European Diary - 4

En route to Potsdam to visit Sans Souci, Frederick the Great's summer palace, we sat in the same railroad coach as a gang of teen age boys on their way to see a soccer match. They were horsing around and (gasp) drinking beer, which may or may not have been illegal to do on the train (probably not) and also not underage, as the age limit is apparently unknown in Europe. They weren't rowdy, just full of high (!) spirits and when the train pulled into the town where they got off, they started up a chant, "Ost, Ost Ost Berlin!" East Berlin and proud of it. These kids were probably not even born in 1989 when the wall came down, yet they had a pride of place and more than a little attitude about coming from the downscale part of town.

On other train, we listened as some nice looking young men (late teens probably) casually switched from German to Russian and back to German. Who were they?

Occasionally one heard conversations in English, German and French. It is not unusual, I think, for people just meeting to find the only language they have in common is a foreign one. What are the chances of that happening here?

In Paris we visited the Pompidou Center, and one of the best things was riding the escalator up through 6 stories of glass, and suddenly there is Sacre Coeur behind you, and the spire of Notre Dame in front of you, and the Eiffel Tower off to the side and the view is such that you just want to ride the escalator up and down all day. We saw the Dadaist exhibit and the Big Bang which is part of the Pompidou collection of Modern Art but grouped in interesting ways. The 6th floor restaurant, George, is very elegant and the food was all one hopes to eat in France. The cheese cake we had for dessert is the best I ever ate. Don't know what they did to it. My chicken curry came with mashed potatoes, not rice, a little weird, I thought, until I tasted the potatoes. I think they were mashed with a sea of heavy cream and a mountain of butter because they tasted heavenly. Significant Other ordered a plate of ziti with sauce, rather boring, I thought until I took a bite. It had the most miraculous taste in that just one forkful and you were in Italy! Amazing. How did that happen? I can't say. Here in Boston we have no shortage of good Italian restuarants, but the ziti at George transported me straight to sunny Italy and olive groves and little trattorias where the food is simple and simply spectacular.

Go to Paris. Eat at George. Be transported. Look at the art. Gasp at the view. Life is good.

In college, way back when, I started a Dada ist play. The characters were a cigarette, a street lamp and a prostitute, and it was set in downtown Houston. Weird, huh?

Tomorrow: visit to a small town in the former East Germany.

Aloha and au revoir!

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