Rooftop Afternoon, Navy Yard, Brooklyn

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I brought Begonia and Rich a bottle of Urki from the Basque country via Rockridge.  We put it in the freezer for a half hour and then enjoyed it on the roof with the Euskadi cocktail picks I found in a little store in Hondarribia.  We baked in the sun, waited in anticipation for the occasional breeze, and misted ourselves over the kiddie pool with the hose.  No better way to spend an impossibly hot Augest New York day.

New York Day Two: F local from 68th to W. 4th, A local to Canal Street

I love riding the subway in New York. I don’t love subway station smells, or waiting for the subway (too much indecent exposure)–but once you get on that air conditioned train it’s great.

I’m otherwise totally uncomfortable in crowds, but the subway is an exception. All crowded in a train you really see New York–all those differences just jammed in together too close not to see or hear.

Best part is that people stare–unabashedly–at each other.  Women at men, rich at poor, white people at brown people, twenty-somethings at teens, hipsters at suits, and everyone at tourists.  People avoid too–noses in books and word searches–but find me a New Yorker who’s never taken part in the great city past time of the Subway Stare.

I got stared at right away when I got on the F downtown at 63rd, this time by a woman about my age and dressed similarly to me.  That’s another great stare–the girl on girl what are you wearing stare–very common in New York, and frankly, not offensive to me.  The women are beautiful here and they dress better than anywhere else in the U.S., so what better way to pass the time but by checking out the scenery?

Riding the NYC subway is not an experience you can replicate anywhere else.  It’s created as much by the diversity of riders as the design of a system that is, in essence, thoroughly democratic. It’s affordable, efficient, and has stations almost anywhere anyone in the five boroughs lives (okay four, Staten Island gets no love, but it’s an island for pete’s sake).

Thinking I might benefit similarly from public transportation when I moved to the Bay Area was a naive aspiration. The trains are wide and the great majority of the seats are in one-direction facing rows.  The NYC system by contrast has narrow train cars, and many with seats that face each other, with narrow standing room in the middle and bar above for holding on.  This creates another great type of stare: The Staring Down At That Person Whose Seat You’re Waiting For Stare and the Staring At Your Lap Trying To Avoid Being Looked Down Upon Stare.

I got a seat after we passed Grand Central and then transferred at W. 4th to a downtown A train and got off at Canal.  In contrast to the F, this A was quite empty, but there was a great loud family of Italian tourists to watch experience the greatness of the MTA.

While there are many reasons I live in Rockridge, and prefer to live in Rockridge, Bay Area public transit isn’t one of them.  I miss the MTA.  Looking forward to more rides today and the next few days…

Vintage NYC Subway Maps courtesy of the Subway Nut, a fun and thorough blog about the subway

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The map as it appears today via MTA

28th Street Flowers

I visited the wholesale flower district this morning, in a very bleary eyed state.

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And I bought A LOT of flowers.  Here I have (from left) cockscomb celosia, variegated “watermelon” lemons, clematis, geranium leaves, dahlias, and mint.

L.A. Recap/Highlights

It never ceases to amaze me that I grew up in L.A., let alone lived there for so long, because I just don’t like it at all.  And in spite of wide-spread world-wide hatred of the place, in my circle I seem to be alone in this.  My friends who grew up in L.A. and still live there love it (naturally), but so do my L.A.-to-New York transplant friends, who will never leave New York, but still find L.A. and amusing oddity.  I just don’t think I could ever live there.  Between the bad air, the traffic, and the silly airhead population (it could be just the waiters and waitresses, but either way, very unappetizing) I just don’t know how I ever did it.  I managed to enjoy spending time with my family, and doing a few other activities I can share here.

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Woo Lae Oak Beverly Hills

I’ll never get over the loss of the original Western location I grew up with.  That said, Woo Lae Oak still feels a little like going home.  I got a great Chopin dirty martini too.

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Santa Monica Beach

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Hama Sushi Little Tokyo

Everyone seems to love this place.  I think they had an off-night, but it didn’t matter too much because I had great company.  My dear dear friend Noelle and I met up for the hour-long wait, and then happened to run into two of her good friends Cheryl and Elizabeth, who were a total blast.  It made up for the fact that the sushi chef was rude and “doesn’t do omikase.”  What kind of sushi chef doesn’t?

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Redwood Bar featuring C.W. Stoneking

Already covered that (see last post).

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Another Day on Santa Monica Beach

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Palm Trees

I like the seeds.

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Flux Super 8 opening, Culver City

A very fun night.  Great work by all the artists, and a fun crowd.

Terri Timely’s Synesthesia installation

The show features the work of “eight of the most exciting and emerging filmmakers, video artists, and design collectives from around the world.”  The super eight are:

The Blackheart Gang (Cape Town, South Africa); Max Erdenberger (Portland, USA); Saam Farahmand (London, UK); Sophie Gateau (Paris, France); Miwa Matreyek (Los Angeles, USA); Terri Timely (San Francisco, USA); United Visual Artists (UVA) (London, UK); YesYesNo (Amsterdam, NL + New York, NY + London, UK).

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Father’s Office

Open late, and a truly spectacular burger.  But too many rules.  At Hama it’s no omikase, here it’s no vodka?  And you aren’t allowed to put ketchup on your burger.  Still, a great experience–thanks to John and Noelle in large part.

I’m glad to be home…if not for long.

And Another Thing

I harvested my first tomatoes of the season this morning.

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They are very sweet–even given their large size.  These are the traditional, organic tomatoes.  Now I can’t wait for the heirlooms (several different varieties) to come it.  They made a delicious snack before heading to the airport for a flight to L.A.

Now at the Oakland Airport about to board for LAX.  Makes me want to sing “Midnight Train to Georgia.”  “L.A., mmm…proved too much for the man…he couldn’t take it!  So he’s leavin’ a life, he’s come to knoooow!”

Except I’m going back to L.A.  Eek!  I’ll have to revisit those Vena Cava recommendations–did any of them mention how to stay sane in that mixed up Southland?

So when you call up that shrink in Beverly Hills
You know the one – Dr. Everything Gonna Be Alright
Instead of asking him how much of your time is left–
Ask him how much of your mind, baby!

Cause in this life,
Things are much harder than in the afterworld
In this life
You’re on your own!

And if the elevator tries to bring you down
Go crazy!!!

Roussillon

Roussillon was my favorite neighboring town to Lourmarin when I was a child.  It was the most far-out place, and when you went there you inevitably got dirty.  Although I was pretty prissy as a child, the type of dirty you got in Roussillon was all right with me–it wasn’t muddy blasé brown, it was bright orange.  That was a kind of dirty I could get down with.

As if the bright orange and red cliffs aren’t enough, all of the buildings in Roussillon are built with the pigmented clay that surrounds the village.  The naturally occurring ochre in the hillsides was mined until the 1930’s.  Mining has since been banned in order to protect the site from destruction.

Being in Provence inspired an obsession with crumbling old walls with plants growing out of them.  Roussillon’s reddish ones are particularly high on my list because of the red/green contrast (these pictures are so much more vibrant in original–the upload to WordPress just ruins the color).

And my favorite door, from 1678.  Well, I’m not sure about the door, but the doorway is from 1678.

If you walk to the highest point in town you find a ceramic-topped circular map of the region, with Roussillon at its center.  You’ll find similar maps in many of the neighboring towns.

Right before you reach the map at the top of the hill you’ll find the 16th century church surrounded by lavender.

The exterior is fairly simple, but there is intricateness to be found inside.  One of my favorites is the altar.

Wheat and grapes have been the primary crops of Provence since the middle ages.

The baptismal font was added in the 17th century.

I love the intricate high relief on the ceiling.  Very dramatic.

After the church we walked back through town to the cemetary, which is quite beautiful.

I like calling this guy “Eqyptian Jacques.”

La force d’aimer

From Roussillon:

Lace Windows

In many windows, both in France and Spain, you’ll see the insides lined with lace curtains.  Many are floral patterns, or highly repetitive designs, but some have complete scenes with people and places.  Here are two of my favorites from my walks around little towns.

A window in Apt

Hot air ballons over town

A window in Bonnieux

Angel

Bonnieux: 12th Century Church

The old, old church is a hearty eighty-six steps up a steep hill from the village.  Even with our daily five miles, I started to feel winded.  This is no gentle slope.  Did there used to be more dwellings that high up in Bonnieux or was that all part of it?  In the 12th century was this just what you did every Sunday?  Or several times a week for that matter?  And just as Gothic cathedrals’ heights help bring their congregations closer to heaven with their arches and steeples, are these steps supposed to signify a journey towards communion with God?

Of course in my state of rapture, in reaching the top, in Provençal July heat, and in Christian ruins, I didn’t bother to take any pictures of the church itself.  There’s hardly enough room at the top of the hill to get far enough away from the wall of the church to capture it all in one shot anyway, and the church itself was locked (though it isn’t used as a church, classical music performances are held there occasionally).

There’s a little bench up there at the top under that big cypress tree that’s obscured by the tree’s shadows.  It’s so quiet up there, and windy too.  In a way it’s soothing to sit on that bench, and in a way it’s very eerie, being so high up, and so dwarfed by everything around you–the church, the trees, the vista, and time itself.

Sitting in the shade and peering through the big dark cypress branches makes you understand Cezanne and the awe he obviously felt a bit better (think Forest 1894 and Landscape Near Aix, the Plain of the Arc River).  I have such a different perspective on Cezanne than I used to.  In college I fought one of my art history professors constantly about him–I just never felt the still lives and thought he was over-credited for his perspective.  Now looking at his landscapes that once seemed so benign to me, I see much more of the turbulence that I feel is the essence of Provence–it isn’t that calm lavender scented-rosé filled country the Brits, or whoever else might think it is–it’s thick and heavy.  Life is really felt here.  As the French say, it’s sauvage–wild.

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Bonnieux: Le Fornil

I know it’s a lot on Bonnieux, but I really think Bonnieux is worth it.

Le Fournil is one of the restaurants featured in Gilles Pudlowski’s guide to Provence and the Cote d’Azur.  This place is an absolute pleasure.  It fits in perfectly with the relaxed atmosphere and beauty of Bonnieux.  The food is refined yet unpretentious.  The service is friendly and on the lively side, which gives the place a bit of a younger vibe–totally welcome after a week at Mas de Guille (“Relais du Silence”) where we were the youngest people by twenty years.  And judging by the stares I got when I was taking pictures, this place is equally appreciated by tourist and locals alike, which lends credence to the chef’s work.

Le Fournil at 7:30pm

We’re early eaters at home, it’s no secret.  But I swear we were eating at 9 and later in Guethary!  But during that first week away in Provence, we were still adjusting.  Add to that the heat and our minimum of five miles of walking per day (assessed by pedometer no less) and we ended up really needing that first reservation of the night.  Plus it made for good pictures right?

Le Fournil’s menu

Fish paté amuse bouche

I’m a little bit of a wuss when it comes to something like fish paté (and I. even more so) but this was absolutely delectable.  I never expected such a texture to work–but Le Fournil made it so.

Petits farcis provençaux servis tíèdes

I have no translation for “petits…” but based on the little I know about Provençal cuisine, stuffed crudité appears to be somewhat of a tradition.  We had several incarnations of this dish at different restaurants and this was indubitably the best.  The stuffing is bread crumbs, herbs, and other fabulous Provencal things.  Sorry I can’t be more specific, but aren’t the colors great?

Bouquet de haricots vert et cocos frais, ris d’agneau poêlés vinaigrette d’herbes

If only this could be recreated.  I’m not sure what the cut of lamb was, but it was so tender.  Perfect with vegetables and some aged balsalmico.

Contrefilet de beouf poêlé, chutney de cerises, blettes au jus

The pièce de résistance: contrefilet.  Although my favorite steak of the trip was at Le Madrid (Cote de Beouf with Bearnaise) due to its total simplicity and melt-in-your-mouth qualities, this contrefilet is a very, very close second.  The cherry confit had the perfect balance of sweet and tart to the meat.  Every bite was a pleasure.

As we left everyone was still enjoying.