Author: dbstageman

I did not intentionally join the Old Farts Club (“OFC”). But when you are in a foreign country you gravitate to people who speak English. These are fellow ex-pats, most of whom are retired. There are some young people who work remotely, but their prostates and backs and joints all are in good working order, which leaves just the weather to talk about with them. Social tides moved me to the OFC, like in Animal House, when that jerk Niedermeyer guides Pinto and Flounder to the Omega House corner reserved for nerds.

I play padel several times a week. I am one of the older players and so am routinely humbled by my slow reflexes. But my teammates and opponents, and other ex-pat friends, (mostly) are retired, so they are not spring chickens themselves. Some of them made enough money that they could comfortably retire in their 50’s. Others, like Denise and me, did not. In the U.S. these groups would live in different neighborhoods and belong to different clubs. Here, we all go to the same parties and play golf or padel together. It is like when I lived in college dorms and roomed with kids from all walks of life, except there is a lot less binge drinking and sexual tension.

Back when we were in the U.S., working for a living, I was a lawyer and Denise was a teacher. We mostly socialized with lawyers and teachers and told stories and jokes about lawyering and teaching. But we in the OFC don’t talk about our old lives. Of course there are common introductory questions like, “Why did you move to Spain?” or “How did you pick Alicante?” But only rarely do the inquiries delve deeper than that. If someone lets slip that they were a mechanic or doctor or lawyer or salesman, they immediately change the subject to their recent visit to a European capital. It’s almost like we are all in witness protection, concerned that too much historical information might result in mob retribution. But the truth is, we just find our former iterations less interesting than the present.

It’s weird being an old fart. Believe it or not, I spent my entire life younger than I am now. Being old seems like a recent aberration, like hemorrhoids; something I should be able to fix with the right cream or pill. But all available pills and creams address only old age’s symptoms, like hemorrhoids, without any promise of cure. But by hanging out together we old farts at least can maintain the illusion that our condition is “normal,” just as we thought youth was normal, back in the day when boomers ruled and we were getting things done.

It is easy to maintain the illusion of normalcy when my age-peers and I play padel during the week and the courts are mostly occupied by retirees. But then comes the weekend, and the courts and cafés are teeming with people who are impossibly young. They are beautiful and energetic and play really, really, well. Suddenly my friends and I are in the minority, and it’s not a cool minority, like Idris Elba and Halle Berry at the Oscars.

No, we definitely are in the Omega House nerd corner. We do nothing productive. We don’t flirt or try to impress each other. All we do is get up when we want, read books, play sports (maybe), paint (maybe), watch movies, travel, and talk over wine, beer, or coffee.

Come to think of it, the Omega House nerd corner ain’t all bad.

In fact, it’s kind of glorious.

Once was enough.

Alicante, Spain, is a great place to live, but it is an art desert. You have to look pretty hard to find a gallery, and if you want a very good gallery, you have to look on the other side of the Pyrenees.

Madrid boasts the Prado, which has an abundance of masterpiece oil paintings depicting the crucified Christ, and almost as many life-size images of slaughtered soldiers. Seriously, if ever you find yourself excessively happy, just too darn gleeful, spend an hour in the Prado. Unnecessary optimism will burst from you like methane from an old fat man after an all-bean breakfast. The Prado is to joy what Narcan is to heroin.

Paris is where artists went when art started getting really interesting. Pablo Picasso, Marc Chagall, Diego Rivera, James Whistler, Mary Cassatt, Vincent Van Gogh, and tons of other brilliant innovators, flocked to Paris, presumably because other brilliant artists were flocking to Paris. What started that ball rolling? I have no idea. All I know is that the same people who idolized Jerry Lewis, and are somehow entertained by mimes, host the best art museums and galleries in the world.

Go figure.

Of course you know about the Louvre. It has the Mona Lisa and the Venus de Milo and lots of other really old stuff. I know that doesn’t sound sufficiently respectful, but I have to be honest, even though I am not under oath. I went to the Louvre in 1985 and I was impressed, but maybe not as much as I was supposed to be. “Impressed” is the wrong word. The art made me think, but it didn’t make me feel.

That is why this year Denise and I skipped the Louvre. We went directly to the Musée d’Orsay. This smaller museum is much less crowded than the Louvre. It displays works by Monet, by Manet, by Van Gogh, by Renoir, and by numerous other artists who experimented with new ways to make their audiences feel. Does that sound a little academic? Somewhat pretentious? Of course it does. So I will explain myself with this iota of biography.

By the time I was a freshman at the University of Iowa I had heard classical music on the radio. I was unimpressed. Then one day I somehow landed in an Iowa City theater, Hancher Auditorium, where a symphony orchestra started playing Beethoven’s Fifth. I was stunned. Speechless. Agog. It was like I unexpectedly discovered a new pleasure center after someone snuck up and smashed that hedonic hotspot with a mallet. Seeing my first Van Gogh, one of his later self-portraits, was like that.

If you have never seen Van Gogh originals, especially his later stuff, you may be looking at this image and wondering what is wrong with me. You are like me after hearing classical music only through a transistor radio. The reproductions do not do justice to the original. Not even close.

Musée d’Orsay features art by impressionists and post-impressionists. These are the artists I love. I’m pretty sure Denise feels the same way. This is a picture I took of her after she examined Van Gogh’s paintings for only an hour.

As you can see, it really made an impression of her.

We also went to Musée de l’Orangerie. It’s the museum that houses Claude Monet’s monumental “Water Lilies” murals (Nymphéas). There are two oval-shaped rooms, specifically designed by Monet himself to display massive panels in a continuous, immersive loop. The effect supposedly is like being at the Giverny pond — quiet and meditative. Supposedly. A sign cautions visitors to be quiet, so as not to disturb other visitors’ reveries.

People were, in fact, speaking, if at all, in respectful whispers. Still, the water lilies did not leave me in a Zen state of quietude. Maybe it had something to do with the teen girls insisting that the previous ten or twelve photographs of themselves were not quite good enough, there should be five or six more from slightly different angles, while standing in front of some other lilies. One of the worst teens finally sat down to look at Monet’s painting. That’s when Denise and I decided it was a good time to stand between her and the art to have our picture taken. Just the one time.

Paris offers a very nice show called Atelier des Lumières. Here, digitized masterpieces are projected onto the walls, floors, and ceilings of an expansive space, accompanied by music to create a fully immersive environment. Our show featured first the works of Pablo Piccasso, then of Henri Rousseau.

I do not have the skill to do the show justice, there are just too many moving pieces, so I will just say this: Before the Picasso show I did not like Picasso. After the show I did. Before the second half I thought I liked Rousseau. After the show I did not.

Go figure.

Bottom line, a thumb’s up on Atelier des Lumières.

But maybe you don’t want to see art in stuffy museums, or pay to see digitized reproductions. Mainly you don’t want to pay admission fees. Well, you cheap bastard, Paris still has plenty to offer.

You can, of course, walk along the Seine, where artists sell their wares. Most of it is kitschy tourist stuff, but some of it is pretty good. But you will get more bang for your buck if you go to the Marché aux Puces de Saint-Ouen, often just called “Les Puces” (be careful of your pronunciation when asking for directions to “Les Puces”). This is the largest antiques and secondhand market in the world, and it includes a lot of great art. I want to go back, but this time with money and a car so that I can haul my loot back home.

Alas, eventually it is time to go back to Alicante. There aren’t a lot of art museums or galleries, but it is not without beauty.

We will survive.

Some folks describe things as “very unique.” They are the same careless people who say “irregardless,” “ATM machine,” or “He’s a politician I can trust.” The rest of us know there are no gradations of uniqueness. Something is one-of-a-kind, or it is not.

“Delicious,” for me, is like “unique.” Delicious food is maximally good. Two dishes may be delicious in different ways, perhaps one savory and the other sweet, but one cannot be “more delicious” than the other. If you say one food is more delicious than another, what you really mean is that at least one merely tastes pretty good.

I know what you are thinking. You are thinking, “Dan, you are being a pedantic word nerd.” That is why I like you. You enjoy the delicious irony of showing off by using “pedantic,” possibly the most ostentatious of all luxury words.

But I am not being merely didactic or punctilious. I have a larger point, which is that delicious food in an expensive restaurant is not better than delicious food in a neighborhood bistro. In Paris you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a great little restaurant, one that probably could do wonders with that cat, butter, and a little cream.

Take, for example, the Marx Dormoy neighborhood where we stayed. It is a working-class district with lots of people from North and sub-Saharan Africa. We left our hotel thinking about food and within seconds saw the Darbar Restaurant. We walked in and asked to look at a menu.

We were talking to a large man from Sudan and his business partner, a smaller man from Afghanistan. I have forgotten their names. I will call the Sudanese man “Greg,” and the Afghani, “Ernie.”

Greg said, “Today is our first day open. We do not yet have a printed menu.”

Denise pulled at my arm, signaling that it was time to go. Ernie asked, “Do you like meat and rice? I can bring you meat and rice that you will like very much.”

Denise pulled a little harder. I ask, “What does it cost?”

Ernie rolls his eyes a little, not contemptuously like a teenager, but like he is trying to find the answer inside his own head. He shrugs and says, “Fifteen or twenty euros.”

I look at Denise and say, “Let’s eat here.” She is a trooper, so we follow Greg and Ernie to a table.

Fifteen minutes later Ernie brings us food.

For a few seconds we eat like ravenous hyenas, and then decide to take this picture.

You remember Uri Geller, who could bend spoons with his mind? That is the level of focus and concentration we had to summon just to put our forks on the table long enough to snap a photograph.

No doubt you’ve had meat so tender that you could cut it with a fork. Well, this beef saw our forks approaching and immediately divided of its own accord. If we looked dissatisfied it would divide again. Never before had meat come so close to simply dissolving in my mouth. The rice included raisons and thin, slightly sweetened, carrot slices. It could not have been improved upon. It was DELICIOUS!

Pretty soon the plates were clean. Neither Greg nor Ernie brought us a check, so we walked to the counter where Ernie was standing. I asked, “How much do we owe you?”

He again looked for an answer inside his own head. He said, “Seventeen euros.” I silently wondered whether I should pay with cash, or a credit card. Ernie misinterpreted my hesitation as disappointment at the cost. “Fifteen euros,” he said, bidding against himself.

We gave Ernie twenty euros and assured him that we would be back (not a lie).

                        *    *    *    *

That night, our first evening in Paris, we walked to a wine store, Le Cave de Don Doudine. The very nice English-speaking proprietor sold us €18 and €20 bottles of French wine which were almost as good as the €3 and €4 wine that I can get in Spanish grocery stores. That may not seem like a terrific bargain, but he also recommended two restaurants. Those recommendations made the wine a very good deal, indeed.

The next evening we went to Les Trois Frères, which was a ten minute walk from the Kube Hotel. It was decorated with bicycles and seemed more like a bar than a restaurant. Its menu was on a chalk board, hanging on a wall behind our table.

I know what you are thinking. You are looking at those prices and thinking, “Dan, you surely did not go to a restaurant where the entrees cost €74!” You are right. I surely did not. Apparently the French like to write their “1’s” with a big crossbar, like they are about to play “hangman.” They signify a “7” by putting a slash through the upright.

The French are a very fancy people.

I had the filet mignon de porc, which is like a pork ternderloin, but more posh. Denise opted for the parmentier de canard ala patate douce and salade verte, which is duck with sweet potatoes and green salad.

Notice that we snapped this picture of our food before taking a bite. You cannot even begin to imagine the iron will it took to delay eating. Lesser people could not have done it.

The next night we went to the vintner’s second recommendation, Le Normandie, also about a ten minute walk from our hotel, but in another direction. We had a reservation and were the evening’s first patrons, so we scored a table by a large bay window. I can’t say the view was particularly impressive, but it was cozy.

Le Normandie frequently changes its menu. On this particular evening we were given a choice of three appetizers and two entrees.

For our appetizer we chose the soft boiled egg, roast leeks and creamy chorizo. I would show you a picture, but we started eating before I thought about the art. There is nothing attractive about food topped with a soft boiled egg after the yolk is broken. Take my word for it. The appetizer was pretty. And delicious.

Here are the main courses.

Had we more time, we might have eaten at Georges, a restaurant at Pompidou Center’s rooftop. Apparently it offers a great view of the Eiffel Tower, and the rest of Paris. The waiters wear uniforms and the fish costs over €50. There is something attractive about such elegant pretension. But I know one thing for sure.

The food there would not have been more delicious than what we found in the bistros of our working class neighborhood.

I shook Denise’s shoulder at 5 a.m. She examined me through slitted eyes.

“Not now,” she murmured.

I persisted. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

She rolled in my direction. “What?”

“Your birthday is tomorrow. I wanted to surprise you with reservations at a French restaurant.”

“That’s nice, but why wake me to tell me NOW?”

“Because our plane to Paris leaves this morning. You have only one hour to get ready and pack a bag.”

She suddenly looked worried. “I think you have had one of those dreams that just seems real.”

“No,” I said. “Our flight leaves at 9. You need to get ready.”

You husbands out there may think this was a risky venture, planning an expensive trip to Paris without allowing your wife any role in planning or execution. I know I did. I asked our daughter, Clarity, if she thought her mother might be upset.

“You are a moron,” she said.

She meant that I was dumb for thinking there might be a downside.

Turns out, women LOVE surprise birthday trips to Paris.

Who knew?

                        *    *     *     *

We fly into Orly Airport, which is south of city center. The Kube Hotel is on Paris’s northern edge. A cab ride there will cost over $50. Naturally I want to take a train.

We are supposed to be at the Musée d’Orsay at 2:30. That is more than two hours from now, and back home two hours seemed like plenty of time to get to the hotel, and then to the museum. But now, here at the airport, we are confronted with a dizzying array of signs directing us to different trains. We can go down these stairs, or those over there, but what if they lead to the wrong train? We will have wasted valuable time! My brain, recognizing that it has nothing useful to offer, takes a nap.

The cab ride to the Kube Hotel takes nearly an hour. My brain, grateful for the rest, assures me that the cab fare was money well spent.

Stupid lazy brain.

                        *    *     *     *

Speaking from hindsight, Paris subways are wonderful. I do not know if the trains run on time, but they run so frequently it doesn’t matter. You can get virtually anywhere in the city by walking to a station that is no more than fifteen minutes from wherever you happen to be. Google Maps offers step-by-step instructions: which subway entrance to use, what signs to follow, how many stops before you get off, and what exit to use. And, the subway is faster than above-ground travel.

That is hindsight, however. We learned this valuable lesson after navigating from our hotel to the Musée d’Orsay..

                        *    *     *     *

We easily find the underground station. But once we descend the stairs we are in a catacombs. Mobs of people surround vending machines. Do the machines all sell single-use tickets? Do we want single-use tickets? Are the tickets limited to a specific destination?

I move to the front of a line. People mutter protests in French, but this is a reconnaissance mission, not an incursion. I just want to be sure that the line leads to someplace we want to be.

I return to the rear and report that I did not learn anything useful. We stay in the queue.

Eventually we find ourselves in front of a ticket dispensing machine. Everything is in French. But we are seasoned travelers. We know there will be a menu option for English. We push that button. The screen does not change. We consult our phones, which offer no help. Stupid smart phones do not work underground! We wish the vending machines used Spanish, rather than French. We have grown accustomed to not understanding that language.

The crowd behind us is expressing impatience. French people are going to be late for work because idiot foreigners are taking forever to buy a $2.50 ticket. I can feel the seething resentment. I do not blame them. Denise wants to give up. She pulls my arm, tugging me away from the machine.

I resist her pull. I turn to face the angry mob. I feel courageous, like Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird.

“Does anyone here speak English?” I say this very loud so that it is clear we will not be giving up our place in line until someone admits knowing our ugly language.

A middle-aged lady speaks up. “I do,” she says.

I exhale my relief. “Great,” I say, now using the supplicating voice generally reserved for asking directions. I motion for her to join us at the front of the line. She looks around, apparently worried that the mob might turn on her. She knows how the French treat line jumpers.

“We want to go to the Musée d’Orsay,” I say. “What tickets must we buy?”

The lady, who probably makes her living working with toddlers, operated the machine until it spat out two little tickets. We expressed our gratitude, but she quickly backed her way into the faceless mob, presumably hoping not to be associated with the folks who made everyone late for work.

Some day I will tell you about the museum. Now, however, I will tell you the single most important thing to know when planning a trip to Paris.

Paris has a “Navigo Weekly Pass” for the train system. It costs about $30 and allows unlimited subway travel from Monday to Sunday. It includes transportation to and from both international airports. Once you have the pass you do not need to deal with the frustrating vending machines. You do not need to deal with subway ticket vendors of any kind. BUT, if you buy the pass on Saturday, it will be good for only two days. If you buy it on Wednesday and leave on Monday, you won’t be able to use it for the train to the airport. Get to Paris on Monday. Go into a subway station and ask an attendant for the Navigo pass. Leave on (or before) Sunday.

Actually, now that I think about it, the subway pass is only the second most important thing to know when planning a trip to Paris. If you are a man, the most important thing is surprising your wife on her birthday, or anniversary, or maybe Christmas. She will enjoy a surprise trip to Paris more than even the finest and most expensive kitchen appliance you can imagine. Even more than a robot vacuum.

I last wrote about being a pedestrian in Morocco. This took the form of a screenplay, because that’s where the money is these days.

What Rocky did for Stallone, and Good Will Hunting did for Affleck and Damon, Marrakech Matadors might do for me. Of course I will star in the movie myself, as did Stallone, Affleck, and Damon. The loss of that starring role may be a great disappointment to George Clooney, but he has all that tequila money, so don’t feel too sorry for him.

Continue reading “Not Pedestrians in Marrakech”

EXT. MARRAKECH – DAY

WE OPEN with a high altitude view of a Marrakech street. At this height it looks much like any busy European street. It has four paved lanes, two in each direction, clearly marked with white and yellow lines.

Continue reading “Marrakech Matadors”

You want to know what to expect when you arrive in Marrakech. Based upon my experience, it will go something like this:

You will have made a reservation at a “riad” inside the Marrakech medina. The riad will send you an email with its address. Because you are highly skilled with Google Maps, the world’s greatest invention, you will have no trouble finding the riad.

Continue reading “Finding a Riad in Morocco”

Denise said she wanted to go to Morocco, and I should learn about the country. I immediately fixed myself an Old Fashioned and listened to Marrakesh Express. In case you are younger than dirt, that is a song recorded by a band called Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. I bet your grandfather has some of their records.

Continue reading “Rockin’ With a Moroccan”

I write today mainly to put a stop to the incessant cards and letters asking why it has been so long since my last essay. This, I have thought, must be what it has been like for Kevin Costner and the producers of Yellowstone.

Continue reading “Meeting Neighbors in Spain”