hotel, Hôtel Peyris Opéra, which Anna calls the Harry Potter hotel because of its initials. Paris is gloriously warm and springlike, and today the hotel’s restaurant put three little café tables out in front, with white tablecloths, rose-colored wineglasses, and pink flowers. I have to stay at my computer, but the only thing I want to do is put on a dress and some heels, go downstairs, and drink wine in the sunshine.
OF RICE AND MEN
Back in 1990, rice and love became forever entwined in my mind. A man I’d dated for ten years broke off our relationship, and my response to grief was to learn how to make risotto. A few months later, I went on a blind date with Alessandro, and some time after that found myself in Florence, seeking the approval of my future mother-in-law, whose favorite dish was risotto. Rice and love.
When my long-term relationship went awry, I was living in a tiny apartment in the graduate ghetto of New Haven, Connecticut. I spent my free time cooking, crying, and reading. My favorite cookbook was Paul Bertolli’s Chez Panisse Cooking, a collection of fervent essays that included a long piece on risotto. I would stand over the pot, stirring as Paul instructed, reading a romance borrowed from the public library, and crying every now and then when it seemed the heroines had a better life than I did. After a month or two of this, I was quite good at risotto, and I started to think about men in a more cheerful manner, which led to a blind date with Alessandro, then a graduate student in Italian with loopy black curls and a swimmer’s body. He invited me to his house for dinner. I wore a tiny black minidress with over-the-knee green suede boots. The evening was a success, so I reciprocated. He loved my risotto. It wasn’t until years later, when I ate his mother’s creamy, deliciou
s risotto, that I understood how crucial that tiny detail was to our future life.
Risotto recipes are everywhere, though I do recommend reading Bertolli’s book, if you can. The basic recipe has an onion, a little garlic, Arborio rice, a cup of white wine, and homemade broth. But this is a recipe that’s like love: you must savor every step. When you can smell that the onions are soft but not brown, add the garlic. When you smell the garlic’s burst of perfume, throw in the rice and stir until it takes on a glossy, plumpy sheen. The smell of wine should leap from the pan when you pour it in, and finally—Paul is right about this—the broth goes in slowly, ladle by ladle. Stir. These days, I listen to podcasts while I stir, rather than read romances, but it’s all the same: a slow brewing pot, a stir, another stir.
Chez Panisse risotto came to me when I was heartbroken, and led straight to a risotto-adoring Italian with whom I fell in love and whom I married. And that led to his mother, with her wooden spoon and passion for broth, to my daughter, whose favorite food is risotto with roasted squash.
Luca’s history teacher is very demanding, and he favors the Socratic method. Naturally, as soon as he announces that it is time for an interrogazione, the students all line up to go to the bathroom. From the refuge of the loo, Luca texted a friend—“Who’s chosen?”—and got the texted reply “Just starting.” Luca: “Is he done?” Silence. Luca couldn’t stay in the bathroom forever, so he finally returned to find his poor friend miserably standing in front of the class.
“He’s so French,” Alessandro said of Florent, upon returning home from conversation exchange today. “He goes on and on about Pauline: so passionate, so in love. But has he told her any of this? No.” According to my husband, if Florent were Italian instead of French, he would already be booked into a honeymoon hotel. Remembering Alessandro’s style of courtship, I would agree.
Last night the air was so warm and beautiful that Alessandro and I walked much farther than usual—all the way past would-be aristocrats enjoying champagne on the lawns of the Louvre, down through the Tuileries, toward the Opéra … at last collapsing into Café de la Paix, with its gaudy, gilded (but quite lovely) ceiling. My hot chocolate came in two silver pitchers. One held melted chocolate, as dark and thick as lava, the second steaming hot milk. Heaven!
On a Minnesota prairie, the night sky is lightened only by a bowl of stars. Sometimes, when I was growing up, we even caught a shimmer of the northern lights. Paris, on the other hand, is never dark. In our bedroom, peacock blue taffeta curtains start at the ceiling and puddle on the floor. But at night, light from the street creeps above the rod and bathes the room; it reminds me that I’m in a city, surrounded by people. And I love it.
The first of May is the French Labor Day, which at home brings a parade. Here, it means a huge protest. People flooded into Paris, thousands of them. Each unit has its own music; I was proud that many labor groups were represented by American hip-hop. There were also live bands playing traditional French music, and some singing verses that seemed mostly to consist of rhymes such as “Sarkozy—oui!”
As well as protesting, on May Day Parisians buy lilies of the valley in twists of paper and give them to each other. Alessandro bought me a posy, and then an extraordinarily nice Frenchman gave me another on the street (a surprising and delightful moment), so now I have a glassful of little fairy bonnets in shy curls next to me, like a scrap of the deep forest on my desk. Apparently, in the language of flowers these lilies of the valley signal a return of happiness. I feel happier than I would if they were diamonds.
After extensive research, I have a blueprint for the perfect tart. It should be very small, hardly more than a bite, and have a buttery, flaky crust, a bit of pastry cream, and a miniature tower of raspberries. One or two berries should be topped with edible gold leaf, in order to create the illusion that the eater is Marie Antoinette herself, wearing a spun-sugar wig, nibbling cakes, and handing out dining advice.
Only after months of walking under gleaming gold statues of Pegasus, each paired with a different nymph waving a sword—that is, the four statues on Pont Alexandre III—have I noticed something very interesting. The horses have ferocious erections. I’m just saying.
I took Nicole and Anna to the Italian ice cream shop Amorino after school. A big placard outside lists the various sizes of servings offered. I wasn’t paying attention and somehow allowed the girls to talk me into ordering two “grandissimo” cups. First of all, this was exorbitantly expensive. Second, it turned out to be more ice cream than I’d ever seen in a cup before. Rather cross with myself—and not pleased with them either—I told the girls that they had to eat it all. As they neared the end, I added the proviso that no one was allowed to vomit. Anna finished, but Nicole reluctantly admitted that the second provision outweighed the first, and handed over her grandissimo cup with a spoonful or two of ice cream left inside.
For the third time, I walked through Musée Nissim de Camondo and listened to the audiotape (I could be a guide, by this point). This time I lingered in the dining room, looking at a bronze Bust of a Negress, from the early nineteenth century. Apparently it came from a grouping designed for a fountain in which a black servant woman, cast in dark bronze, poured water over her white mistress, carved from marble. There’s a lot to think about there, and none of it very good.
In the afternoon I walked through a little park by place de la Concorde that is full of flowering horse chestnut trees, each prim white petal with a cherry-colored heart. There had been a windstorm. I kicked my way through drifts of blossoms, heaped and piled as if they were sawdust.
Here is an Anna refrain: “I hate fish, unless it’s bass.” This is because once upon a time, in a long-ago, halcyon summer, her brother caught a bass in a Minnesota lake, and she still remembers eating that fish with pleasure. Put it up to a mother’s ingenuity: every fish I cook is a bass (no matter what the French fishmonger might care to call them).
We discovered a wonderful crêperie, Breizh Café, which makes classic Breton crepes from dark buckwheat flour. The menu is marvelously varied, from savory to sweet. I had a crepe made with bitter orange marmalade and Cointreau. Set aflame, naturally. We sat next to a grandfather and his eight- or nine-year-old grandson. They each had a huge classic crepe—with just a dusting of sugar. They ate them up, and then Grandpa summoned the waiter: two more of the same! They talked about lions, about how fast and fierce they are. I thought of a kindly grandpa lion, lying in the shade of a baobab tree, sharing bones and stories with a cub.
Math exams are still terrifying prospects for Luca. He has a tutor once a week, and many nights he and Alessandro work late, puzzling out his calculus homework. A few days ago he came home despondent; there had been a test, and while comparing answers with others after class, Luca discovered that no one had come up with the same numbers he did. But today the grades were handed out. Guess who got the second-best grade in the class?
My beloved father is losing his memory. Today I got a letter from him, with the correct street address but without my name, or indeed any name. Luckily, our mail carrier figured out that letters from the United States were probably for us. Inside, Dad enclosed a copy of his lovely poem, just published in The New Yorker: “I have daughters and I have sons.” I am so afraid of the day when there are no more poems, or letters.
Luca’s Italian literature class just finished reading Homer’s Iliad, the ancient story of warriors storming the city of Troy. His friends have nicknamed one of their classmates Achilles because he’s always angry and destructive; indeed, classroom chairs and tables have toppled before his wrath. Alessandro suddenly recalled a boy in his middle school class who’d been labeled Fast-Footed Achilles because of his speed. There’s something to be said about the downfall of culture in these two examples.…
Last week I wrote about kicking my way through drifts of flowers, and today I learned that Claude had the same experience. His flowers covered the ground like “white foam,” and his eyes filled suddenly with tears in re
sponse to “the unfettered soul of beauty.” I might have to stop reading his book. Claude’s overblown rhetoric makes me feel both surly and superior, a bad combination. I suspect that my irritation stems not from his sentimentality but from the fact that he is indisputably my predecessor, if not my prototype: we are describing the same flowers, albeit one hundred years apart. I don’t like to think of my great-niece chortling over my rhetoric, but I suspect it’s inevitable.
FIGHTING THROUGH THE HOLIDAYS
All good Minnesotans head “up North” in July, landing alongside Canada geese at lakes crowded with speedboats and pasty-legged vacationers of Scandinavian descent. My clearest memory from my family’s northerly adventures was the summer when my parents were splitting up. I can’t bring to mind their actual fights (though I was dimly aware that finances and infidelity were pressing concerns); I wasn’t paying attention. Who had time? I was sixteen, and obsessed with earning the money to buy myself a pair of white painter’s pants with a little loop on the side, clearly designed for a teenage boy to hook his finger through. A deep tan would have been a cheaper route to “hot babe,” but since my gene pool ruled that out, I had fixated on those pants as the key to landing a boyfriend. The effort required to keep this magical thinking afloat meant that I had no mental energy left with which to dissect my parents’ surging, embarrassing emotions.