Still on Santorini

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My yoga studio

After a day of hiking up and down and down and up, our calves were achy. So sore that we were both walking like primates, our knees, hips and ankles all bent to 45°. Its not an attractive look. Yoga seemed a great way try and ease the pain, so I spread out the mat  in the churchyard of the little chapel that was in front of our room, and got busy sun saluting the Aegean seas at dawn, feeling very thankful to those Greek gods for having created such a unique place.

A chapel at the edge of the world

Being in all that pain from walking inspired more hiking. Crazy, but true. We’d loved the previous day’s walk so much, we decided to hike the down the cliff that was outside our front door to visit an isolated chapel that dangles there, just above the sea.

We then had a 40 minutes hike to Fira, the island’s capital and the departure point of our afternoon sailing trip. Before getting all the way to town I needed lunch. Mr French kept trying to encourage me on, but Madame was hungry. It was either feed her, or risk loosing his head. An elderly Greek lady, wearing all black and worrying away at her prayer beads saw me looking at a menu. “This place is good,” she noded, “very good.” Looking up, I realized it was a windmill. The design-y, trend-y interior didn’t inspire much confidence, but But Kiria (Greek for Madame) knew her stuff and the food was excellent.

Fira, like Oia, is on a cliff, with the habour below, and like Oia, donkeys are an option for getting down. But Mr French hadn’t changed his mind from the previous evening. It was not an option. There is also a cable car, but we were feeling adventurous. So we headed down, slipping on donkey crap, gagging from the stench and dodging the beasts as they charged us, under the blistering sun.

A stunning vessel, with a great crew, welcomed us below. We were soon aboard the Thalassa, a replice of a 19th century schooner that we shared with about 50 other tourists from across globe. It wasn’t a big group given the size of the boat and there was shade for everyone. First stop an active volcano and a one hour hike to feel the heat of its the rocks, smell its sulfur and learn its history. At this point my legs were, as the French say, gone (je n’ai plus de jambe).

Next stop a small bay with warm water springs and iron ore that stains your swimsuit red. We jumped from the ship directly into the sea. It was delicious after the heat of the day and exactly what the doctor ordered for my missing legs. We were soon back on board headed for Thirassia for another swim on the crystal clear waters. If I ever come back to Santorini, I’ll be visiting this island. NOTE TO SELF; If I ever return, spend a day here to photographing the local color and try a local tarverna.

A simple dinner was served, then as the sky turned to a golden amber, a sailor took out his saxophone and serenaded us into the sunset…

 

 

On the third day she rested…

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Not that I’m comparing myself to the Great Creator, but s/he created the world in 6 days before taking a break, where as on holiday in Santorini, Greece last week, I only made it to three before needing a holiday from our holidays.

When I told a friend our destination she gave me a rather dry look, adding, “You know, you can’t wear heels.” The map of the nearest big city had a “No Heels” logo on its legend.  What wasn’t explained, and what I didn’t ask, is why. I had no idea that everything, absolutely everywhere in Santorini involves a steep slope. We didn’t stop going up and down. To give you an idea of just how extreme things can be; from the breakfast deck to our room, there were 80 stairs. The same 80 for the pool and at least double that to leave the hotel. After two days of steps and long (yet glorious) hikes, I needed a day off! So, Mr French and I set ourselves up with faux-jitos to spend the morning by the infinity pool, above the sapphire tinted Aegean Sea, while I wrote this post;

Our first day we were eager to hike the 2.5 hours from our hotel in the village of Imerovigli to Oia (pronouced Ee-a). It was a long, glorious walk, the sea to our right and our left, blue domed chapels spotting the way. There were rustic, open air cafés where locals gathered to chat and escape the heat of the day, there were remote hotels and a satisfying series of photo ops. Drying wild flowers perfumed the air.

We arrived at pristine, sparkling white Oia ready for some hydration, some shade and a bite of lunch. The first fairly decent looking place we came to was Thalami, which claimed to serve local specialties. I was skeptical; with its prime tourist location, wind-kissed terasse and seductive shade, it seemed too perfect to be true, but I needed a break from the relentless sun and was too hungry to start looking for something “better”. What a stroke of luck that was! Everything was seasoned with local herbs making for exciting flavors in all the dishes we tried; tomato fritters (was that a bit of tarragon they put in the batter?), fava bean puree, Santorini salad with caper leaves and grilled octopus.

We were soon back on the street, exploring Oia, a charming town with lots of hotels, plenty of souvenir shops, a school, an active church and more scenery than you can shake a donkey stick at. They also have the most magical bookshop I have ever wandered across. Atlantis Books was founded by a group of young people who used to work at Shakespeare & Company here in Paris, so they are definitely kindred spirits! Volunteers come from across the globe to work in this little piece of heaven, surrounded by books, amazing friends, and the shining sea (you’ll hear more about this shop soon…)

A tote bag full of booklets later, we left Atlantis and returned to Oia. That donkey stick that was shaking at the scenery? It was for all the donkeys that were lined up to take people down the cliff to Ammoudi harbour. Mr French has a moral objection to using these beasts of burden for tourist traffic, so we walked down. 45 minutes, with even more stunning views under the afternoon sun. Mr French had heard there was a beach down here and after 18 hours on an island, the man was itching to swim. A brief hike on what was no longer a trail and we’d arrived. It was more a small outcropping of rocks than a beach, but the water was perfect and it was the ideal place for a well deserved, refreshing swim, well off the beaten path.

This is a working fisherman’s bay, with a small collection of restaurants that grill the catch of the day, inviting clients to select their own fish before cooking them to perfect. Mr French was getting hungry, so he asked for a table at the first fish place we came across. We later found out that this fish place, Dimitiris is one of the most famous in all of Santorini, but in the moment, we didn’t realize how lucky we were that they had had a cancellation and that we were enjoying a table with a sunset view.

When our waitress invited us into the kitchen to select our catch, I asked Mr French to select a fish for the two of us. The man does not like being told what to do and rarely follows directions, so I shouldn’t have been surprised when I started to smell the aroma of grilled lobster wafting our way.  Caviar… Foie gras…. not my thing, but a good lobster makes me go weak at the knees and this one must have been touched by the Greek gods, because it was divine.

Walking by our table a woman exclaimed, “Someone’s not shy…” A few minutes later another walked past exclaiming, “OMG!!!” And finally a third, “Wow! You’re SO lucky!”

“Lady,” I thought, “you’ve got no idea…”
Thalami

Atlantis Books

Dimitris – Ammoudi, tel. 22860 71606

Date night – Chez Fernand

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This wasn’t really a date night, but a romantic Saturday afternoon spent running errands in the ‘hood. By 14h I was feeling faint with hunger, so Mr French suggested we pop into one of his local favorites, Chez Fernand.

Chez Fernand is in an overwhelmingly touristy little square of streets filled with one restaurant after the other. The kind of place I generally avoid like the cat’s litter box and I was rather surprised the first time Mr French brought me in here.

The charming wooden door, the red checked table clothes, I couldn’t tell if this was a tourist trap, or a genuine French dive. But it was full of local merchants swigging back carafes of red over their lunch hour(s) which is always a good sign. The joking in rapid fire French that was flying around the room was an even better one. And yes, I agree, I probably needn’t have been looking for signs at all, since my guide was Mr French.

Since that first date, Chez Fernand has become one of our regular cantines. The food is always good; very traditional, featuring market fresh ingredients and without any fussy foam on your plate. This is food grandmère used to make. And the prices are fair, which she’d appreciate, making it a good address for just about everyone, but especially anyone who appreciates a lively local scene with patrons screaming from one table to the next, the chef coming out to see their satisfied grin, the servers telling you to behave yourself.

Our last meal was veal kidney for monsieur while I enjoyed a bit of cod with a healthy serving of vegetables, another thing I love about Fernand’s. They’ve got greens! And great desserts, which promise a sweet ending to our afternoon.

Curtain drawn

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Mr French and I do not have curtains in our living room. He finds this terribly odd, but it does not bother me one bit. We look out over a garden, the building across the street is full of nuns and with kids in the house we keep the private moments, private.

His mother also finds this incredibly odd. But not too odd, because the last time she came to visit she loved being waited on hand and foot by lil’ ol’ moi so very much that she stopped taking her medication and got ill just so that she could stay longer in my lap of luxury. Regardless, she now refuses to ever come visit again, unless we get curtains. Which strikes me as a very good argument for living without them.

But Mr French wants curtains and he has vetoed the lovely, linen IKEA ones I have had for the last 20 years, so I head to one of my favorite places in Paris, the Marché St Pierre at the foot of the Sacre Coeur Basilica.

I arrived on a rain day, which provided a bit of atmosphere as I made my way up the narrow, meandering cobbled streets. Umbrellas dotted the scene as I hopped around, avoiding murky puddles. The Marché isn’t really a marché at all, but a store on 4 or 5 floors that has been selling just about every kind of fabric you can image since 1920.

The magasin draws one of the most eclectic crowds you can imagine; African ladies in their brightly patterned batiks (which, in an odd twist of history, traditionally come from Amsterdam) sift through bargain bins elbow to elbow with funky clad fashion design students. Bourgeois women are there for home furnishing, or school projects standing in line behind men in suits. We’re all there for fabric and it feels like you’ve entered an exclusive private club when you enter the neon-lit, dusky space. Social barriers melt away as strangers start talking, then joking with one another, the entire exchange made possible by a mutual appreciation for fabric. And while it feels exclusive, the prices are anything but, this being the best place to come for affordable fabrics.

The store drew other fabrics shops to the area. If they don’t have what you’re looking for, Reine across the street most certainly will. Almost all the other, smaller shops have fold with the arrival of cheap foreign fashion and they have been replaced by costume shops selling some great fashions for the local trade; hookers and show girls and just maybe bourgeois Moms who are in the area looking for curtain fabric and decide that this may be fun excuse to send the kids away for the weekend and to actually need those curtains after all.

Fashion as art

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A blogger I admire very much, Denise, writes about her life in Bolton, which includes frequent visits to Paris. She’ll write about cycling with our mutual friend Jane, going off to the races with her beloved husband Michael, or savouring peaceful moments on her own.

A year ago today Denise wrote about an exhibit at the Centre Pompidou honoring the artist Gerhard Richter. She tells the story of seeing one of his paintings and having it touch her very soul. I was so jealous when I read that. I love art, frequent museums and exhibitions regularly enough to be considered a junkie, and yet I had never felt moved to tears over art.

Until last week. And many would even consider it art. I was at the Haute Couture exhibition at the Hôtel de Ville, a free exhibit featuring one of Paris’ most important industries. The show began upstairs with pattern samples and sketch books. There was a series of photos featuring the hands of famous designers, including Mme Coco.

It was lovely, and informative, but the real goods were downstairs where Haute Couture dresses from the studios of every major designer, from Frederick Worth, who founded Haute Coutre in the 1850’s to today’s Jean-Paul Gualtier. The masterpieces of houses that did not survive the death of their designer like Poiret, Vionnet, and Schiaparelli were all on display. Icons of modern style like Courrèges, Balanciaga, and Alaïa were there, as well.

And it was all so beautiful, the sumptuous folds, stunning bead work, masterful pleats. These men and women had a away with fabric and they knew (or know) how to show off a woman’s body, curves and all, to its very best.

And there, between a Dior and a Grès, my eyes began to sting and the tears to spill at the tremendous beauty of it all.

 

Date Night – Le 21

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I’ve been rather delinquent about Friday@Flore. The truth is, it is not easy taking those photos. If I stop and ask people, I am setting myself up for a major dose of rejection, as 2 out of 3 locals say no. If I don’t ask my photos are just okay, and a post of just okay photos does not exactly fill me with pride. So this summer, I am giving myself a break as I figuring out how to tackle street fashion photography in Paris.

In the meantime, I’ll be running Date Night. Makes me feel more secure, as Mr French rarely rejects me or my advances and should be inspiring for you, if you like food even half as much as I do, because I’ll be featuring some of my favorite restaurants. Last week it was Le 21.

Le 21 can be found at #21 rue Mazarine, which means this black painted, curtained clad store front is shrouded in mystery. There is no name to declare proudly for passers-by. Just the address, a large, white 21 painted elegantly above the door. In fact, it is so discrete, that I only found the place because I was early for a date with Mr French at the Prescription bar next door and spent a bit too much time loitering outside. It was clear, as the door opened and someone entered, that something special was going on inside.

The discreet entrance says a lot about the chef, Paul Minchelli who once reigned over the stove tops at the Michelin starred Le Duc in the 14th and the glitzy, ritzy Minchelli in the 7th. It was all a bit much, so this man, who is a master with fish and seafood hung up his apron. But his clients simply could not bare the thought of Pais without his cooking and insisted that he continue on, providing him with a cozy little bistrot to work from.The walls are lined with shelves that hold funny objects (I’m pretty sure he has that trout that sings “Take me to the River”) and house made preserves.

Le 21 is in tourist central, but on most nights the dozen tables are crammed with locals oohing and aahing over the perfectly prepared fish that remind us of our summer holidays by the sea. This is a real chef using the freshest of ingredients, so the menu is brief; only about half a dozen entrées and just as many mains. But who cares when each morsel is pure perfection. Mr French is partial to the chef’s version of fish and chips which is not like any fish and chips you’ve ever had before. The fish is poached and there is an egg involved and it all adds up to a savoury, gooey wonder.

I’ll never for get the sea scallops I had on my first visit. Steamed on a bed of seaweed, the lid removed at your table, the smell of the sea washes over you. A sublime moment for a sublime meal. On our last visit I opted for a personal favorite, grilled sardines, which is served on a sizzling grill, each bite sending me back to my very first French Sardinade in Brittany. It was so good I couldn’t bear the thought of dessert.

She’s back…

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I am back here in Paris and absolutely thrilled to have E back home with me for the summer. Also thrilled to have Mr French back from a business trip in China. And lucky to have Em back at home. She had been in London for a week, interning for an international law practice on Bond Street by day and savouring the eye candy that is men’s fashion week by night. She went backstage at the Hackett show and to a private party thrown by Net-a-Porter, running into folks like Lily Allen and Samuel Jackson, who was rather surprised by their reaction which inspired him to cry, “Stop shaking, girls!” She had so much fun that I really am lucky she returned.

So what does a travel weary, jetlagged couple do for a fun day on the town? Why, we went to an art show. Quel surprise, n’est-ce pas. And this was no ordinary art show, but the Dynamo exhibition at the Grand Palais.

Exhibits at the GP (yes, I wrote that. no, its not the jetlag. I go there so often we’re on a nickname basis these days) are so popular that I will not go  without pre-purchased tickets. So I bought them online in the morning for the same afternoon. Which is a really boring detail, but could be really helpful if you’d like to go.

And I do recommend going to this show. Dynamo celebrates a century of light and movement in art. Wading through the waiting hoards, we passed an undulating neon white display and were immediately in an alcove with works by one of my favorite contemporary artists, Anish Kapoor. Take your time and walk through the alcove. The play on light and perception is destablizing while the play on sound inspires a child-like wonder.

Speaking of kids, there was a merry-go-round of mirrored slats that they couldn’t get enough of and an artsy fun house, as well as a large square of hanging blue rubber strands many of them mistook for a playground. It has been raining in Paris for months now and the local kids seemed to be suffering from a severe case of cabin fever. They were out of control.

 

There were some works by the neon specialist Carlos Cruz-Diez, including the room I had first seen at the Neon exhibit at the Maison Rouge. Agam, an Israeli who creates kinetic works, an Alexander Calder mobile and the most remarkable optical illusion of orange stickers in the mosaic tiled balcony. By the time we left, I didn’t know if my head was spinning from all the fantastic art we had seen, or if the jetlag was having its way with me…

 

Chicago with Dad…

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Here are some of my Chicago notes for my Moleskin…. because this was about moving a college student, our trip included a lot of practical stuff that you will want to skip… stuff like renting a car and driving out to Bolling-something-or-other to purchase a bed at the local IKEA. Or spending a day at the nearest Target. Not the downtown Target with gorgeously ornate, iron-work doors that are probably on all the architectural tours the city is famous for, but the one nearest the University of Chicago, in the southern part of the city where people get shot. And killed. I’d say skip that part.

If you do rent a car, which is not a horrible idea for a day or two, because there is a lot to see beyond downtown, and if you decide to visit, say, a certain university campus in South Chicago, take Lakefront Boulevard. I know that it is marked as a highway, and that may be intimidating, especially to someone with jetlag, who has not driven for months and who thinks taking Martin Luther King Drive to the campus looks much less daunting. This is a BAD idea. Things may go your way. You may not notice that your shiny bright rental car sticks out like a diamond in a coal mine, but after 5 days of taking this alternative route, I read in the papers that someone was car jacked, shot and killed. Again, I’d skip that part.

Now for the good stuff. The University Campus. It is gorgeous, has a cathedral (that is not really a cathedral, but looks like one), two museums, the most gorgeous modern library I have ever seen, a house you can visit that was built by Frank Lloyd Wright and a print-perfumed, labyrinthine independent book store I would have liked to pack into my suitcase and bring home with me. And if you get hungry, some of the best bbq in the Midwest can be found at Ribs ‘n’ Bibs on Dorchester and 53rd. I’ve been told that this is where a certain President Obama heads when he is home for the holidays.

This visit fell on Father’s Day, so my Dad hopped on a plane and came to join us, claiming, “I haven’t spent Father’s Day with my daughter in over a decade.” Ouch! Its one of the downsides to moving abroad, geography can force you to disappoint those you love. Since he’d come so far, and this meant so much to him, we took Dad/Grandpa to that sunless, parallel Swedish universe known as IKEA for the day. Aren’t we adorable? It actually was a lovely day, because of the company, but E and I felt honor bound to make up for it the next day. Only the next day was IKEA delivery day, so poor grandpa was stuck with us, waiting in a flat that had been lived in by 5 college boys for the last three years. He was so charmed that he insisted on cleaning the bathroom (did I mention 5 boys, 3 years?).

At the grocery store that afternoon, there was a mix-up at the checkout counter and I ended up a few customers between E and my Dad. As I stood, there E waved me over, saying, “Come on, Grandpa took care of it.” The lady in line behind me, exclaimed, “Woah you’re lucky to have a Dad like that!” Lady, I thought, you’ve got no idea. Simply no idea.

We made it up to good ol’ Dad by taking him to the Chicago Art Institute. It was fam-tabulous! We got to see American Gothic, and spent way to long taking pictures of ourselves looking like the two yankees in Grant Wood’s masterpiece. We paid homage to Vincent Van Gogh’s yellow bedroom, the third version of a painting that is also in Amsterdam and Paris. And we had a delicious lunch with a stunning view at Terzo Piano, the museum’s restaurant.

As lovely as the museum was, Dad loves somethings more than he loves art. Dad loves deli food. He probably knows every decent deli between SF and NYC, so he was chomping at the bagel to try Eleven City Diner. It was excellent, and not just because our table was overflowing with all the American food I can’t get in Paris, Grandpa was thrilled with his lox, and we were all thrilled to be together discovering the everyone’s kind of town…

Restaurants – Ribs ‘n’ Bibs, Terzo Piano, Eleven City Diner

Must Sees – University of Chicago campus, Target on State St (seriously!), Chicago Art Institute

Chicago

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I am back from what may very well be the most under-rated city in the United States and I am already looking forward to our next trip. What makes Chicago so great? Like Paris, it is a gorgeous city. We were ooh-ing and aah-ing at the turn of nearly every corner. There is the lake, the river and the stunning architecture with streets wide enough to actually appreciate what is going on up above.

There is science, history and industry and even more profoundly, industry that has played a major role in the making of America. There are two major university attracting some of the brightest minds in the country and important monuments, like the desk where Jake and Elwood made their deposit in the Blues Brothers. There is an amazing art scene, with major works by names like Calder, Picasso and Kapoor literally crowding the sidewalks.

We were walking along one day and saw a colorful monumental sculpture nestled near an office building entrance. “That looks like an Agam.” my Dad pondered. And it was. Just standing there nonchalantly on the street. There there is the Crowd Fountain in Millennium park. A work of art that provides an interactive place for water play.

Millennium Park also hosts outdoor concerts and a movie night. We had the opportunity to see the film Chicago under the stars, in the city of Chicago, projected at the Pritzker Pavillion, designed by Frank Gerhy. WOW.

If you’re less cultural and more sporty, there is kayaking in the river (the little dots in the water in the photo to the right of this column. I swear, they’re there) and several beaches for swimming in the lake. The lake front is also a great place for your morning run. It is not just Frank Sinatra’s Kind of Town, but a city with something for everyone.

Go Blackhawks.

Le Moleskin

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I’m back, and since I was out exploring the world, I was thinking about, dealing with and actively using maps. I love maps. Maps and guidebooks. I have been accused of being a  guidebook geek. I get guidebooks even for brief weekends that need nothing more than a quick Google search, so guidebooks with great maps, well, they send me over the moon. You can imagine my nerdy excitement when Moleskin started publishing City guides that featured fantastic maps, some great tabs and lots of empty space for you to create your own guide. In the blink if an eye, I’d bought tw.o; Paris, of course and one for a pending trip to London. That was nearly a decade agoIt turns out I’ve barely touched the Paris version. Living here quickly made it irrelevant, but my London Moleskin is my treasure. It has an envelope in the back and this is where I store all the cards of people we’ve met and may like to visit again, people like shop owners, tour guides, the guy who grills sea scallops wrapped in bacon at the Borough market and specialists on one subject or another.

Then there are all those empty tabbed sections where I can note which hotels we stayed in, what we loved about it, what was annoying and the rates we paid so that I can compare when booking subsequent trips. I do the same for the restaurants we’ve really enjoyed. That’s all pretty standard use, I imagine, but I do two things with the Moleskin that I really depend on.

1/ I keep a running list of all the places that we pass that we would have loved to have tasted, seen or explored but simply couldn’t for one reason or another. The title of this list is Next Trip and every time we return I tick off a line item or two. This trip I finally got to check off a visit to the Apsley House (the Duke of Wellington lived here), Mr French’s shave and lunch at The Only Running Footman pub while I added a visit to the record shops in Soho, lunch at Tayyab Indian restaurant in the East End and ordering stationary from Smythson’s on Bond St.

2/ The guides come with tracing paper post-its that I stick over the (very well done) maps, drawing symbols of places of personal interest. I’ve sketched a parasol over James & Sons umbrella shop, a stiletto over Senderson’s glorious shoe store. There are teacups and frames and books and canes and crosses. As we walk out of a museum, leave a park, or finish dining, I take a quick glance at the map and I know in an instant if there is something else we may like to visit in the area and exactly what it is.

I also keep a brief travel journal, which is fun to read and particularly helpful for reminding me of little details, like my favorite cocktail, you have to rent the lounge chairs in Green Park and where the best toilets are hidden. I also write funny conversations we’ve over heard, which can be some what embarrassing as I sit in the Eurostar, reviewing my notes prior to our arrival. Embarrassing because the restrained French and staid Brits are invariably shocked when a loud guffaw escapes me.

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