16 Weeks in Scotland

Thursday, November 09, 2006

Ahh, Paris









It's hard to know how to really write about a trip to Paris without lapsing into cliches. I suppose people end up saying the same things about the city because they tend to be true: it is beautiful, it is enchanting, it is full of interesting history and people and food. I can start with overall impressions:
Paris is a city of BIG, BIG things -- I was amazed by the sheer size of the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower, the Musee d'Orsay.
Paris is also a city of small things -- the tables in the restaurants, the shops, the side streets, the people, the cups of coffee.
Paris is a city of monuments -- Napoleon is everywhere, in monuments he erected to himself and others erected to him, and the pride of the French people is everywhere in monuments, too.
Paris is a city of cigarette smoke -- I was especially aware of this, suffering from a bad upper respiratory virus.

So, first impression? A lot of small, smoking people, walking in stylish boots around a giant city.

I'll try to tell a little bit more of our story as the pictures glide by, and I'll leave the last of the blog to Dennis, whose reflections are far more coherent than my own.

I was really impressed with our hotel room at the Hotel Elysa-Luxembourg on the Rue Gay-Lussac, about one block from the Jardins du Luxembourg (above and right).






It was so stereotypically "Parisienne" -- the big windows, the wrought iron balcony railings.

It made me feel so continental:


Here's the view we had, and you can see that we were exceptionally lucky in the weather for our visit (umm, thanks, global warming).











We started just by wandering -- up the Boulevard St. Michel to the Boulevard St. Germain-des-Pres (trying to avoid the aggressive waiters in the doorways of the cafes on the side streets), stopping to eat at a brasserie under Eglise St. Severin ("moules frites" and "omelette mixte" with "un pichet de vin rouge"). Gawking and coughing (remember: upper respiratory virus + French smokers + heavy diesel-fueled traffic = embarrassing public coughing fits), we strolled back toward our hotel, passing Le Sorbonne and Le Pantheon (not knowing we were passing them until we scrutinized our map back in the room, trying to figure out what those big-ass buildings were).

Next day (Sunday), we decided to orient ourselves to the city by walking west along the Seine, toward the Musee d'Orsay. We started by walking up to Place St. Michel (on the left).

Here's Dennis looking serious and cool in front of the Pont Neuf:


It was hard to keep from just snapping random pictures of the river, the surrounding buildings, the people (I had to stop Dennis twice from taking pictures of beautiful young people kissing). We do have quite a collection of "scenic" shots, but I tried to only upload a few:






























For my chocolate and pastry loving friends, here's a shot I call "pain OOOHHHH chocolat."
















We strolled and snapped (and coughed and gawked) our way to the Musee d'Orsay, where we joined a long, long line of people who'd had the same thought we had ("gonna be rainy and cool today -- let's go to the museum"). In line I made two discoveries: that all those stereotypes about Japanese tourists are based on personal experience, not just random prejudice, and that the best street food in Paris is not the crepe but the "gaufre," a sweet, warm, crispy waffle slathered in Nutella. Oh, baby! I'd stand in line all day if I could have another one of those!

The museum was amazing -- the building impressed me almost as much as the collection, and we continually marvelled over the fact that they nearly tore the whole thing down in the 1970's.

Here's one of the clocks on the outside of the building; down further, you can see the same clock from the inside, from the cafe on the fifth floor of the museum. The middle shot is just a nice view of the interior.






























After a few hours of Renoir, Rodin, Burne-Jones, Van Gogh, Seurat, and Monet, we decided to get out into the city and walk a bit, in the general direction of the Champs de Mar and the Eiffel Tower. We got a little lost and ended up behind some very large official buildings surrounded by "gendarmes," but we eventually found our way to the Hotel des Invalides, where we saw games of soccer and petanque being played (the potentially rainy Sunday had turned into a beautiful day).



From here, we just kept our eyes on the tower, rising above the buildings, and meandered through some very interesting side streets until we found the entrance to the park, where we laid out our raincoats and reclined in the shadow of the tower (well, it was dusk, so there wasn't really a shadow, but you know what I'm trying to evoke).

























We ended our day by wandering back to our "neighborhood" for Japanese food, then we collapsed in front of the TV for the French version of "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?" (which we could actually follow because the questions and possible answers were written out on the screen).









Next day, we decided to go the other direction and see the Latin Quarter. After a quick croissant and "boisson chaud," we walked up the Rue Soufflot and around the Pantheon, along a back road to the Rue Descartes, eventually finding Rue Mouffetard and Rue Monge -- what a great discovery! We walked all the way down to the Mosque de Paris and tried to get tea in the courtyard (they were too busy and/or we were too impatient). We decided to leave it at having seen this beautiful building and left to walk back up toward the Louvre. Along the way, we found the Arene Lutece, an old Roman gladiatorial arena, tucked behind an inconspicuous doorway on the Rue Monge.

Guided by our stomachs, we walked down St. Germain-des-Pres seeking cheap baguette sandwiches (found some good ones, too, with roasted eggplant and feta) and ate a quick picnic in the Couer Carre of the Louvre. Fortified, we joined our fellow tourists in line for more gawking (and coughing).







We "did" the two most famous pieces first: the Mona Lisa and the Venus di Milo (which are actually named "La Jocande" and "Aphrodite," respectively), then just chose a section to explore.



I think one of the most impressive installations is the series of rooms that were the apartments of Napoleon III:


















When we left, around 6:30, it was dark and the moon was nearly full, so we had to take this somewhat spooky shot. Say what you will about the Pei pyramid, I found the contrast of architectural styles very interesting and beautiful.















Next day, we walked up to Notre Dame and walked around both the outside and the inside (and all this stuff is FREE -- amazing!). What a really beautiful building!
















































After the cathedral, we walked north into the Marais, on what we were calling the "Don walk" -- past the National Archives, through the Jewish Quarter, weaving through old and charming streets to the Place de Vosges (below).















On Nov. 1, most of Europe is on holiday for All-Saints Day, and I was worn out from the previous days' adventures, so we simply strolled around Luxembourg Gardens. We sat in two chairs in the sun and just baked for an hour or so -- lovely!





























We decided to see if we could make it to Le Bon Marche before I succumbed to consumption; we made it around Le Grand Epicerie and bought some wonderful ingredients for a hotel-room picnic:



As our time in Paris came to a close, I realized that I really needed to see the Arc de Triomphe and, a la Joni Mitchell, "wander down the Champs Elysee," so we took the metro up to it and walked back.
I don't know if it was the virus (by now, affecting Dennis, too) or what, but I wasn't that impressed by the Champs Elysee (and I didn't feel "unfettered and alive" -- in fact, I felt crowded and irritable). We were glad to get to Place de la Concorde and away from the shopping frenzy. We were properly impressed by standing where Louis and Marie got guillotined, and then we walked through the Jardins du Tuileries, eating overpriced roasted chestnuts from a shopping cart-cum-brazier.



All in all, looking back after having survived that cold, I loved Paris. I want to return when I can taste and smell more clearly and walk more than half a mile without gasping for breath. I end with this photo -- crepes and wine!
















Now, I'm the narrator of travel, and reading over this, it seems so naive and Midwestern. But the truth is, I was just impressed with what I saw (and coughed on). Dennis seemed to have more grand thoughts about the experience (although he's bristling at my description of them as "grand"):

It’s oddly human to go to places simply because they are there. Kind of like climbing a hill to see what’s on the other side. Is it the climb or is it the possibility of new climbs? I think it was Erasmus who is claimed to be the first person to climb a mountain just for the view – an act that ushered in Renaissance thought and the fact that “the view” is fundamental to human growth and development. I can imagine our wonderfully American friend Homer Simpson victoriously reaching a summit and letting out a reverberating “D’oh!” when he realizes that conquering one mountain simply allows us to see the shadows of all the other mountains that will now haunt us with what-ifs until we actually get up the energy to repeat the process. But I’m the one guy in my humanities seminar that always thought Sisyphus was having a great time rockin’ and rollin’ his way through an otherwise meaningless existence.

Which brings me to Paris. I wonder what David Sedaris would think of the place if he didn’t smoke. I wonder what drew (and still draws) the best minds of western culture to this funky plains town on a wide spot in the river. I wonder what it is that makes this place special enough to house and, in many cases, generate, the monumental historical and cultural art works that define the intellectual lives of so many people around the world. A lot of things had to happen in exactly the right palce at exactly the right time to make this little river town into the cultural showplace it truly is.

The wondering part is fun, but the wandering is even better. This is a walker’s city. Paris requires a sensual approach. Touch it. Smell it. Feel it. The best thing to do while wandering is to chew on a croissant and wash it down with a double espresso. There is no such thing as a cup of coffee in the shops here. “Un boisson chaud” is an espresso or an extravagantly over-priced cup of tea. Stick with the coffee. A short visit here will also answer the question about the origins of the outdoor cafés. Simply put, they are the refuge of those seeking relief from the intense cigarette smoke inside the shoulder-to-shoulder tiny-tabled environs of the city’s ubiquitous tabac brasseries. So, you have a choice: diesel, exhaust fumes, and militant pigeons outside, or sure death by suffocation inside. You can, of course, go inside and request a non-smoking table which is required by law. After his sneer has somewhat faded, Monsieur Waiter will seat you at a table alongside a huge group of small, darkly-clad smokers who are obviously vying with others of their ilk for a place in the Guinness Book of World Records for number of ciggies alight at a single table. Having done his legal duty, your waiter will assure you that no one will be allowed to smoke at your table. Then he will retire to the bar and watch you for the next forty-five minutes, making book on whether or not you’ll survive long enough to order.

Ah, but when things work out, the food and drink are tres magnifique. Moules et frites, omlettes, des pains, un pichets de vin in a fairly smoke-free environment can take up most of the day. And then there is dinner. We found some great vegetarian places that made the grade. Because, like London, present day Paris is a place of immigrants and new cuisines, the traditional French cuisine in no longer king. And, like Virginia says, “who wants to eats innards and duck fat anyway?” It seems the whole colonization thing has turned on the colonizers and now the folks that France hoped to control from afar are coming to the political homeland in search of jobs and a generally peaceful co-existence. Sort of like the Indian food syndrome in London, a lot of new immigrants will bring their own cuisines with them. We were lucky to find a really great North African restaurant near the University of Paris and just about exploded on huge servings of cous cous and tagine and a killer house beaujolais. Like I always say: Find campus town and you’ll find honest food.

That evening we walked home in the rain through streets crowded with tiny French trick or treaters and stopped in at a brasserie for one last pichet. The rain slowed down enough to let us get back to the hotel where we finished off the night sipping econo-wine and watching French reality TV shows.

French TV, radio, and “le homme sur la rue” (sorry, Don) are really great ways to discover how little French one actually knows. On the rail trip to France, I picked up the latest copy of Paris Match which is, essentially, People magazine in French so I could “practice up.” I had fond memories of college French class and my ability to read the celeb baloney in two languages – plodding through Paris Match and then reading the exact same story in People and checking for errors. Of course, I’d walk away feeling like Roland Barthes, able to tackle any philosophical question apt to arise in the Latin Quarter. But reading the language and hearing it are two different things and I was soon awakened to the reality of the situation when I realized that I couldn’t even understand the utterances of words I could interpret had they been on paper. I might as well have been in Budapest (oh no!!). We actually pondered the possibility of carrying around a pen and pad, masquerading as deaf mutes with a sign hanging from our forlorn necks: “Pouvez vous l’ecritez, s’il vous plait?” But a series of first year vocab and meaningful grunts usually got us our daily ration of bread, caffeine, and wine. I have a sneaking suspicion that all of the various shopkeepers we dealt with knew the King’s prattle perfectly well but just liked to watch us sweat (and cough).

Yet there are so many things in Paris that transcend language that the problem often faded in knowing glances and smiles from across the way. I’ll never forget the glans of the Eiffel Tower spewing into the night sky and the knowing glance in my direction from a fellow male who was being chastised by his girl friend for seeing the exact same thing. Ah, the universal language always speaks loudest.

This whole universal language thing is probably what helped to make Paris into what it is – a monument to its own uncanny ability to survive the foibles of the power-mad moguls who fought over it over the centuries. Every monument in the city is purposefully set to represent the power of the person who had it built. Some of us have large lawns or big cars, or a great wardrobe – these guys had a matching set of castles or a couple of designer countries. It’s interesting to see how classical design and Greco-roman aesthetics have been co-opted into ideographic symbols of aggression and personal grandeur. And it’s even more interesting to see how the human element slowly creeps back into the sphere when the offending element has left. Like grass growing up through the cracks in unused pavement, the arts and humanities return to reclaim the monuments. The Louvre has never been put to better use than when it became an artists’ community after Louis left for his little place in the country. The formal courtyards and military practice fields, once home to the courtier and the soldier, are now home to old men in natty suits playing petanque and small dogs leading their masters from one languishing statue to another. Man, I can hear the button accordions and fat guitars in the breeze . . .

As I mentioned earlier, it is odd to go to a place simply because it is there. But that is, I suppose, the very thing that separates us from the rest of the oxygen breathers in the world. We need to know what’s around each corner. Paris seems to be the perfect destination re this uniquely human need. It is here simply because it is – just like us And it beckons to the world like a funhouse mirror to come and take a big long look at itself and to (pun intended) reflect. I sent my friend Peter a postcard from Notre Dame – the one of the Gargoyle pensively watching over the Parisian landscape (Le Penseur). The photo is so popular it has become a cliché, but the scenario speaks volumes every time I see it. Timelessness pondering history. The past trying to make sense out of the present it has created. It’s just a damn meaningful picture. And I like it. I guess it’s like Paris itself: A damn, meaningful place. And we like it.

Tuesday, November 07, 2006

Islay: A Dram Good Time


Well, we couldn’t be in Scotland for sixteen weeks and not grab a side trip to malt Mecca. I mean, after all, we do have values. It would be like going to Paris and not having a croissant. Or leaving LaCrosse without ever having sampled a walleye dinner with fried cheese curds. Life must be experienced to the full!!

I guess I need to say right up front that this isn’t about drinking. Much as I love my spirits, this trip was more about the sense of place and national pride that malt whisky has come to represent. Malt whisky is the life’s blood of Scottish history and culture from the time of the clans to the union and, if they have their way, on through to the time of disunion. A time when a lot of folks in these parts hope to make it on their own in the new European Union. The desire to move away from the Brits and the general political and cultural malaise born of hundreds of years of on-again-off-again oppression is evident in all corners of the country. As an old man at the County Pub put it, “Whisky is a jar of rebellion, and we drink a dram of it every day. The British taught their children how to rule and then taught the Scots children how to follow. But home rule is the new way. It’s the Scots way. Equality for us means to stand apart . . .”

Hence, we came to Islay to see malt whisky as an art form with deep nationalistic overtones and the promise of cultural perpetuation. Each area in Scotland has a distinctly unique style of whisky. And within each area, each distillery has its own signature technique that maintains their whisky’s integrity and identity. Islay malt whisky can come only from the island of Islay.

The peat stained water flowing through the endless bogs, the “family secret” malting and drying process, the indescribable salt air we were privileged to breath while there all come together to form this totally unique spirit that really is a the water of life for this isolated island whose next most important export is the amiable sort of goodwill we could only hope for at home.
The town of Bowmore, itself, reminded me of a maritime Mayberry with a heavy Scots accent: “Oh, Aye Andrrreeew, and will ye be seein’ yer auntie Bea doon by the gaol of an evenin’ ?” Ah, the Barney of Fife . . . one gas station, a grocer (all signs in Gallic) three pubs and a few small hotels of various degree.

As Virginia will avow, our hotel was a combination of Fawlty Towers and A Clockwork Orange. Peter, the proprietor, was a shoe-in for a young John Cleese – rapier thin, zipping about in a black suit and tie, balancing a tray with the ruins of a full Scottish breakfast precariously adrift, mumbling left and right in an oddly frantic monotone, “Is everything to your satisfaction wonderful wonderful good good . . .” and disappearing before we could ever respond. Young Peter Junior was a bit more laid back in sweats and black rock 'n roll tee shirt and could be convinced to pour an honest dram beyond the legal 25 cl (dismal) Scottish measure. The matriarch was the power behind the throne and was one hell of a chef, offering everything from wild game and fresh sea fare to an “American BBQ" (the Scots version anyway) and the perfect finnan haddie with locally grown root veggies. Actually, everything was great if you don’t count the closet-sized room, the ciggie smoke wafting up from below (we were situated over the pub room) and the Czechoslovakian knife fight outside our door at two A.M.

Well, if all were serene and predictable, we’d have no need to travel now, would we? In the final analysis, the island experience was absolutely perfect. Miles of walking the deserted roads; collecting shells on beautifully desolate seashores, climbing to the top of overlooks, and, of course, visiting the distilleries. Here’s a little travelogue of our walk through the barren home of the finest drams on earth.

The bus stop outside of Islay airport.
We were sort of mystified by the barrenness of the island and wondering if there would be a bus in the next twenty four hours or so when a nice couple stopped and gave us a ride the seven miles into Bowmore. The ride, of course, included an Islay history lesson -- the road we were driving (the main highway) was originally designed in the 19th century as a railroad, but the peat bogs couldn't support the weight, so it became a wagon road. We were also introduced to Bowmore's "round church" built as a circle to "keep the devil away.













We got into town in the early evening and caught a taste of the local night life, which pretty much consisted of a great view of the town distillery and a bunch of bored kids playing football on the high street.


And, of course, there was the scene at the local petrol palace.
Bowmore is a pretty place. A photographer's dream. The washed-out colors and wind-ripped store facades are intriguing to say the least. Super clean, crisp air and a sky that transcends our concept of blue give it an other-worldly feel. The town was laid out in the late 17th century as a corporate center and not much has changed since. New businesses operate in the same old structures like new wine in old bottles. Or maybe I should say like new whisky in old bottles. The economy on this island -- as well as British taxation at over 250 million pounds per year for eight small distilleries-- has made it so that the whisky sold in bottles was actually made by the previous distillery owners. This is almost always the case. These places change hands on the average of every ten years. Yet the local houses maintain their distinct flavor mostly because of the four or five artisans who remain in charge of the actual distillation process -- while rich guys in France and Japan sip champagne and Saki and watch over their investments from afar.

Here' a shot of Bowmore's Barley malting process. Although none of the island's distilleries actually do their own malting anymore (they hire out their malting to the Port Ellen folks who do custom work for each business), the folks at Bowmore claim that they do at least twenty percent of their own stuff. Aha! But the people at Ardbeg say that Bowmore does no more than three to five percent and that the whole malting thing is for show. And a nice show it is. We missed the official tour, but with a little cajoling we got the dram lady to show us the malt guy, and this turned into about an hour of good conversation and more drams than she probably should have allowed someone who wasn't even on the official tour. It's probably no big secret, but I did discover that Bowmore also owns Auchentoshen and the whole operation is owned by Suntory. . .

Some of Bowmore's best. Malted barley tastes like breakfast cereal

Ardbeg, possibly the most versatile distillery on the island (and able to give Lagavulin a good run for the money flavor wise), offers an impressive and very informative tour. The most astounding information is the fact that it takes only two to three men to run the entire operation, putting out an estimated two million liters per year at full capacity. The new owners, the Glenmorangie family, have been working night and day to maintain Ardbeg's production because the barreled inventory is shrinking fast. Thus the New and Still New vintages, that really don't cut it, are being offered as a sort of waiting period. They explained to us that it really is the only way they can keep the doors open until their own spirits reach the ten year mark. Okay, I'll accept that, but I ain't drinkin' no baby whisky. However, their specialty vintages are absolutely wonderful. The tasting table is no-holds-barred, offering sizable drams of almost everything from their present inventory. Oh yes, the on-site restaurant is darn nice, too. The new Ardbeg operation is a class act. Just like their whisky.

Following the industry's economic twists and turns, Glenmorangie itself has just been bought by an even bigger corporation -- French Moet Hennessy. So, again, the whisky remains the same, but the accountants ever evolve and the common Islay man needs to ferry over to Glasgow for steady job.

Ardbeg's welcome mat. Here's me standing in front of a retired copper still. Ardbeg uses just two stills to maintain a world supply of its product. They run them non-stop. A good still will last about fifty years. This one is beyond repair.


This is the intermediate spirit receiver. Each distillery has one of these and each is equally decorative and very old. Every drop of whisky goes through one of these to maintain a cask strength. It is then drained off to be re-distilled and the process repeated.
The end of the line. It'll be a good ten years before we can check this one out. I wonder who will own it by then . . .


On our way home from Ardbeg, about a five mile stroll along roads like this one, we decided to drop in on the Lagavulin folks.
They'd prefer an appointment -- so the books say -- but we were welcomed like old friends. There were two other people in the shop, so we went on the tour. The first thing I noted was the little brown stream of water flowing from a tile under the road and into the building. Could it be? Yes! The water supply is a trickle of peat-stained spring water that begins a mile or so inland. It is tiny. I was impressed to see how they just treat it like a creek and go about their business as usual. No protection, no security. Nice place!
Essentially, all whisky is made pretty much the same way. So the Ardbeg process was pretty much the Lagavulin process as well. But, as we were informed, the real difference is in the phenol count. For example, while Bowmore is at around thirty percent, Ardbeg comes in at over fifty-- higher than Laphroig. Caol Ila is even higher. Lagavulin is in between. We got to taste some of the new spirit from the barrel room. The guide poured some out into our cupped hands, and we lapped it up like water from a farm pump. Virginia was impressed with how sweet and gentle it was. I was thinking that in sixteen years this cub would become a tiger.

Below: His Nibs with the goods


The whole whisky thing aside, our Islay trip was pretty much a nature walk that involved a dram or two and some excellent fare at "l'hotel dangeruese". If this is what a love for whisky can get me, you can count me in every day of the week. Islay is a land of brutal beauty and deep cultural history. It's nature and humanity joined at the hip. And you can really taste the aesthetic intensity of this never-quite-secure situation in their whiskys. Warm, unruly yet thoughtful, and as smoky and inviting as a 16th century cottage in December.

We had perfect weather and both of us agreed that it was pretty much a walk back in time to, perhaps, a better place. We walked along the tidal breaks, hunted mussels, and watched the cruising seals. Climbed hills to see what was up there, and pretty much saw the world from a far different perspective than a staggering trip to the big city. We'll save that one for the blog to follow. Next stop: Paris. Oh mon dieu!