And what is this....?

The guy below right is little Michael, fourteen years ago, at the Monaco Grand Prix, which he attended upon an invitation of Glenn, his mysterious friend, who figures a lot on the pages of this blog, and who coughed up the 417 EUR, which was the price of a ticket for the event even then. Glenn also took these pictures. Thank You Glenn, thank you so much. Wonderful: 

Yesterday's barbecue --

(Clip by our friend Charlie:)


There were raindrops, that's why everybody huddles under the pergola. The evening became very cosy and congenial, though, and no political incorrectness occurred.

Hannah & Andreas

 (Click on any picture for a slideshow with larger images; it's worth it:)

We had been invited by our new friends Hannah and Andreas for lunch.

Hannah is an artist, a writer, and many other things. 

She also ran an antique shop, which shows in the interior.

Andreas had been a professional software designer in the olden days (Cobol), then became a professional cook, and finally build a seagoing vessel which took the pair from Germany to Portugal, where they settled 14 years ago. They even speak Portuguese.

So, Andreas cooked for us. This is the main dish, beef filet with a true sauce Béarnaise over an intricate heap of rice.

Michael drank too much, which was wonderful...

...as wonderful as the views of this olive grove across the street*        

Hannah & Andreas, thank you so much!

(*)which looked exactly like the olive grove across the street from the hospital in St. Rémy de Province, immortalized in countless paintings by its patient Vincent van Gogh, who also drank too much.**

(**) Namely this one:

Acres of hardwood (6)

Remember Wilhelm Tell? Behold the musket above the sliding doors, a present from our Swiss friend Christine:

Afternoon picnic

...just back from an afternoon picnic in the park, the "forêt domaniale de l'Estérel":

Glenn sends this:

Portugal (13)

All this happened yesterday, halfway between Nazaré and San Martinho do Porto, the next town south. Everybody here looks like our friend Glenn from Baltimore.

And, yes, we suspected it already---Nazaré and Baltimore share the same latitude, with Baltimore at 39.2904° N and us at 39.6012° N. Haha---Baltimore is still a bit to the south. We are going to move here, folks, yes we are. Don't blame us, internet is good. 

There are differences, of course, an important one being the climate. This is the west coast of a continent which is, at this latitude, still untouched by the Gulf Stream, meaning the ocean is cold, meaning the air on the coast is cool. Average highs during July and August in Nazaré are around 22.5°C and 22.9°C respectively (72.5°F and 73.2°F). Compare this to Berlin, Germany, where the numbers are 25.0° C and 24.5°C, or Baltimore, with 31.7°C (89.0°F) and 30.6°C (87.0°F). We have basically a Californian coast climate, and there's fog, although we haven't seen much of it yet.

Bona tarde.

Net Neutrality --- The Machiavelli Chronicles Part MMXVII --- Our excursion to St. Raphael

We went to St. Raphael with our Korean friends, and your reporter was just thinking...

...the revocation of NET NEUTRALITY (providers allowed to prioritize certain sites to the disadvantage of other sites), as voted by some FCC panel along party lines...

...we should nail this to the door of the White House like Martin Luther nailed his theses to the door of the Wittenberg Cathedral...

Insider joke

(We're posting this for a friend of Chang)

"So, you say her name was Alice?"

Marcel

So we go for a walk along the Augstbord water pipe, a duct that exists since 1320 and distributes meltwater among the villages in the neighborhood. Last time we visited was 8 years ago, when we got almost killed by falling rock (Michael, for unclear reasons, had stopped walking, perhaps waiting for Chang behind him, and 6 seconds later, at the exact location were he would have been, a massive rock slipped and would have killed him---not making this up). So we avoided the trail for superstitious reasons, but then Chang got his new Nikon D3300, and we had to go.

Click for a larger picture

It's funny how memory works. You don't remember anything about the trail 8 years later, save for the falling rock, but then, five minutes into the hike, things come back, and you recall having walked past this house (the Swiss call it "Hütte" --- hut). Last time, you remember, the structure was empty, or abandoned. This time, a dog (center) charges down the slope, barking, and, upon arrival, turns immediately on its back in expectation of cuddling and caresses. 

We continue. We're above the Matter valley at ca. 2100 m (Zermatt and Matterhorn are up the valley to the south (to the right of the picture), and frontal you have the entrance to the Saas valley that plays such an important role in Michael's story The Fountain of Geneva (Roman Emperor Hadrian, a shadow of Antinous, an erotic SWAT team, crazy Vikings).

A thunderstorm breaks (almost), we turn around. There's the dog again, plus his master, Marcel. "She has her beauty from me," Marcel opens the conversation (he means the dog, a Border Collie mutt). Marcel is a cowboy, really, he guards cows during the summer, and lives here. We talk about (a) language, how the Swiss dialect relates to ancient German, (b) the locals (god-fearing, superstitious Catholics, still), (c) afterlife, and (d) we promise to be back soon with a bottle of Fendant, the favored local wine (also mentioned in Michael's story). Later, during dinner at the Moosalp, the favored local restaurant, Carmen, the publican, tells us that Marcel writes plays.

Yesterday ---- Part II: Sex on the Eames chair (really)

Finally, folks, the second part of our true-true short story about the visit of our friends from Australia. A third (and last part) will follow. (For the first part go here)

Josh and Jason slept well. They brought good winter weather, a light mistral with dry clear air and steely blue sky. We’ll go visit Saint Tropez. It would be me, today, who would have to make the move, but it’s easier to talk about the corniche or the Forêt Domanial de l’Esterel, the natural park of marais and pine trees that surrounds Le Trayas and protects us from over-development, we’ve recently met a fox up there. I point to a villa on the cliff which supposedly belonged to Greta Garbo (everything is a rumor here, and they are always false). We’ve reached St. Maxime when I finally muster the chutzpah to say: “Chang tells me you’ve sucked his dick last night.”
“Yes,” they say.
“It’s unfair,” I say. They laugh.

We arrive in St. Tropez and walk along the quay where Brigitte Bardot lived in Dieu créa la femme (the next house accomodated La cage aux folles, Birdcage was the remake). We take turns taking pictures of us and the sea. I ask Jason to zoom in on the northern horizon with his Canon EOS 70D and point to the tip of Miramar, a stone throw away from our house in Le Trayas. “It’s unfair,” I say, “they can see us, but we can’t see them.” We laugh.

Jason takes this picture, Josh (or I) hold him in place

The world soccer (football) cup and us (and our dentist)

Its always thus: while Bernard-Henri Lévy (don't ask, or google "pictures of French Intellectuals"---they are all his), so while Lévy and Dominique Strauss-Kahn (the IMF chief who fell onto his penis over a few sexual minutes in his Hotel Suite) are "good friends" who "know each other well," us---we only know the concierge of Michel Foucault, the other French intellectual, the guy who died an early AIDS-death in 1985. And even that isn't true (we don't know the concierge, that is).


Along those lines. We never met Sepp Blatter, the much-discussed head of the FIFA, the organization that runs the world soccer cup. BUT---we know his brother, almost. Have a look at this picture.

We took the picture this morning on the way to the dentist. It's a car dealership, located at the entrance of Visp, the nearest town from us down in the Valais valley. The home town of the Blatter clan.The Blatter AG, you see it? On the sign, to the left. That Blatter's brother, and we almost know the guy because they also have a car-wash where we have our car cleaned irregularly. Cool, isn't it.

And the dentist. Lives in nearby Naters (picture (this morning)). Don't get jealous. We've added a bit magenta to the picture. The real colors are less picturesque.

Gundulić's Dream

We really have to watch out, otherwise this blog turns into yet another Facebook page. Anyhow:

Glenn sends this picture to a few friends, including us...

(Click to enlarge)

...and writes: "Boy, those guys sure were busy back then. Is that Michael observing from the shore? His guardian angel was a snappy dresser! Maybe my bible expert could tell me about this painting."

Not bad, Glenn's guess, because, turns out---Google reverse image search---this is a reasonably famous painting by the Croatian artist Vlaho Bukovac titled Gundulić's Dream. And this Gundulić is apparently Ivan Gundulić, a fervent advocate of the Roman-Catholic counterreformation during the 17th century.

And then Sacha (the model for Jack Horn in the Green Eyes), who also got Glenn's letter, sends another picture, namely this one...

...and writes:  "Definitely Michael! More hair though!"

And then there's a mini-flurry of more emails:

"Michael needs more hairs to survive here [in Switzerland] at this moment." (Chang)
"Yes, the alpine sun is strong. Make sure he wears his hat..." (Sacha)
"I will tell him,it is cold here." (Chang)
"FDLMFAO" (Glenn)
"Is there anything you don't know?" (Glenn again).

I will teach you a lesson folks, watch out:

Green Eyes (teaser) --- Germans playing Monopoly

Apologies, apologies, this has nothing to do with the Green Eyes, except that we played Monopoly once, with Sacha, the model for Jack Horn in the novel, and it ended in tears like this (I was Karl Marx)  (click to enlarge):


(find a few lines from the Jack Horn chapter underneath)

Yesterday ---- Part I: We must buy condoms today

Not the Green Eyes, folks. Instead a visit of friends from Australia in early November 2013. This is Part I of a short story of three parts. Enjoy:

No, it wasn’t yesterday, it was three days ago that Josh and Jason arrived in Cannes. We had to pick them up at the train station---a semi-lit location with password-protected toilets tucked away under an ugly overpass that divides the town into two. The announcement screen goes dit-dit-duuh-dit (d#--g--g#--d#), the TGV noses into the station, I wonder briefly what would happen if I lose my balance and hit the tracks, but Josh and Jason pour out of the sliding train doors in front of us just in time.

Josh hasn’t changed at all since his last visit. Jason I never met before, but he gets chatty immediately, it feels like a conversation left dangling an hour ago.

The view this morning

6:02 AM

Yes, we're back in France, folks, since May 4, in fact, and I haven't posted since, out of sheer exhaustion. We'll be off to Switzerland next Saturday, expect to hear more from us then. Cheers, Michael (& Chang)

Les voiles de St. Tropez

Sacha sends an email asking whether we would know a way to get on a boat and watch Les voiles de St. Tropez closeup. We suggest to rent a powerboat, but before anything clicks he has already found somebody else. We sit at home and cry, cry like John Lee always cries when he has lost Alex again. And then, the next morning, Sacha calls and re-iterates the rental idea --- it was so great yesterday, and he really needs to get closer to the tall ships with his professional camera than the sailing millionaires would let him who gave him a sail yesterday (don't worry, just read the sentence a few more times). So there we are, with Sacha's official picture of the event:

Creole, Hamilton

A year ago: Back from the races (reposted)

Terry, our neighbor, and his lovely friend Anne-Carole have invited us to the 7ème Grand Prix de Monaco Historique. We arrive by train. Terry picks us up, personally, at the station. We wouldn't get unchaperoned through security, he apologizes. “The richer you get, the more involved the logistics become," I think to myself. Terry chuckles politely, he can read thoughts, the déformation professionelle of a famous film producer.



Terry's apartment overlooks the harbor from the 8th floor. It's rented. His own apartment would be better (he owns apartments in Monaco, Paris, etc), but they put the grandstand for the races right in front of his view, so there is no view.



The view of the harbor invites a study of the rich and famous. I feel the inner Lee Harvey Oswald. All Kennedies look the same.

The cars practice on the road below. The noise is physical. The Séries G race (“voitures Formula 1, 1975 – 1978”) is about to start. It starts. It has started.



The cars are surprisingly slow. You’ve heard that phrase before, “everybody was secretly hoping….” Not us. It’s not our fault that the tailwind of a McLaren M26 turns yellow, then orange, then ultraviolet. I point my Nikon D80 with the purest of motives. A second car is blinded by the fumes, and we have an accident. Yellow flags are waved viciously. Nobody dies. The unfortunate, but lively drivers exchange views. Gentlemanly compliments, certainly, or proposals to a mutual duel on the most generous terms, before sunrise, at Agincourt. “Tirez les premiers, messieurs les Anglais,” they will say.



“If Joan of Arc would not have chucked out the English, the whole world would now speak French,” my late friend Paul always used to say, tears in his eyes.

Stay tuned. The story continues here.

The Freedom Fries Kitchen Cabinet in all its splendor

We usually don't do this, pictures of ourselves. But there you (we) are, with Chang Man Y. (oriental wisdom), Sacha F. (visuals), and Michael M. (rasender reporter).

Plateau de Calern above Grasse

North of Grasse, at ca 1200m altitude, the Cote d'Azur features a plateau of surprising dimensions, built into the mountains, as it were, and split by the Gorges du Loup, the local version of the Grand Canyon. We've never heard of it, but Doris & Dirk, who own a house just above our's in Le Trayas, go there at least once a year. 

The plateau hosts the French Astronomical Society and its telescopes, which are now used for the detection of stray asteroids (that could hit the planet on a bad day), and the eponymous gamma bursts, the most violent events in the know cosmos (one telescope can swing to any part of the sky within 10 sec, which is important since the gamma bursts don't burst very long).

"As much as I appreciate the cosmological dedication to Gamma Bursts," Doris comments on the spot, "I do regret that black holes are apparently low on the astronomical shopping list." And then she goes on and tells about a friend of her's, Monica, who got almost caught by a black hole in the vicinity of Willem-Voltaire on the Swiss border. As Doris elaborates further on Monica's sex life, her emigration to Texas, her disappointments in Texas, more on Monica's sex life---especially during Monica's travels to Africa where she meets extremely shapely Kenyans whose skin glistens in the sunlight when they are aroused---as Doris elaborates further, the elves of the plateau conspire into fluffy gray clouds and dance across the sky.