Day 3: Letter to a friend
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Day 3: Letter to a friend

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I hope you are receiving these notes, and that they provoke a smile. Lord knows you seemed dour enough in our last few conversations–a smile would do you good.

This morning I was just heading out to the Musee de l’armee when a brisk knock sounded.

“I am Madame Durand, you will join me for tea,” said the neighbor, in that tone with which no one argues.

Tea consisted of a cup of overly sugared Earl Grey and questions. That is, she questioned me. I barely managed to answer one before she fired off the next. At a certain point Mme Durand seemed satisfied. She pointed at her door. “You will let yourself out, I am very old and my hip hurts,” she announced. Again, on the way out, I scrutinized the still life. I swear it is a genuine Cezanne! I will try to sneak a pix of it.

None the worse for the interrogation, I hiked to the museum to study WW1 & WW2–did you realize that De Gaulle recruited from the French African colonies for the Free French forces? Begins to make sense of the importance of the African theater, beyond natural resources, of course.

Back to writing until seven, and I was going to take myself to a brasserie around the corner for soup and people-watching when Jean-Sven knocked on the door. With him was a petite, exquisitely beautiful Asian woman, one of those flawless women you can’t believe exist outside of the nebulous world of film: all almond eyes and tiny carved features and silky skin. Her name is Veronique and she’s his girlfriend. They had wine with them and Jean-Sven claimed it was even better than the bottle from last night. He does have good taste and I figured they were people for watching, and anyway Jean-Sven was helping himself to the bottle opener and glasses before I could protest.

Jean-Sven, in case I didn’t mention, works at some kind of social media company, a start-up that he claims will supplant Facebook and Google, both together. At least he’s ambitious, right? He seems to be about forty and let slip that he’s already made a bundle on software. Veronique teaches exercise classes at a gym in the 8th arrondissement and also sings. They’re very entertaining, and Veronique gives a good shoulder massage.
I got them out just in time for my daily Skype session and reportage from my indefatigable research assistant. Tomorrow I’ll have to contrive to not be home to open the door at this time of day.
Meantime, just before leaving, I met someone I intuitively know is a friend of yours, but how do I ask–you or the other person–about that when you have been so starchy with me? You’re likely to deny it just to be contrary. I do pray that you will find your way to greater softness toward me. You know I think you are a lovely one, thorns and all.

Day 2: Letter to a friend
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Day 2: Letter to a friend

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Day 2: In the morning, the bright, rich light comes in, saturated with color and taste and fragrance like an old jazz tune sung by a beautiful, perfumed woman, along with the laughter and shouts of children at a nearby school.

Settling in, and already writing, after an escapade at the Monoprix and then a picnic lunch at my desk to research museums. I was just winding up, about to do an online yoga class, when a bustle arose in the hallway. I looked out my peephole; a man and woman argued with the neighbor. They handed her a brown-paper-wrapped package and left with an energy of, well, I can only call it grim determination.

The elderly lady lingered, staring down the hall after them, so I seized the opportunity to open my door. She gave me a cool glare and I murmured, “I thought I heard someone I knew…” I’m not sure she bought it because I was not-subtly focused on the still life painting on her foyer wall. I’m sure it’s a Cezanne, and not a reproduction. The solidity, the sense of order and structure; the colors of the apricots. I tried to memorize it so I could google it.

“You will come for tea tomorrow, Americaine,” she said. I was concentrating so fiercely that she had to repeat herself, then she slammed the door. What time does she want me to visit? Can I ask her about the painting? Inquiring minds want to know.

I didn’t find that particular work on-line, but there was a slew of similar paintings to be seen.

I trooped to the Louvre to see the Giotto exhibit–pure self-indulgence. Then one page at my computer. Alas, Jean-Sven stopped by with a bottle of wine, which he insisted was so delicious that I must sample it “tout de suite.” Turned out he has an excellent palate and then I had to offer him some cheese, peaches, and bread I bought at the market. We enjoyed the Chateau Neuf du Pape so much that he offered to bring down another bottle of something “tres belle” but I refused and then amiably but firmly saw him out to the hallway. I got that creepy feeling up and down my spine and I could have sworn the neighbor was watching us out her peephole! Well, you know how vivid my imagination is, having commented on it yourself, with that acerbic tone…

I remain, as ever, your devoted, and missing you quite fondly.

Til tomorrow….

Day 1: Letter to a friend
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Day 1: Letter to a friend

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Day 1: Letter to a friend

So, I am staying on a little street with multiple creperies, and managed to inhale a crepe with oeuf and fromage for lunch.

You’d be proud: I’m already integrating with the natives. I was lugging my suitcase up the stairs when a largish blond man offered to help. I demurred but he insisted so disarmingly that I felt obliged to please him by allowing him to hoist my bag over his broad shoulders. He introduced himself as Jean-Sven, and when I queried him about his name, he said his mother was French and his father was a Swede.

“Didn’t you scratch off the winning genetic lotto ticket,” I said. I’m not sure he got the idiom entirely, but it registered enough that he smiled all over himself. He’s my upstairs neighbor.

After Jean-Sven parked my suitcase inside my treasured sacred-writing-retreat apartment, I ushered him back out into the hall. Not to seem ungrateful to such a friendly chap, but I was eager to unpack and be, as Gertrude Stein championed, “alone with my language.”
I waved goodbye as he went into the lift and then found myself face-to-face with an open door, and the elegantly-clad elderly lady across the hall peering out fiercely, as if to memorize my face.
“Bonjour,” I said, politely.
“Americaine,” she grimaced, and slammed her door, but not before I caught a glimpse of some rather nice paintings on the wall behind her. Was that a real Cezanne? I need a closer look, but the whole look, the palette and even the frame, screamed Cezanne.

As to other notes, I notice that most of the denizens of this city of lights worship the Lung Cancer Fairy, who protects them from illness as they puff insistently on chains of cigarettes. I went for dinner at an Italian trattoria, where they almost kissed me when I answered them in Italian. Then they brought pasta with my mousse aux chocolate and tried to pretend that the rigatoni accompanied the dessert. We all laughed uproariously.

Til tomorrow, with my warmest thoughts!

 

Posing for Sabin
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Posing for Sabin

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Posing for Sabin

Marriage is hard. The great philosopher of our time, Chris Rock, has this insight into love, but it applies to marriage even more. Just substitute the word “married” for the words “in love”:

If you haven’t contemplated murder, you ain’t been in love. If you haven’t seriously thought about killing a motherfucker, you ain’t been in love. If you haven’t had a can of rat poison in your hand and looked at it for forty-five minutes straight, you ain’t been in love. If you haven’t bought a shovel and a bag and a rug to roll their ass up in, you ain’t been in love. If you haven’t practiced your alibi in front of the mirror, you ain’t been in love. And the only thing that’s stopped you from killing this motherfucker was a episode of CSI: “Oh man, they thorough. I better make up. They might catch my ass.” Never Scared, HBO, 2004

So, added to the usual rigors of the institution, is posing for my husband. He’s in my face, literally, every night. I don’t think the piece he’s making resembles me in the slightest. The two sides of the face are wildly different–am I so asymmetrical? My nose is that lumpy? Really, my ears stick out that much?

But yes, he says, and it’s in process. You can’t judge it for months yet, nor will you ever be detached because it’s a portrait of you. 

Insult and injury. Such are the sacrifices we make for art, and for our spouses.

 

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Review of the Samsung Galaxy S4, by an iPhone User

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Review of the Samsung Galaxy S4

I am an admitted Apple fangurl. I was an early, enthralled iPhone adopter. I went to the Apple Store within the first week of the iPhone’s introduction, stood in line, and lovingly brought home the wondrous creature.

But of late, all these years later, I found myself increasingly interested in the flexibility of the Android ecosystem. One of my friends has a Galaxy S3 and I had serious screen envy–my goodness, that screen is luscious!

I also haven’t been wowed by the latest iPhone offerings. Yawn.

So last week, when my iPhone 4 was taken over by aliens and the iPod app wouldn’t let me dial out, I went to AT&T and cashed in my upgrade for a Samsung Galaxy S4. I’ve been playing with it for almost a week, so here’s the review, and my thoughts on it from negative to positive.

The really awful: There are two really terrible qualities. I mean, really awful.

One, the mail client is god-awful bad horrible. I guess this is android-wide and not specific to the Galaxy. But after the iOs mail client, the android mail client is clunky, unreadable, and confusing. It’s not just bad, it’s terrible–I can’t emphasize this strongly enough. It doesn’t sync often enough and the UI is impenetrable. I tried downloading another android mail client called K9 and I’m not impressed with it, either.

Any iPhone user will miss the ease and simplicity–both visual and intuitive–of the iOs mail client. This, in fact, may send me back to exchange the Galaxy for an iPhone 5. I check my email via my phone all the time.

Two, the Samsung OS takes up 8 gigabytes of space. Yes, 8. EIGHT. I purchased a 16 gig phone thinking I had 13 gigs of space, and to my surprise, NOPE. Only 8.

The bad: Three more issues.

One, there is too much stuff on the Galaxy. Too much software doing too many things. Hello, Samsung: SOMETIMES LESS IS MORE! Sheesh, you guys. Strip down this OS and your customers will be happier. It took me two days to figure out what I was going to use and what I wouldn’t. Then another day to get rid of or hide the bloatware.

Two, the plastic casing feels cheap and flimsy in the hand. It just doesn’t feel solid, and an iPhone user will miss the sturdy feeling in the hand. I walked by another AT&T store the other day so I checked out the HTC One, which has a really respectable aluminum casing.

Three, the settings are insanely disorganized. You will figure them out. It just won’t be easy or intuitive. I am guessing that someone without the capacity for executive functioning in their brain designed the settings menus.

Here’s what is neither positive or negative: so far I haven’t noticed any extra flexibility from being in the android environment. It’s just different.

Now, the good. There are a lot of good features.

One, the camera is fantastic. Awesome, actually–dazzling. Wish I used it more!

Two, customizing ringtones is easy and built-in. This is a great feature for me, because I like to customize ringtones. I like to know who is calling me so I can decide whether or not to pick up. I am actually trying to train people to text me as a first contact. At least 50% of all phone conversations can be conducted more efficiently via text. So I want to know who’s calling, and for that I need specific ringtones. I always pick-up for my daughter’s school, for example.

Three, customizing the lock and home screens is easy and fun. But you do have to get rid of some of that terrible bloatware that Samsung features–like Flipboard.

Four, air wave is kinda cool. I do like being able to wave my hand over the phone and see the time, date, and my unread email count. Nice feature.

The great.

One, the screen is fantastic. You have to see it to believe it. That big, bright screen makes reading texts easy. It makes looking at anything easy.

Two, I like the bigger size of the phone. I would have liked Apple to make an iPhone that was the same size. Really, I would have.

I have a few more days left to exchange the phone for a $35 restocking fee. In the end, it may just come down to that terrible android email interface–I don’t know if I can live with it.

But the Samsung Galaxy S4 does feature many cool, worthwhile features.