Dancing in the Streets

[Our internet woes continue, so this, too, was written yesterday and posted today, the 6th.]

There is so much to be happy about tonight that a girl hardly knows where to begin. First of all, the heat wave broke early this morning in an excellent little thunderstorm that found me standing at the wide open window with a grin on my face as the first touch of a cool breeze rolled into the city at around 4 a.m. Today’s weather was so delightful that I barely noticed that the Cluny museum, though richly endowed with ancient tapestries and fine Roman masonry, is a little spotty in the air-conditioning department. If you’re looking for a cool retreat in the Cluny, I’d recommend the aptly named Frigidarium, site of a Roman cold bath, or the room dedicated to the six tapestries of the Lady with the Unicorn. The tapestries are spectacular, of course, but, being extremely fragile, they are housed in a climate-controlled room that is chilly enough to satisfy even the most AC-dependent American.

About those tapestries, though: Apparently there is some debate among medievalists as to whether the meaning of the tapestries is religious or secular, possibly even sexual. Martha and I are in agreement that anything involving a lady and a unicorn is most definitely sexual. I mean, please, folks—a hybrid creature with a horn in the middle of his head. How could that be anything but sexual? In one tapestry, the lady is showing the unicorn his reflection in a mirror, as if to say, “See, honey, I told you we were different. This will never work.” In the last of the six tapestries, she is taking off her necklace and putting it in a box. The unicorn is still there, and the words above her head are “A mon seul desir” (“For my sole desire”). Down with the jewels, on to the dude with the horn on his head. Love conquers all. End of tapestry sequence. We are professional literary critics, after all, and Martha once impersonated a medievalist at a cocktail party early in her career, so I believe we have some right to weigh in on this crucial question.

On other happy notes, we are also entering into the spirit of World Cup mania that has gripped France as the nation prepares to face Italy in the final on Sunday. Tonight, as we walked home from dinner, the streets were full of shouts and cheers and horns and singing—and the game wasn’t even over yet. It’s after midnight as I write this, and the party seems to just be getting started. Martha is standing at the window in her underwear watching the whole crazy scene. I swear, the fever is so infectious that I am considering googling the word “soccer” tomorrow to try to get some sense of what the damn game is all about. Or maybe not. I could just buy a tee-shirt.

We wound up back at the Bastide Odeon for dinner this evening with a group of folks from the conference. We couldn’t get into le Comptoir and wanted something reasonably close to where we were (la Sorbonne), so it was a good and convenient choice. The kitchen seemed a bit distracted by soccer mania, but the meal was still excellent, and Martha and I were delighted that the adorable young waiter we had last night came by to say hello and talk about soccer. We had assured him we were fierce partisans for the French, of course. I had the eggplant appetizer again and a terrific squid dish that was full of surprising juxtapositions of flavor and texture—cabbage, beets, basil, bacon. I also had a wonderful dessert of a peach in pesto “soup,” with a dollop of vanilla ice cream. Martha had a baby ravioli with cheese and chives in a light, slightly lemony sauce for her starter and a pork dish she describes as a big piece of thick and delicious bacon with gnocchi and garlic in wine reduction sauce. She had the chocolate cream puff again for dessert. Close readers will have detected an interesting pattern. I got the same appetizer that I ordered last night, while Martha went back for more of the same dessert. On neither occasion did I have a chocolate dessert, and she stayed away from appetizers that were mostly vegetables. There is a world of nutritional/relational insight in that simple pattern, and you don’t have to be a professional literary critic to see it.

Half past midnight and the flag-flying cars are still racing through the streets of Paris which are, if our particular corner is typical, significantly more urine-soaked than they were earlier today. Allons, enfants—to bed!

Please note that I did not say that one more reason to be happy today is that former Enron CEO Kenneth Lay dropped dead of what is being called a massive heart attack at his vacation home in Colorado. I wonder how many of Lay’s former employees, who lost their jobs, their pensions, and their faith in American business, had managed to hold onto their vacation homes. I take no pleasure in Mr. Lay’s passing, but I take no pain in it either—though it is disappointing that he won’t have to serve a single day of the prison sentence he so richly deserved.

Enough with the schadenfreude—BONNE NUIT!