Suzanne à Grenoble

Last night was a night of stars for me. For starters, I sat Bob Greene when he came into the restaurant with his two kids. That was a pretty low-key "celebrity" encounter, because I don't even think the restaurant owners even knew who he was. But I did.

Then, after work, L. and I went next door to the super-hot, so-hot-it's-untouchable alinea, just to check it out. I had no idea there was anything next door, because the restaurant is so super-slick that they don't have a sign outside, and their windows are translucent. The building ressembles an ordinary apartment block, except that there are valets outside. However, L. informed me that this is the new "it" restaurant in town--in the country, even. When you walk in, alinea feels more like an ultra-modern, minimalist hotel than an eating establishment. The only indication that fine dining takes place there is that the foyer affords a briliant view of the kitchen, which is wide open and filled with cute young kitchen staff, cooly in white, knowing they're being watched and loving every minute of it.

When we explained that we worked next door, the power-suited hostess offered to give us a tour, as the last customers of the evening had just parted. As we mounted the sturdy glass-and-steel stairs, I had the impression that I was getting the tour of a chic apartment that I'd never be able to buy. Each dining area felt like a fashion-forward living room. The waiters wore business suits and ressembled deparment store cologne sprayers. I glanced around the at the empty chaise lounges and decided that it would be a long time before I felt the desire to dine at a place like this. After all, you don't really go to alinea to eat. You go there to be impressed by the food, the design, and the other customers. I believe the average meal lasts about four to seven hours, due to the extraordinary number of courses (28, but someone told me that you have the choice of 12 or 32 courses as well. However, this is all heresay, so take it with a grain of salt).

When we were ushered back down to the foyer, we met one of the managers, Chris, who appeared happy to meet us (but then again, it's his job to appear happy to meet everybody). He asked us if we'd like to see the kitchen (how could we not want to?) and then escorted us inside stainless steel mecca, where he put us in a corner that was safe to observe the chefs as they cleaned up the aftermath of an evening's culinary delights. A chipper young chef came up to us, introduced himself as Grant, and asked how we enjoyed the evening. When we explained that we didn't eat, we were just visiting from next door, he invited us to come back next time for a meal. Yeah, if you foot the bill, Mister, I thought as I wondered what kind of salary he thought we got as hostesses working less than part-time at a slightly pricey (but not nearly as pricey as this) restaurant. We bid everyone goodbye and headed out the door, me slightly dazed by the fact that this kind of foodiness existed right next door and I never knew it. As soon as we were out the door, L. informed me that Grant was Grant Achatz of culinary world fame. She was reeling at the experience, and I could have kicked myself for having no idea who he was. I just wish I had worked my mojo a little bit more. Curses! Foiled again!

But wait! It's not over yet. My brush with the stars would not have been complete without a sighting of everyone's favorite athlete-cum-aquitted-murderer, O.J. Simpson. Oh yeah, baby! L. and I were walking down Rush Street, past throngs of tipsy bachelorette partiers and overly-scented, generic fratboys, when we spotted an amateur cameraman, filming something in an open terrace window. We walked past, and there was an aged and heavily bling-blinged O.J., talking casually to his onlookers and appearing delighted at all the attention. He was wearing the biggest and shiniest crucifix medallion I'd ever seen. Yeah, you wear that thing, O.J. You're gonna need to prove your faith someday. Too bad your jewelry won't get you into heaven. It was pure bizarity. I kept walking back and forth past the window to make sure it was really him. L. thought I was crazy and I shouldn't give so much attention to a guy who clearly doesn't deserve it. But I was fascinated. The Juice was not ten feet away from me inside Jilly's, a place I pass all the time on Rush Street. And he was so blatantly enjoying all the attention and freakshow-ness of it all.

Now, I could offer some biting analysis of the night and what it means that I feel compelled to publish my brief brushes with fame. But I won't. I've given you a tawpic. Now tawk amongst yahselves.

It’s been so long since I’ve posted that I doubt I have any readers left (except for my parents—they’d read my blog even if I didn’t exist anymore).

Well, I’m in Chicago with Mom and Dad. Catching up on TV reruns and enjoying the fancy life. Having a washing machine AND drier, air conditioning, and my own bathroom are just a couple of the, shall we say accoutrements that I’ve been privy to this week. And I hate to sound uncultured, but I absolutely LOVE American coffee. Bizarre, huh? Everyone seems to believe that European coffee is the “real” deal, but I found it too bitter and strong (not to mention that all coffee beans probably come from the same places, none of which include Europe or the US). The kind my mom buys—admittedly fancier than run-of-the-mill American coffee brands—just tastes so rich and palatable. All of this stuff is stuff I could live without, to be sure. But that doesn’t stop me from taking advantage of it all. At least for a little while.

P.S. I took the Ice Cream quiz on Lauren's blog and look what I found out (Lauren, we're compatible with each other!):

You Are Strawberry Ice Cream

A bit shy and sensitive, you are sweet to the core. You often find yourself on the outside looking in. Insightful and pensive, you really understand how the world works. You are most compatible with chocolate chip ice cream.

So, I’m in New York, on my way to Chicago. Not experiencing too much culture shock as far as America is concerned, but Manhattan culture is another story. Everyone seems to be the center of their own little one-man shows; everyone is so focused on “Me.” I used to find this attitude abrasive and selfish, until I talked to my friend, L., who is an artist. Naturally, as a creative person, L. is very sensitive to the multiple stimuli that attack from all directions in this city. She used to be crushed by every little thing—every person on the street who looked at her funny; every hipster who dressed in super-expensive 80’s rock star second-hand clothes; every unexpected loud noise. So she learned to “block it all out—" essentially, to put herself in a little moveable pod (ipod, perhaps?) while walking down the street. This defense mechanism, she explained, is not egocentric, but necessary. If we were constantly absorbing the intense lights, sounds, smells, emotions of this city and its inhabitants, how could we ever survive? It seems that everyone needs to become a pod person, to think first and foremost about oneself in order to preserve one’s sanity. I’m not sure if I’m totally convinced of this philosophy, but it makes sense. However, I prefer to think that we care about each other a bit more in this world, this city of the world.

With all the tumult regarding the London attacks today, I was a bit hesitant to take the subway. This wasn’t helped by the fact that S. has access to all the latest news info and had heard a rumor that there was a bomb threat to the New York transport system. My paranoia (and my promise to S.) ensured that I would stay a pedestrian today. Thus, I walked from S.’s apartment on CPW down to first the East Village, where I ate lunch, then to the Lower East Side, where I went to the Sunshine Cinema. There, I saw Yes. The style of the film was a bit hard to get used to, as the script is set entirely in rhyming prose, but I enjoyed it in the end. The actors play spectacularly, especially Joan Allen, who is stunning—she braves many scenes without makeup and with bodily fluids dripping from facial orifices and she still manages to be elegant.

Can we just talk about movie etiquette, for a minute? When are people going to learn how to whisper? When you lower your voice so your vocal chords rub together to make tonal sound, that’s not whispering! Whispering involves speaking softly without the vibration of the vocal chords, people. So when you think you’re speaking low and subtly, but you’re still making a tiny bit of “talk” noise, odds are that you’re NOT whispering, and that you’re bugging the hell out of your fellow movie-goers. Tonight there were some talkers-who-thought-they-were-whisperers in the theatre, which made the otherwise poignant film feel a bit like the Rocky Horror Picture Show.

When I got out of the film, I walked over to Chelsea to meet J., G.’s cousin, where we drank a bit and practiced our French/English skills (I need practice in both!). Afterwards, we met up with some of his French friends and drank pitchers of frozen fruity stuff. A little too much frozen fruity stuff. So good that I felt compelled to leave early to put some food in my belly. J. convinced my to take the subway, laughing at my paranoia. I did, and you know what? It was fine. Moral of the story: don’t worry, be happy.

I’m sitting at gate 20 in Heathrow airport with an enormous paper cup full of a peppermint mocha espresso-type drink, staring out the dirty glass at bizarre concrete windowless buildings that resemble cardboard packaging material. In my left ear, a monotone muffled CNN reporter is reporting about something not interesting enough to be able to make sense of, and in my right ear, Ella Fitzgerald is sweetly telling me not to do anything until I hear from her. It’s true what they say about London—it’s drab, and cold and grey. Even the air in the airport is grey. Maybe that’s unfair, judging a city by the view from its airport windows. But I don’t really care. It’s grey here because I say it is. Because my heart is grey and heavy and any afternoon is grey when in the morning you’ve left a love behind in a country of vibrant blues and reds.

I don’t know what I’ll miss the most about France. Perhaps I’ll miss the novelty of speaking a language that is all but dead where I’m from. It started to become a part of me, in the end. Whereas when I first arrived in the country I had to force myself to think and react in French, these past few months the “oh la la”s and pouty lips and shoulder shrugs just seemed to flow from me. It doesn’t feel like a new, French Suzanne was created this year, but rather, that she was already there inside of me, a bit timid at first, but ready to become one with the land of cheese and wine and love.

Ah, love… I really don’t know what to say about leaving behind mon chéri in Grenoble. I could have stayed, I really could have. But then there wouldn’t be anything to write about. And that wouldn’t be in keeping with my tradition of impossible relationships that put a strain on my heart and my phone bills.

Taking opinions--now that I'm not in Grenoble anymore, what should I call the blog? Should I leave it as is as an hommage?