The Irish Were Greek

My travels produce many stories where I meet many unique people. I should write more of these travels down but this was a most important occasion that does require a written record.

I was working in Snottsdale. One woman, Mary, somehow mentioned that she was getting her PHD in Celtic Studies. She pointed out that her PHD has nothing to do with "Eastern Mysticism" meaning, "I have more research to do on why the druids mated with Leprachans inside stonehenge to produce the Faeries of the East. Rather her studies have to do with contemporary celticism & storytelling." How do you market that?

None the less I asked the question:

Were the Irish really Greek?

She answered, and I quote, "...probably, in fact, yes"

Stunned, I explained to her how she vindicated my Grandfather who always maintained the Irish were Greek and we always laughed. She said she could relate because she was 1/2 Irish  and 1/2 Greek. (Her grandfather was the exact opposite of my Papou in that he forbade his children to speak Greek so they could assimilate better.)

According to the Gaelic book, Lebhar Gebhar Erenn, which is part of a series of three books detailing the founding of Ireland, the Milesians, who were of Greek origin, sailed and invaded Ireland and defeated the Fumari Tribe which inhabited the island at the time. Then the victorious Milesians mated with the leftover women who had lost there men to the victors and promptly populated Ireland.

Mary did point out that earlier texts than the Lebhar Gebhar Erenn say that Mil was Egyptian and stole his wife Scotia at the tower of babel....and who cares, she lost me at Babel.

So, my grandfather, James Demopoulos, has been vindicated and if you don't believe me than show me where I'm wrong in the Lebhar Gebhar Erenn.

SLANTE

HAPPY SAINT PATRICK'S DAY

Still in Paris #20-29

20.     If you are lost, be lost with confidence. You’re in a foreign country. Your parents have hammered in to your skull that thievery is so rampant, even gynecologists and proctologists are amazed how deep a thief can get into your pockets. You have watched “Taken” and your dad is not Liam Neeson. You are male, so using a map is absolutely not an option or listening to your wife, for that matter. The key is to walk as if you are going that way, on purpose. Stride confidently. Look for interesting shops to visit and walk in. Not only do you discover some really neat places but you look marvelously confident and stylish. That bullseye on your tourista back got a little smaller because, after all, you are a tourist but you are not stupid. You are a confident idiot, and that is much different. The Parisians never stole from Jerry Lewis for a reason.

21.     The best flight ever. I would like to thank American Airlines for an absolutely first class experience to Paris. The service was great. The chairs were comfortable and I am still wondering how I lost my wife into the chair. I know she hit the bottom left button and I suddenly saw her ankles, then she asked me to hit her middle right button, I saw her gluteus maximus. Then she hit a button, giggled and she was gone till right before we landed. I had fun with the travel kit we got and watched “Mud” with Reese Witherspoon. I turned my travel socks into puppets as they performed “Metamorphosis” and “No Exit” as a comedy, Kabuki style. The converted sock puppets were better than Reese Witherspoon trying to act slutty. They may do Shakespeare’s “Coriolanus”, it sucks as a play and no one has seen it, and it would still be better than Reese Witherspoon in “Mud”. The food was good, but most of all the Flight Crew was awesome. By far the best flight greater than three hours I have ever had. I think Alexis is still stuck in that seat, hitting the middle left button, and chain smoking Pall Mall filterless cigarettes.

23.     Arrrrggggg, stop emailing me – Turn off all electronic devices. Get a European burner phone for emergencies. You are on vacation, cut the tether. It took me three days to ignore all the e-mails I was getting. While I had a small crap storm upon my return, it had nothing to do with the e-mails that I received in Paris. Just cut the link!

Martin - our tour leader and now friend.

THE Embassy of Texas.

24.     The Embassy of Texas – A strategy we took on our trip was to take private tours in each city we visited. In Paris we actually took three (General, Louvre, Food). All the tours were 1^st class. The first one was with Martin (http://parisbymartin.com/tours). It was a 3 hour tour, a three hour tour, that’s what he promised, just like the SS Minnow. I think I was Gilligan & Lex was Maryann. Martin lied, it was close to 6 hours and it was only because Alexis & I couldn’t go another hour. Hell, we couldn’t go another 10 feet, oops 3 meters. We left him at the Seine.

Martin is a young South American expat. Martin is a thin guy in his late 20s, has short, black curly hair, and an unshaven beard ala Don Johnson from his Miami Vice heyday. He met us at our hotel with this large 28” rollerbag. You would have to check at the airport & they may tag it with a “Heavy” tag. If you were in the Mafioso you would use it as a body transport bag. He greets us at the hotel and whips out a map that he had colored for us based on previous e-mail conversations. He showed us where we were at and said we were on the “Happy” side of the Seine River, because when you turn the map upside down the river frowns. I’ll always know Paris North by the smiling Seine River. So we go for a walking tour and he shares stories upon stories. Alexis & I eagerly eat it up. Heck, we would be happy finding Paris’ biggest ball of twine! We first go by the Embassy of Texas. The Embassy of What the H…..? Texas? Yes, when they became their own state and before they joined the USA, they were independent and opened up Embassies. France was the first one to recognize Texas. Was it the 10 gallon hats that made them recognizable? I digress. Martin turns to Alexis and me and asks, “Are people from Texas different?” Through our laughter we told him “yes” and the laughter and smiles would go on the rest of the night.

Martin's customized map.

How they measure the meter...really...the Embassy of Texas is off to the left, so yeah no crap.

After walking around Paris we hopped the Metro to go to the Eiffel Tower. (Yes, Lex and I broke into a short version of Berlin’s The Metro.) We get to the Eiffel Tower and it is magnificent. We had seen it during the day 24 hours earlier, but it was majestic. You felt like you were 40, 60, 80 years back in time…right up until the pesky street peddlers would bump into you. The third one felt a sharp Greek elbow and that seemed to do the trick. I never had a hankering to hang out at the Eiffel Tower, but now I just wanted to stand and gaze at the yellow din of the lights. Martin sat us down in an area where everyone seemed to be having a picnic. The only exception was the older photographer with the much younger girl. He kept making her jump in front of the tower at night. It was slightly annoying for 5 minutes. Martin goes into the big bag and pulls out a Cheese board with the different regions of France etched on it, pulls a few baguettes and opens a bottle of red wine. He had purchased cheeses from each region, carefully arranged them on the board and then told us about each region. He also put a black T-Shirt on the bag that said “Paris by Martin”. I would have purchased a T-Shirt but they were slightly smaller than my socks…if I wore socks.

He endeared himself to Lex for life when he saw a small Parisian rat. He turned to Lex and said “Ratatouille!” The roar of laughter between them was deafening and infectious. We would go to the Sarbonnes and then to Notre Dame, where he told us the story of every gargoyle and nook and cranny of the doors to the cathedral. It was a tremendous amount of information. His energy level was actually higher after midnight. We would walk around St. Germaine and we noticed all the Greek Restaurants…even in Paris we can’t escape our Greek food service heritage. We walked by the most narrow street in all of Paris, and then we had to stop. We hated to, but we also wanted to be ready for our trip to the Louvre and we were hoping we could actually walk. It was almost 2am and we had just had one of the most special nights ever. (I should point out that I read about Martin on Trip Advisor. He only had 8 reviews when I read about the tour. Today he has 121 reviews. On a 5 star rating system, 119 were perfect. Martin rocks.)

St. Germaine

The doors of Notre Dame A.

The doors of Notre Dame B.

Where we left Martin. Magic one the "Happy Face" Seine River.

25.     “He's a socialist lawyer, so he's cheap.” During our picnic, Martin told us about setting up his business. He said he had a lawyer doing a lot of work. I thought that cost a lot of money and that’s when Martin said, “He's a socialist lawyer, so he's cheap.” I just laughed and laughed. That phrase can be interpreted in many ways…all of them funny.

26.     If you’re about to die in Paris, look to the ceiling. That's where the emergency exit sign you missed is. The sign is green and flush to the ceiling. I just remember having a cup of coffee, looking up and seeing the exit sign pasted to the ceiling. So your last words in a fire would be – “Oh, it’s that way…cough.” Fade to black.

The Starry Night

27.      Vinnie Van Gogh is awesome. Starry Night is almost iridescent. Little Paulie Gauguin did relief work. We got to the Musee D'Orsay and what a great surprise, especially if you love impressionist and post-impressionist art. “Artwork should never be hung on a white wall”. Somebody said that – I don’t know who. Each gallery area had a dark wall which made the artwork just pop straight off the wall. Van Gogh’s genius is immediately on display when you see Starry Night. It almost twinkles in the swirls of the stars. I had seen Van Gogh in New York and Chicago, but this was just surreal. I felt I could just walk through the streets and find his ear. The walls were a deep blue and absolutely made all of his work almost levitate. Every gallery in the world should walk through and take notes. I left with a new appreciation for Van Gogh.

After Van Gogh was the Gauguin gallery. I really enjoy him and realized that he did carvings, too. While the carvings were cool, I still really like his artwork. The walls were a deep maroon red and it really made the carvings pop too. Just like the blue did for Van Gogh.

Ugliest Children ever.

The Shining Twins, less scary than the children by Van Gogh.

28. Your kids are fucking ugly if Van Gogh can't make them look even remotely attractive. I was sucking in the brilliance of Van Gogh when I had to exhale at the hideousness of two young children. OMG! Look to my left, pure beauty with a mundane object. Look to my right, I want to dive into that dreamy landscape from the bad Robin Williams movie “What Dreams May Come” (although Annabella Sciorra was smoking hot in the movie). Then I see these kids that make “The Shining” twins look comedic and fun. Holy Crap! Those children were hideous, and the parents were likely proud of the portrait. I need a shower just thinking about it.

Whistler's homey and huge mom.

29.     Whistler’s Mom is huge, but they don't like it when you whistle and yell "mom". This is a classic painting that I can check-off on one of those buzzfeed.com quizzes that says I was there. I was impressed with the sheer enormity of the painting. It was maybe 6 feet tall by 8 feet wide. It was huge. I appreciated it. Then I turned to Lex and whistled and said “Mom?! Mom?!” then I got the definite vibe I made too much noise and it was time to move on.

It's just better at night!

30. Eiffel Tower at night is better. As I mentioned earlier – it is just so cool at night. It’s worth mentioning again because it was magical.

Europa Thoughts 11-19

11.     Anything cold is challenging except for champagne. Air conditioning is different in France, and all of Europe, as we would learn. Our hotel rooms never got cold, but one of the neatest parts of the day was in the afternoon. The hotel would put out a silver bucket with a script insignia. Inside the bucket were 4 bottles of champagne: One was a rose` champagne, another amber, and two, well, champagne colored. The bottles were tilted on the side of the bucket, sweating with condensation around the regal insignia that had the crossed flags, a taloned, winged creature and a banner at the bottom. It was in French, so I have no clue what it said.  Since, champagne is French, I’m in Paris, it’s warm…I tried all 4! Mmmmmmm. I don’t care for rose` champagne in the states and it sucks in France, too. However, the champagne colored champagne was dry, bubbly and delicious. That is French air conditioning….champagne. Since I was the only guy there, the staff loved me. Oooooh lala! My kind of air conditioning. 

Cheesey Picture!

 12.     Cheese and wine all day, baby! Gotta love the French. My eating schedule got totally screwed up starting in France. However, the greatest surprise was getting to eat cheese and bread every afternoon and then some. While this would turn into a daily occurrence throughout Europe, it started here….so the French get the credit today.

 13.     Turning into a child. Growing up, my Papou (grandfather) would regale me with stories about ancient Greece and its impact on the world. After all, Greece is the center of the universe. Papou’s teaching wouldn’t stop at just Greece. He would talk about history’s great minds, and the Greek influence. Mom, who spoke French, would also tell tales of France. My Yiayia and Papou had taken me to Greece in the 6th grade. I remember every moment of that trip even though it was the summer of 1972 or 1973. I actually took French lessons from Mrs. Iatridis, an Egyptian Greek. When she went to Paris, all I wanted was a red beret. (It was ixnayed by a mother who shall remain nameless, Mom.) Now I’m walking the streets by the Cannon Monument, (with Baby Napoleon on top…oops he was just short) by racks of red, blue, black and purple berets. I realize the beret from North Beach, San Francisco, where the great Beat Poets spewed their verse means a whole lot more to me. (That beret is hidden by the Love Goddess. It is black.) The reason all of this is important is that somewhere, whether it was getting lost walking around, enjoying my wine and pecorino cheese, seeing artwork and masterpieces every day, I was sliding into that moment of dreaming what it would be like in Paris…and I’m here. 

Hotel Biron

Balzac and his pile.

14.     The Rodin Museum was great, very tactile and open. François-Auguste-René Rodin is, in my little cultural dojo, one of the greatest sculpturers (is that a word?) ever. I was formally introduced to Rodin’s work when I went to Philadelphia. I was on my way to run up the stairs at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. These are the stairs that Rocky ran up and, like Rocky, raise my hands in victory when I accidently came across Rodin’s museum. It was hard to miss the Thinker pondering, “Why the hell am I in Philadelphia?” So I decided to check out the rest and there it was, the Gates of Hell. Based on Dante’s Inferno (an all-time favorite book) figures are struggling to get out of the bronze block as if someone has put a piece of cellophane over their face. Over 180 struggling people damned to a circle of hell. Rodin, from this point forward, has had my full attention.

Rocky at the top of the stairs.

 

Seamus and the Thinker.  Mitch G insists this is not the original Thinker. The picture above is the Thinker done by Rodin AND at Rodin's house. Seamus was added.

 

Sculpture of Seamus - #48 on your tour phone.

Up late one night with nothing on Skinamax and Alexis asleep, I came across a movie with Isabelle Adjani and Gerard Depardieu called Camille Claudel. Subtitled, the movie is the biography of Camille Claudel who was apprentice, artist/craftsman, muse and lover to Rodin. Oh yeah, Rodin was married. It’s a great movie. The movie took place at Hotel Birron, and then suddenly I am here! 

Movie Poster

 The museum was his home (Hotel Biron), a white brick, two-story mansion (by today’s standards). It has three peaks, with the middle section double the size of the two flanking peaks. It is perfectly symmetrical, which is ironic because Rodin is absolutely asymmetrical. Walking into the left section we are immediately greeted by sculptures with a green-black patina and some soft white sculptures. Honore de Balzac grabbed my attention because he was naked with, at first glance, a pile of poop from the floor to his butt. St. John the Baptist was also there. As we walked through the museum I was struck at how it was so tactile, getting right up on the sculptures, people taking pictures. The experience was fun and different. (Unlike the gestapo/stazi volunteers in Dusseldorf).

Gates of Hell Close-Up.

Seamus workin' the ladies like Hanako above.

The Kiss sculpture was there but the sculpture that captured the most passion to me was called “The Mature Age”. A young woman is on her knees, reaching with an outstretched hand to an older man’s hand yet not touching. The older man is standing with his left hand to the young woman, but on his right shoulder is an old woman, her right arm in control of his, glaring at the old man. The old man looks to the ground, his head tilted toward the old woman, a look of resignation is on his face. Wow, then you learn that Camille Claudel likely did the work and you realize two things: 1) That’s Rodin, his wife and hot, younger lover. 2) Camille Claudel was the Alanis Morrissette of the 1880s and 1890s. Wicked cool! 

The Mature Age

15.     You're not in America, they watch but don't suckle to your nipple. I would love to blame another nationality, but unfortunately we Americans can be a boorish pain in the ass. Speaking loudly in a restaurant, in the third person, does not help get better service. Every meal is an event. It’s a huge departure from ‘fast food’ America. The waiters are watching for a break in the action. They want to see if you are done eating and talking, then they will visit the table. I noticed it more than the Love Goddess. 

16.     Yes they speak English, but it is a second language and they don't speak slang. Along the same lines as #15. The Parisians that we came across would speak English, but it is a second language. Jokes with words don’t translate which explains the French Jerry Lewis phenomenon.  

17.     ‘Bunny ears’ are funny in any language. I have two bad habits that are fun. 1) If you leave your camera unattended I take a selfie. 2) I love giving unsuspecting photographers bunny ears when they are taking a picture. Typically, the people smile and laugh in the picture. People laugh at that here in the States and they do in France too. Laughter is the world’s universal language.18.     All these people can't be skinny! Where are the fat people? Holy Crap! I’m walking down the street in St. Germaine and I realize I could fit four French people in my khaki pants, two in each pant leg. Is there a farm in Provence where they send the fat people to the Charles André Joseph Marie de Gaulle Camp for the Non-Skinny? 

No fat people, couples in a variety of mixes.

  18.     Couples come in all shapes, sizes and age combinations. Everybody loves everybody. It was cool to see such diversity in every relationship. The common element was passion for each other. I enjoyed that.

Paris impressions – Section A

Our European Trip + 96 Random Thoughts – Part 2

Paris impressions – Section A

1.     People are nice. “Sooosie Sooosie Soooososie you dumb American” with a scowl and a spit was what I expected the average Parisian would be like. Fortunately, I have been brought up to keep an open mind and what I found was a warm, friendly and oft-smiling people. Laughter was heard on every block. A simple “bonjour” in my wife’s high school French triggered an understanding and helpfulness, check that, an eagerness to help no matter where we were. Everywhere we went, except for the fighting lesbian bistro owners, people were happy to help and laugh. Maybe that's why the French still like Jerry Lewis, simple pratfalls and the contagiousness of laughter. The pace of life is one in where a person must stop, observe, laugh and experience every moment. They love when you attempt speaking French. I used to think ‘merci’ meant ‘thank you’. I was wrong. Merci means a cab driver can keep the change. That language lesson cost me about 20€.

Adelle takes us for a ride! We could stand up the whole time! Our first Parisian :)

2.     Things are expensive. The reason the French government subsidizes the people is because the French can't afford France. Citizenry are given vouchers to restaurants and cafes because they couldn't afford to stay open with such prices (I didn't make this up, I'm not that good.). Paris is a tourist city with lots of visiting Chinese, Vietnamese, Japanese and any other Asian nations people that rhyme with cheese. They seemingly have an infinite amount of cash. For the rest of us, a cappuccino is an expensive 8.50€ which is $12.73. Perrier is $5 a bottle and they fizz it right there. I saw multiple 67,000€ watches, and these dudes don't flinch. So just be forewarned and remember rule 1, it's worth every euro or franc, the French were a blast.

Seamus enjoys breakfast for a million franc...it was slightly less.

3.     Evenings are a touch formal. Khakis and a white shirt is low on the acceptable dress code. You can wear down filled hi-tops that are black, or a neon color, with nice clothes because that actually drops you down below the jeans line. It also makes you German. That being said, an evening in Paris must be a stylish one. Armani suits, custom tailored shirts and French cuffs with a woman or man up to 30 years your junior. Every outfit is perfectly tailored and many men wore no socks. Since I haven’t worn socks since 1980, I realize I have been Parisian all this time and didn't know it. I could get used to the look, but there is no way I can wear a scarf. Even in subzero weather it's like I'm allergic. Men shouldn't wear scarves with a sport coat, even if your name is Pierre or Fabio. Just no.
 

4.     French women are beautiful. Everything about them is soft and less than a size 6. Actually, everyone in Paris is skinny. I think they were nice to me because they were concerned I might sit on them and squash them into truffle oil. Back to the point, they can absolutely rock a skirt. Regardless of the length, pencil or pleated, skirt length was always just right. Young, old, in between, confused age, it didn't matter. I realized mademoiselles must have a class on this in third grade thru high school. Parisian women are confidently Franco fashion forward. Sophisticated, sexy, done to perfection. If a woman shows cleavage then Madame Chic won't show leg or vice-versa. Undergarments do not support but are really sexy (please, gravity is a law of nature, observing nature is unavoidable). I can't remember ever thinking soft and sexy but I have an idea now. Underwear serves no other purpose but to tease, and there must have been three lingerie stores per block. It was just goofy and impossible not to notice, plus I'm a guy, as if I would miss those window displays. This is why I have a cadre of friends who still pine for Catherine Deneuve.

Helmut Newton took this picture of guess who, but that is like every Parisian woman only different. I wish I took this picture, I also want to stay married so maybe not.

5.     Perfume is everywhere, so is BO and cigarettes. A guy was even perfuming a furniture store. He was squeezing the little gold, bulbous air pump from the short crystal bottle as perfume spritzed all over a nice distressed, tan, leather sofa. Maybe somebody farted in the distressed, tan, leather sofa, but it was fascinating to watch. Deodorant is not an item that is imported to France. In 17 seconds your olfactory senses were attacked by a smelly man, smoking a pack of Lucky Strikes, bathed in Channel #4. Then a quick respite, lingerie store, smelly woman, smoking a pack of Lucky Strikes, bathed in Channel #5.

6.     Ashtrays in restaurants! How retro. When was the last time you saw a real, amber glass octagon ashtray with four indentations for cigarettes? Totally forgot what that was like, and frankly, I don’t miss the smoking in restaurants. 

7.     Paris is all about looking good and the artsy. There is a sophistication to Paris that I have not seen in any other big city. The closest city like Paris in America is San Francisco. Art is at every turn. A statue here, a hot club jazz band there, a bunch of people painting and thankfully, no mimes. Even the street people had a Benetton green, white and blue striped sweater with a snappy pair of designer jeans.

8.     Paris is expensive...again. Paris IS fun but for crying out loud, does every meal have to start at 50€? Oui! 

Our 60 Euro Breakfast Buffet....Sacre Blu!

 9.     Awesome walking city, the best in the world. Simply the best big city for walking anywhere. Plus, you sure as hell aren't going to drive on the streets. Pure chaos at a green light would not begin to explain the pandemonium at any corner. The good thing is that it is near impossible not to find something of interest. The eco-cabana on the Seine the lock bridge, the Arc Du Collosus at the Louvre  It should also be noted that Paris is the only city that wasn't bombed in World War II. The scars are seen in every European city except Paris. Walking, we would see the Obelisk, the cannon made of the 300 Cannons from the battle of Osterriech with Napoleon as a Roman Emperor on top. We walked 17 miles in one day (Lex is still kind of pissed). 

A Chinese artist. Had a bunch of cool sculptures.

The Lock Bridge...See our lock?

The Cannon Monument

The Obelisk...I like saying that word, Ahhhhhh Behhhh Lissssssssk.

It is the land of the perpetual post card.

The Arc De Triomphe

•  10.  Days start at 11 and go till whenever they feel like quitting. Dinner is typically at 8 and be prepared for a scrumptious meal to last 2 hours at a minimum. It takes some getting used to! I mean 8pm is when NCIS starts back home.