160/365 So What

Tim was working late Thursday night, getting the magic late-afternoon light for just the right shot. That left me needing to find dinner on my own. I seem to have little issue with eating by myself at lunchtime, but at dinner it can be tougher, especially if I want something in one of the finer restaurants.

I wanted Cambodian Hot Bowl at Natasha’s.

I figured I could sit at a bar. This can be a good option for introverts like me. I don’t really have trouble talking to people if they talk first. The question becomes, if I can get a seat at the bar, will I be the only one eating? With chopsticks? Is this going to work out?

I went. It’s basically a five-seat bar, and there was a seat available between a couple and this other guy. “So What” was playing on whatever they’re playing music on in restaurants these days: CDs programmed to random? iPods? Bar Guy was talking to a lingering waiter about John Coltrane.

The bartender’s name was Phaedra. Bar Guy told me. He’s a regular.

I hesitatingly ordered the Cambodian Hot Bowl, asking Phaedra how gauche it was to eat at the bar. She assured me it would be fine. I still had worries that I would be the only one scarfing down dinner. I didn’t want to be mocked.

Bar Guy couldn’t predict whether he would mock me. He claimed to be a Zen Mocker^TM who mocked only in the moment.

By the time the Cambodian Hot Bowl arrived, we were so engrossed in conversation about comedy, extreme darkness, good television, Michael Moore, blogs, and music that Bar Guy must have forgotten to mock me as I—and I alone—inhaled my bowl full of Asian vegetables, dainty rice cakes, shrimp, chicken, pineapple, fried banana, chopped peanut, mint, and cilantro. Every last bit of it. And I forgot to care that Others might be Watching.

I love this town.

When I left, “So What” had come around again.

Here’s Miles Davis, John Coltrane, et al. in 1958.

159/365 Ya Rayah

It was in that same Parisian grotto that I heard Rachid Taha for the first time. Alison and I were mesmerized by some song and asked the DJ to show us the CD, but I could never find it. It was probably never distributed in the U.S.

But I did find a CD of his that satisfied me, even though it didn’t have quite the drive of whatever it was we heard that night. Here’s the first track.

158/365 It’s Raining Men

I didn’t return to Paris until after the turn of the century. My sister had been having a tough year, and there was an alumni event she wanted to attend at the American University of Paris. She’d attended the school—at the time a 2-year institution—in the mid-80s, back when bombs were going off.

Alison was willing to do all the legwork to set up the trip and make it affordable, so I agreed to go. A plus was that she had a much better command of French than I do, given her years living in Paris and Montreal.

Astoundingly, I had a great time at the alumni events. One night there was a cocktail party on a boat docked on the Seine, and we met a women who’d grown up in the same town as our mother. Another night there was a big dinner, and we sat with some fascinating people, including a German ambassador to France and a woman who taught school in Beirut.

After dinner, there was dancing in the grottolike cellar of the old building. For some reason, I remember “It’s Raining Men” starting up just about the time we got downstairs. When I hear that song now (which doesn’t happen that often), I think of that Paris night, of dancing in that fabulous space until way late, of trying to find a cab afterward and becoming more than a little concerned that that was not going to happen (and how would we get back to the hotel?), and of that young guy my sister made a date with for later in the week…

Here’s the original Weather Girls cut. This one’s for you, Sewa Yoleme.

157/365 Stayin’ Alive

In June 1978, I went to Paris with the high school French club. It took a lot of begging and pleading on my part to get permission/funding from my parents. But it was worth it. We had a great time.

What surprises me about my memories is the amount of actual freedom we had. I remember an afternoon during which Cheryl and I, on our own, took the metro to the Rodin Museum because we really wanted to see it, and it wasn’t on the itinerary. I can’t imagine anyone these days thinking it would be OK for two teenage girls on a high school trip to run around the city like this unchaperoned. But it was fine, and we were fine, and it’s one of my best memories of the trip.

I also remember the two of us being alone and in search of lunch together, probably another day. It was then that these two dark strangers approached us. This was always happening when Cheryl was around. One of the guys was Tunisian. He could speak pretty good English. His friend was allegedly Parisian, and he spoke none. Our French was high-school pathetic. So Tunisian Guy played translator.

Saturday Night Fever had recently been released in Paris, and signs of it were everywhere. This was back in the days when films didn’t have a simultaneous international release. We Americans had been into it the previous year. But Tunisian Guy tried to impress us with his knowledge of the film. “Ah ah ah ah, staying alive, staying alive,” he crooned at us. “the Bee Gees! Saturday Night Fever!”

Whatever. That was so yesterday. But we indulged him. Yes, yes, Saturday Night Fever . . .

They found out we were looking for lunch and insisted on taking us to a Tunisian restaurant. We warily agreed, walking with them down small side streets til we finally got to this hole in the wall, where we had some delicious and dirt-cheap dish. It was fun. They weren’t too pushy, and when we said we had to get back to the group, they bid us adieu.

156/365 Minimum Wage

Whenever I come to Portland, I envision a life hanging out in coffeehouses, wandering the streets, taking in a matinée, playing at city leisure. I always seem to forget that my deadlines are exactly the same as they are at home. That if I actually do those things, I will miss my deadlines. Or have to make up the time somewhere, somehow.

I’ve always loved this They Might Be Giants song. Social commentary at its best: two words and the crack of a whip.

155/365 I’ve Got to See You Again

I could almost go there
Just to watch you be seen
I could almost go there
Just to live in a dream
But no I won’t go for any of those reasons
To not touch your skin is not why I sing
I can’t help myself
I’ve got to see you again

Tim and I are in Portland, Maine, for a week. We are both hunkering down to work this Monday morning (I swear, as soon as I post this), but last night we did the dinner/movie/ice cream thing. We were getting ice cream when I heard a song that was familiar, and I was trying to place it. It took me a minute to come up with Norah Jones, “The Long Way Home.”

I can’t remember anyone having blogged about Norah Jones in this project (although I could be quite wrong), which in some ways is surprising, given her popularity. But the fact is, Jones got almost too popular for her own good. For awhile, you couldn’t go anywhere public without hearing her. The backgroundness of her became almost like breathing, to the point that one didn’t even notice her anymore.

I first heard her debut CD during one of the famous river-porch happy hours I attend in summer, back in 2002. It was months before the Grammy awards, months before her ubiquitousness. I was riveted. What a voice. How different to hear something like this, nearly jazz standardy in its quality. I was thoroughly impressed with Come Away with Me. One of my favorite songs was “I’ve Got to See You Again.” Here it is, a bit faster than its CD presentation.

154/365 Why Don’t We Do It in the Road?

I know, it appears I’m on a 3-day Beatles kick. But they ask a legitimate question here, don’t they?

I’ll be in the car for 5 hours today, on my way to Portland, Maine, and my office-away-from-home.

No one will be watching us . . .