An American in Paris

It's been a long while since I've posted. I'm not sure any of my throng of 5 readers are still around. If so, I hope you enjoy. If not, I'll have this for my posterity and travelogue. It's about my first trip to Europe.

Thursday June 4, 2009

Thursday evening, boarding the plane, “Priority passengers may board first”. Im in fucking business/first class!! We ain’t in academia any more Toto. All I could think, while drinking my first glass of champagne as the ‘coach’ passengers trudged by me was, “OMG, the Seinfeld episode was SO not parody. It’s so true!” The champagne was flowing, warmed nuts, appetizers. Then the menus were handed out, with choices of real food—not a five day old ham and cheese on stale bagel, but poached salmon, beef tenderloin. And we, moved from the champagne to the wine with dinner. Dessert, then after dinner drinks or coffee. The flight attendants had to wake many of us up to serve us the omlettes for breakfast. Coach class sucks. How can I ever return?

I arrive at hotel around 9:30 AM. , Friday. I’m staying at the Millenium Opera Hotel, in the Opera District. It's a 4 star, at a great rate. Thanks, Priceline! I’m able to check in that early. Cool! I pseudo unpack, brush my teeth, take a hot bath, then up and off to my first Parisian adventure. First stop: Le Centre de Georges Pompidou. I see two great special exhibits—Alexander Calder and Kandinksy.

I decide to have dinner, from a recommendation from one of the books I’d bought. I was given directions from the front desk and can’t find it. After 45 minutes give up and walk down a side street and find a bistro that looks interesting. Terre du Truffes. Everything on the menu had truffles in it of some sort. I ask Raphael, who speaks little English for recommendations.

Ecritez-vous le menu por moi, s'il vous plait? I asked Raphael to write my menu down for me, in my pigeon Franglais. He writes in both French and English. I would have liked to wrap him up and take him home with me. The decadence of the night was vanilla ice cream with a truffled caramel sauce. OMFG! Every bite of that meal (and nearly every meal in France), was an orgasm for my taste buds.

Saturday, June 6

It’s raining outside today. As Barbra sings, “Nobody’s gonna rain on my parade.” I get the umbrella, find get my directions from the front desk, and begin my walking trek to Musee D’Orsay. I pass through the Louvre, and cross the Seine by a footbridge. They have a good collection of Van Gogh's, including "La Nuit etoile"--Starry Night. I'm going to see it in person!!! I finally get to the Van Gogh room, tour it. Move on. Then I realize, I missed "La Nuit etoile". I go back, tour the room two more times. I finally see an empty space and see a little notice. It's on loan/tour. It's at the Met in New York. Fuck me hard! That's just my luck! I wander more and see more artists' works. I spend most of the day there.

After two days of walking. I decide to take the subway back to my hotel. I have to switch not only trains, but from the suburban line to the Paris City line. As I’m uncertain of whether these connect at the same place, I ask a young man. He speaks little English, but between my Pigeon Franglais and his limited English, he walks me to the other platform up a flight or two of stairs/escalators and a few turns, to get me to the right place.

Being a bit beat on my feet, I ask for a dinner recommendation from the front desk. He suggests a place around the corner just a few blocks away. This time, when I ask the waiter, “Ecritez-vous le menu por moi?” He tells me “Here’, keep the full menu.” Most of the remainder of my dinners in France, the waiters let me have one of the full menus. How cool, for a self-avowed foodie!

Lyon

I have never felt so un-like the boy from Bumblefuck in all my life. I’m in Lyon, France, at a meeting with international heavy hitters. I’m their peer. OMFG. Opening night reception /Dinner was in this hospital built in the 1200s. We specifically were in the nun’s rectory or rectortoire. It’s the huge old fortress of a building by the Rhone River that I had to walk around three times and ask for direction in my [pigeon Franglais , to realize there is no front door. Only the original carriage gate/now car entry to get to the inner courtyard to access the building.

Paris is great, but there is something extraordinarily special about Lyon. More so that Paris, I felt like I had gone back in time. Old Lyon is like a time warp, somewhere between the World Wars. The bistros. The cobblestone streets and alleys. The place oozes old world charm. A Lyonaise man could have easily swept me off my feet.

The conference is very good. I’m making some good international contacts for work. I am asked to serve on a committee, with this organization, which is something I’ve been working on. I’m with some heavy hitters in my profession. This is something that would not have happened with me in academia, even though I was working on the groundwork. The University would not have sent me to this conference this year. I’m feeling good.

Monday night, the attendees at the conference are treated to a private tour of “L’hotel de Ville”, or Village Hall. This was built in the 12^th Century. The building is amazing. We have personal guided tours, which ends with a reception of Kir and Hors d’ouvres.

My co-worker K, who is at the meeting and I go to dinner with two guys that she knows from other organizations in the US. One of them spends a good deal of time in France, so he was our translator for the evening. I can speak some French, but have trouble understanding it when spoken back to me. My brain doesn’t think in French. I think my dyslexic mind manifests itself with this. It’s frustrating. I want to be able to ‘hear’ in French without trying to translate to English.

The Conference ends on Tuesday afternoon. C and I decide to meet and wander (and wonder) around Old Lyon, which is where her hotel is. I ended up in New Lyon—not as charming. She wanted to go to this big cathedral on a hill. So we do that, and then just begin moseying and wandering the cobblestone streets starting to scope out a potential place to eat. My only caveat was that we eat someplace where we would be outside on the sidewalk/cobblestone alley, not indoors After a good deal of walking and wandering, we settle on one of the first places we’d spotted. She wanted s a good steak. The meal was great. This time I had to write down the menu as, it was just posted on black boards. K is astounded to realize that I am a foodie who is keeping a food diary. Even more astounded than when I showed up for our walk in my bright purple suede Rebock air pump tennis shoes. "Uh, so, Randy, YOU really DO like purple don't you?!

Wednesday June 10

Back to Paris. I now wish I’d had planned to stay one day on my own in Lyon to explore after the conference. But, I’m back in Paris for one more day. I’m staying in a cheap hotel in the Marais (the Gay District) that was recommended for being cheap in the Marais, in one of the books I bought, The Central Marais. It fit the bill. It was above a bar in one of those really old buildings on a side street, with tall windows and shutters. It was not the 4* Millenium Opera, but it wasn’t picked from Priceline (which got me really great hotels, btw). This was for one night, and it was the one night for which I had not originally made plans. It was while I was in Paris that I made these reservations. I did want one night in the heart of homo Gay Paree. It’s raining again. I was museumed out. It was early afternoon by the time I got back to Paris, so I decided that I just wanted to walk around the Marais, find some of the gay bars for later that night, and just wander the streets, getting lost, and finding my way back. I did some shopping, mostly window . On the way back l stumbled along a little designer boutique of men’s clothes. Actually, these little boutiques were peppered all over the Marais. There were lots of shades of purple. There was also a really hot Italian man trying on a purple leather jacket when I wandered in to get out of the rain for a bit. I walked out with a new shirt and a cardigan sweater with leather elbow patches (both were purples.) Given the rain, and my desire to try and not get too terribly lost this evening, I went down to the bar for pre-dinner glass of wine. I ask one of the bartenders for a dinner recommendation. He directs me around the corner about 3 blocks to Le Gai Moulin. On the menu is “Kangarou Steak”. OK, I’ve got to try it. It’s not every day you get the opportunity to try “Kangarou” with Béarnaise sauce. It was like a tough cut of a good beef steak. It was my least favorite meal in France, which means it was only a 4 star, instead of a 5+ star meal. Still incredibly amazing—just mildly orgasmic for my taste buds. There are two guys at the table next to my right, (and the tables are so close, it’s almost like eating family style. They have to pull the table away from the wall because you can’t squeeze your ass between the table to get to the banquette seat). A few tables to my left, a man in a cowboy hat steps over ands, says, “I heard you guys speaking English, I’m from Vancouver, where are you guys from?” The state, London. And, I offer that I’m American, from Chicago. We have a nice conversation, he goes back to his seat. I tell the Londoners that I’m headed for London the next day. They offer recommendations of what to do, where to go. It was roughly after 8:00 pm when I was eating my dinners in Europe. In most places, it, wasn’t until after 9:00 -9:30 that the dinner crowd started picking up. Even such, I love that, among the things the French know about food, is the fact that they know how to savor and enjoy a meal. There’s no rushing you, trying to ‘turn the table’. If you want to stay till they close, they’re not going to kick you out. You nearly have to tackle the waiter to get your check or “l’addition” when you’re ready to leave. I had this conversation with my American compatriots at the conference, “How is it that the French as a population are not an incredibly obese people, with the bread, cheeses, rich foods, patisseries?” We determined, it’s because they cook REAL food, not loaded with artifice and chemicals and hydrogenated poly saturated dog turds. And they walk. They eat good, rich food, but they eat appropriate proportions. They don’t “supersize” their meals. It’s a lifestyle, I could become accustomed to. Je t’aime France. I’ll post about London and the last half of my European adventure.

I'm going to try and get back into a rhytm with my writing and posting again.

Never Say Never

Here’s what I couldn’t publicize earlier this week. On February 6, my birthday, something is happening to make me remember this one in particular. I signed an offer letter for a new job. Actually, I signed it a few days ago, but post-dated it for this day. I wanted to have something to significantly make this birthday memorable in a good way. I told my current boss on (today) Thursday. It was a difficult thing to do. My career trajectory has usually been one of trying to escape a shitty situation. My job search mode has usually been precipitated by vocational misery or termination/downsizing (a human resources euphemism for “you’re fucked” or “we don’t like fags, but you could sue us for that”). I’m not accustomed to leaving a situation that I like.
I really like my (soon to be ex) boss and job. I was not in a job search mode. When I came to my current job about two and half years ago, I thought I was making my final employer move. I even went as far as to say, “I’m going to either die or retire here.” I expected the former, as I don’t think I’ll ever see retirement. But, shit happens, and in this instance, I’m not saying this in a pejorative nor sarcastic manner. Never say never.
A professional colleague, whom I know from our professional associations/organizations was talking with me last fall after a conference we were both in attendance in Baltimore. He’s also in Chicago. He began telling me of a position in his company that was open and he was looking to fill. At the time I said, nothing.
A month went by with me continuously thinking about this. I finally called him. I needed to speak to him on another issue with the board we are both on. And, in this conversation, I asked, “Have you filled the position yet? Let’s talk about it—informally.” I’m the type of person who never (or rarely) shuts a door when it’s been cracked open. I want to at least peak inside. So, we talked informally. I told him I wasn’t “actively looking” to make a move. The informal conversation led to a round of formal interviews with some of the senior management team. Then, to a second round with the rest of senior management team, of which I will be a part. With each round, I was more impressed with the company, the work they’re doing, and the people. This is an organization with a strong core of leaders who lead, listen and communicate. The level and manner of communication is impressive—and certainly not my usual experience in corporate America. Some of the management team, and the EVP were at the same conference I was at in San Francisco last week. When my plane landed at SFO, I turned on my phone, and there was a text message from my colleague that said, “Can you meet with me and EVP tomorrow night in the hotel lobby at 6:45?” Now, I can be very obtuse at times, but I figured, they wouldn’t be double teaming me to say, “we’re going with someone else.”
I was correct. They handed me an offer letter. I took it to my room, the next day we talked, negotiated some details, a new letter was issued, and I signed and dated it for a week later.
The machinations and bureaucracy of academia (and state government on top of that) move slowly. That has been one of my frustrations in the current situation. The new place will allow me to do some of the cutting edge and innovative projects and work that I thought would be more accessible in academia. Red tape is a great prophylactic to progress.
In addition to telling my boss, the other difficult one to tell was employee. I’ve watched him grow in his skills and abilities, and I like to think I played some role in facilitating and mentoring that. I know he did not get that from my predecessor. I also went to tell the chairman of my CME Committee. I wanted to tell him face to face before I made an announcement on our Committee Conference call today. He’s a man not always known for his tact and grace. But he said some very gracious and kind things to me. Everyone did. In the midst of their disappointment about my news for the organization, they were genuinely happy for the opportunity this means for me. This makes it all the more bittersweet.
As always, my major life events necessitate an excerpt from a Stephen Sondheim musical. For this, I choose, “Something’s Coming”, from West Side Story (his first broadway show-for which he was lyracist:
… Come on, something, come on in, don't be shy, Meet a guy, Pull up a chair! The air is humming, And something great is coming! Who knows? It's only just out of reach, Down the block, on a beach, Maybe tonight . . .
Only, no longer out of reach—I just have to work on the ‘meet a guy’ part.
wtf/rle©

Post Script (1)

I sent am email to 3 of my former colleagues and friends (they're not former friends, they remain friends) from 5RH (5th Ring of Hell) to let them know about the accreditation good news. Following is part of the reply I received from A:


"...Good for you, Randy! This is a full circle moment for you -
you have proved yourself through programming, and now
you got a super review! Now that the documentation is
in hand, I hope they continue to recognize your fine work.
After spending time in this crazy system, I'll bet you were
questioning your abilities. Now you know for certain that
it wasn't about you!Congratulations! ..."

This was incredibly kind, and the sentiment wasright on the money. It's the nicest and best thing someone could have said. Especially someone who knows CME and the process, and my life before this current position. She knew how miserable I was and how completely un(der)-utilized and un-appreciated I was there. I do have one correction, though. We got a good review. It wasn't super. There are times for all of us, when we go through something, and the only ones who can fully understand or appreciate the significance are those who have share that (or previous/similar) experiences. Cognitively, I know I'm good at what I do. When others play continually beat you down, that kind of bullshit plays with your psyche and you DO begin to doubt yourself, even when you know it's bullshit. A corrolary to the addage: "Living well is the best revenge." -- "Doing well is the best revenge!" I"m succeeding at the things, I wasn't allowed to do in my last job--the very things I was supposedly hired to do. Go figure. They pissed away someone who could have done a lot of great things for the organization. What a loss for them. Idiots.
Every little and big success, every abstract accepted is a great way of saying "FUCK YOU" to my former employer. "Doing well IS the best revenge!"

I was there for over 3.5 years. But I'm not there anymore.

Life is good.