Ambassador Airhead

President Trump is nominating Heather Nauert to the post of United States Ambassador to the United Nations. Nauert is an ex Fox News anchor and as far as I can tell, right off their pretty blond barbie production line. This President of course has always liked eye candy.

I can't think of a better appointee to show the Trump administration's contempt for the United Nations.

This intellectual lightweight is famous for her once intoning that D-Day was the pinnacle of U.S. German relations, which reminds me of when Bush Press Secretary Dana Perino drew a blank on what happened during the Bay of Pigs invasion. But oh, that smile!

There is no crime in being young, or stupid for that matter but we should remember the intellectual strength of some of the previous people that have held that position. This has always been a post for the best and brightest. Not necessarily the hottest. From both parties.

People like:

Adlai Stevenson

Jeanne Kirkpatrick

Madeline Albright

Henry Cabot Lodge

Daniel Moynihan

George H.W. Bush

Giants all. There were many more competent Ambassadors of course, Andrew Young, John Danforth, Bill Richardson and Nicki Haley to name only a few. They all had the intellectual depth, government experience and resume required for the post.

Heather Nauert clearly does not.

Janis Joplin - Move Over [Take 6]

trois

Woke up to a lovely sunrise the last day in Le Lavandou. Said au revoir to our hosts at the hotel. Stopped at the little bakery and grabbed a fresh croissant for the ride. Drank a cup of the wonderful coffee. We headed back to Nice.

After a momentary slip up and course correction we found DHL and shipped off the stuff. Went easier than I thought. My job was finished. Definite week of work, interspersed as it was with some culinary high points. My friend suggested that we see the town, do some sightseeing. We took a cab in to the vielle ville, the old city.

Walked around, saw a few things. Like this man, caning a chair.

It was fun walking around but we were both getting hungry. Un battalian can not marché on an empty stomach, no?

We looked around for a place to eat. I said that lunch was on me. La petit maison is the most famous restaurant in town but a little out of my league price wise.

My buddy was frantically looking up trip advisor for suitable reviews but I was getting tired and hungry and sort of convinced him to go to what looked like a typical tourist clip joint in front of the flower stalls.

I figure even the worst restaurant in France probably has something on the best place in America.

A Tunisian hawked us in, said that they served traditional food from the area, nicoise style and I said why not? I ordered a braised lamb shank that came with a potato terrine. Frankly they were delicious. My friend ordered something he hated, onion pizza I think and wouldn't stop complaining for some time. Hated the meal. Made him sick.

My feeling about restaurants and travel in general is to keep my own counsel. I don't put a lot of stock in reviews, loathe some places others love and vice versa. Would rather take a shot at times and fail occasionally than to worry about too much.

Leslie and I did Spain without a map or single reservation or booking. Had a great time. You figure it out as you go. The great unexpected blessing always trumps the occasional fail. Discovery. That is what works for us. Tough to keep us on script.

Walked back over to old King Neptune and the synchronized fountain after our meal.

Walked to a hotel where we might score a taxi.

Took a cab back to our hotel, the Novatel Arenas.

Watched some women's handball, a pretty cool sport and a football game or two. Watched a great movie about a young violin player that made me cry.

Woke up from a nice sleep in a nice bed and a clean room, right before my 4:00 a.m. wake up call.

Reversed my airlines and somehow got back last night, my venture satisfactorily completed. Had a supposedly traditional english breakfast at Gatwick at a place called Wetherspoons.

I'm sitting there for ten minutes can't get anyone to wait on me. Finally I accost the guy at the bar, a Hungarian who says no, you have to download the app and order online. Took twenty minutes to get the app installed right with the accompanying credit card, a joke.

I said what if I need a napkin do I have to send you an email? Or a glass of water? Should I text you? He said this is the way the world is going and I said I will have my old world back, thank you, but I guess we never can.

The trip wasn't remunerative, it wasn't intended to be. May turn out to be in the future, who knows.   I definitely gained some valuable and enjoyable experience points. Ate great food. Helped close friends who have been exceedingly good to me. Glad I went, glad I could be of service.

Into the mystic

France - Part deux

Neptune with yellow jacket

I'm tired but I'll try not to belabor this. Pardon me for brevity but also do remember how much I get paid for this particular writing gig.

So I am sitting there next to S----, the ex Swedish fashion model with the fifty room castle in England on her way to buy a getaway in Cannes that just dropped another quarter million, married to a sociopathic man described to me as having had as many affairs as I have had glasses of water, who had been viciously jettisoned from the Investment Banking company over some meaningless discrepancies with the expense account, and god the people you have been the best to turn out to be the most vicious, don't they?

And we all apologized for our previously abysmal behavior and had a great laugh at our own expense and talked about our crappy mothers  and how rotten people were and S---- mentioned that I was a funny combination of cruel and kind and I guess that is right. And no way do I look sixty one. And would it be possible for me to fall in love again like I fell in love with my wife?  I answered in the negative and shortly after still received her marriage proposal and pronouncement. Was sort of glad that I hadn't checked my luggage. We got our car and scrammed the hell out of there, hopefully leaving any potential suitors at the baggage claim.

Hotel was very nice. They lost our car in the morning but these sorts of things happen and it was eventually found so no harm done.

In the daylight I could hardly get over how much the plants looked like home. Same palms, agave, cactus, bougainvillea, Mimosa trees. Same exact climate.

The French Riviera is really quite homey. Sent Leslie a shot from my phone and she said that she was afraid to tell me it looked just like Fallbrook. More Catalina to me.

We drove to the A8 and started the two hour trek to our destination, Bormes Les Mimosas. My companion was a bit suspicious about my gps as it was asking us to travel on roads that he was not familiar with in his preparation. But it did take us where we needed to go in the short run, most expeditiously I might add.

Drove through Cannes, Vallauris, ended up stopped at a yellow jacket protest in Hyeres. Lots of beautiful unspoiled country in southern France, the alps a white counterpoint in the not too far distance.

The Yellow Jackets are a protest movement against higher gas prices and taxes that started in the rural areas and eventually spread to the big cities of Paris and Lyon.

To a person the French I met on this trip were supportive of the protest, clutching their throats to demonstrate how they were being choked by the government. French are very proud and supportive of their revolutionary roots, much different than most Americans, who also once had a revolution.

We eventually got through the stoppage and made our way to Bormes Les Mimosas. Situated on a hill, it is a very picturesque village, known as a one time summer residence of the last French President. One of the most verdant town, known far and wide for its flowers.

We stopped at a boulangerie/patisserie for croissant. Well I had croissant and raisin bread, my companion actually had pizza. Great coffee.

We met our agent, F--- afterwards, near the St. Francis chapel on the hill. Followed him to my friend's parents' home.

A lovely home and view, can see why they chose to live there for so long. Great light, an artist's dream.

We walked around and made an accounting of the place. Figured out a plan of attack. Got our tools out and started working if my memory serves me right.

In the afternoon we drove to Le Lavandou and found our small boutique hotel, le petit boheme.

The proprietor was there and wanted to know if we ever read our emails, she didn't open until five o clock. She had two small children that she had to take care of. After the minor dressing down, she showed us to our rooms, no showers after ten or before seven, did we want to pay for a small buffet breakfast?

I have no complaints about the room or the accommodations. The proprietor, who by the way was a lovely girl from Normandy, even softened up a bit. The view from my room was beautiful, typical glorious village on the Riviera I suppose.

We walked down to the edge of the village on the ocean. We were out of season, half the restaurants were closed, much was shut down.

We found a bar. I had a few vodka sunrises, my first alcohol in a month. Excellent citrus juice in France. Both the orange and the pampelmousse. My friend enjoyed the very strong beer. The place was full of very attractive locals, both men and women.Very well dressed, not nearly as inked as you would see here.

Watched the locals play petanque at the pits in front of the bar.

I walked down to the kiddie ride and snapped a shot or two, triggering the suspicions of a mother wondering why a middle aged man was taking pictures of children.

I guess this is as good as place as any to mention that I don't speak French, nor did my friend. I have visited the country a few times but this is my first time outside of Paris basically.

But I am fortunately linguistically inclined and the three years of French I took in school forty five years ago somehow decided to make a surprise visit to my frontal lobe. I was shocked at the words that came to the fore. Give me a month.

And since I am musing, let me say that the French people I met were wonderful on this trip, kind, patient, understanding, friendly, not at all the clichéd behavior one hears about when generalizing about a people.

We found a place for dinner, Carpe Diem. Dinner does not start in the French Riviera until seven. Place was inexpensive and excellent. Started off with a muse bouche cleanser of carrot and coconut.

For an appetizer I had beef carpaccio. It was excellent. My companion says that his place in North Beach slices it thinner and that it needs to be served with lemon but I am not one to tell a French chef how to prepare his food.

I had a moist fish called rouget for my main course over a sort of half crunchy risotto.

Dessert was Panna Cotta with raspberry. The sparkler is courtesy of my pal's chocolat mousse.

The whole meal was under 22 euro a piece. All of our meals were similarly inexpensive and almost all supremely well prepared and delicious.

We walked back to the hotel. The day before I left I pulled a hamstring pushing large agaves around and now both hamstrings were hurting as well as my foot and knee. Walking came hard.

Woke up to a lovely sunrise the next morning.

Grabbed the light breakfast, a croissant, yogurt and cheese and cold cuts and we drove back to the flat. Worked all day without a break. Ended up with punctures, blisters, cuts and the like but got a lot done. Both of us did. I was originally going to do the trip by myself. While I would have completed the job on my own, eventually, his presence and contribution definitely made things easier.

After work we made our way back to the bar. A soccer game on television brought a lot of people out. Wasn't in the mood to drink that day but did make a new friend. I started petting this dog and it fell in love with me. Cried when the bar owners tried to take it away. The dog, not me.

The french love their dogs and god do I miss having mine. This big guy was great. Pet it for about forty five minutes.

That night we went to a place called La Parma. I had an excellent salad and veal osso bucco.

My friend, who had veal milanesa, cracked me up when he said that the French still knew how to torture a veal properly, something lacking in America. It was delicious. My friend may have a point.

Walked past the boulle courts and made our way home, thoroughly exhausted. My buddy says that I was snoring with my eyes open and I don't think he was kidding.

Third day much like the second and first. Wrapped up the tack and staple pulling, started flattening canvasses and wrapping and packing.

Got all the boxes ready to ship. Loaded them in the SUV. They fit.

Finished we decided to celebrate and have lunch. We took a wrong turn and I saw the sign that said we were headed for San Tropez. I would have loved to continue on. My friend did not have the same taste for exploration, at least on this trip. He turned around.

Not my rodeo, I was a hired hand and could not call the shots. Much different when I am traveling with my wife. We take a lot of chances, always want to discover something new. Everybody travels differently.

Lunch was duck for me. Forget the name of the place. Ate so much duck my jaw hurt. My friend had a pizza.

Went back to the hotel and rested that evening. My buddy found a new bar that played blues and had a loud and brassy barmaid. I wasn't interested in drinking but was cajoled into a shot of Jamisons. I am not a wine or beer man. If I drink it is usually spirits. Other stuff affects my respiratory system and I don't really favor the buzz.

We went back to Carpe Diem. Had seen the owner at the bar. He brought us lemoncello. I was going to order a risotto with shrimp and truffle but he suggested that I have his macaroni with five prized local mushrooms instead, since he could only serve it a few weeks a year.

Simple but delicious. I am glad that I listened!

(to be continued...)

Born Under Punches (The Heat Goes On)

Trip to France.

The year is 1481. Southern France is awash in the dreaded black plague.  People are dying everywhere in the streets. French King Louis XI is sick with the horrific plague and near death in the town of Bormes, staying at the castle of the governor.

It is known at the time that there is a Calabrian priest in Italy who is a miracle worker and is said to on occasion even raise the dead.

King Louis begs the famous priest to come and heal him. St. Francis of Paola (1416-1507) was an Italian priest and saint of the 15th century. He is said to have raised six people from the dead in his lifetime and to have committed numerous other miracles.

Not being impressed with celebrity, he demurs. He undertakes the journey only after much prodding from Pope Sixtus IV but can not land in either Toulon or Monaco because they are so rife with the disease.

Instead he lands his boat at Lavandeau and lays his staff and sandals on a rock. Local lore says that the items made a permanent impression on the rock, which still exists in the harbor to this day.

St. Francis can not save Louis, he instead enlightens him as to the need to get square with god before making his final journey. He is said to heal numerous other people in Bormes and the surrounding towns and throughout Provence. He influences Louis politically, helping to restore peace between France and Brittany as well as between France and Spain.

Francesco de Paola is the patron saint of sailors, once he is said to have traveled to Sicily by laying his cloak on the water and using it as a sail. He was known as a saint with a gift of prophecy. He founded an order named the Hermits of Saint Francis of Assisi, later known as the Minim Friars, the least of the faithful. They were also vegans. He once saved a lamb from a fiery furnace which may be what gave him the name of Francis the Fire Handler. St. Francis Paola called animals by their names, even after their lives had ended. He apparently believed they continued to exist after their deaths. Might just be the saint to invoke if you desire communication with a long lost tabby.

*

I am back from my journey to the same small villages where the famous mendicant is said to have made his journey, Bormes les Mimosas and Le Lavandou. I, of course, performed no such miracles.

I was helping a friend pack his mother and father's estate. His late stepmother and father were both very equally competent painters and had a flat on the Bormes hillside for many years.

It was a working trip and not a vacation. I took very few photographs, we worked pretty much constantly and had little if any time to explore the region whatsoever. Many of the shots I did take I took with a rather crummy cell phone. Oh, well.

You could tell the love that the artists had for their home on the French Riviera. the lovely light on the village below. I had to snap a picture of the frescoes that they had painted in their shower, which they will never personally visit again.

Life and its eventual ending is such a bittersweet affair.

There were approximately 125 paintings that needed to be sent back to the United States. One hundred or so needed to come off their stretcher bars. I am not sure if you have ever taken tacks and staples out of old wood stretchers but there were many and the work is fairly miserable and treacherous. One false slip or move and we would be cut, the tack puller, screwdriver of sharp pliers cutting into your hands. I left a bit of blood on a canvas or two.

So we had to stay diligent and focused and we had to first and foremost which we did in two and a half days, working through lunch and after a good but paltry breakfast at our little hotel at the harbor village of Le Lavandou.

My journey started in Los Angeles. Leslie drove me to the airport in the much needed afternoon rain. My accomplice had arrived earlier in the day from the north. We flew on Norwegian Airlines, which may or may not be better than some. The only observations I can muster is that the attendants looks like tartan plaid wearing orange julius servers. The actual food was perfunctory at best. but that is what you get these days. You slide a credit card into a slot on the seat in front of you and then pay for snacks as needed,

We finally arrived in Gatwick, London after a seeming nighttime of eternity and waited several hours for our connection to Nice, France. We ate at the Jamie Oliver restaurant.

I had terrible luck at the other celebrity restaurant last time at Heathrow, the Gordon Ramsey affair that wins the prize as worst ever hands down. Will try Oliver this time.

I ordered an eleven hour cooked pork and beef ragu tortellini. I made a joke about paying an extra quid for getting the ragu cooked for one more hour and the server went into a humorless explanation of why that was indeed impossible.

We sat right by the line and watched the preparation of our food. What I received was not tortellini but instead an unremarkable and small bowl of papardelle and what I am guessing is beef cheek.

The manager came over and I asked about the pasta switcho. He said he wondered if I would notice and assured me that it was the same meal as I had ordered with the exception of the long papardelle noodle. I think he was lying. I think I simply received the beef cheek, which happened to be less expensive not that that is a salient detail in this conversation.

But that it what you invariably get in "celeb" restaurants, from Puck to Emeril, to Ramsey and Oliver, food with a "name" to hook tourists which is rarely distinguished in any way but hopefully at least what you actually ordered.

The food was tasty, but pretty much middle of the road good and nowhere near sublime or special. I think that I will write Mr. Oliver a letter.

We caught our connecting flight to Nice, France and arrived and got our car in the dark.

A nice large SUV, which should be the perfect size to carry our eventual cargo to the shipper. My friend's wife, who is incredible, took care of every detail perfectly and secured us a room at the lovely Hyatt Regency on the promenade. Lovely, classic and elegant, excellent and attentive staff. Even charged my cell phone. Dumb me forgot his charger.

This hotel is in the next block from the site of terrible terrorist incident in Nice, on the Promenade. Place reminded me of Miami but swank. Very James Bond. I plied my luck at black jack at the Casino next door. Saw no chemin du fer but didn't look very hard. No starlets hanging on my tuxedo, in any case.

I managed to piss off a few fellow travelers at the airport on the way over who felt that they could manipulate a few rubes and cut into the preferred line.

I was having none of it and things got quite antagonistic very quickly, they not only pointing out my own personally deficiencies as a human being but what stupid country I was from. I wisely withdrew from engagement, there being no way to win at that point.

But life, in the way it loves to have a good joke from time to time, played its last card. I walked up to row thirteen and guess who were my seat company on the flight? They blanched, screamed, said I would have to sit somewhere else but I would have none of it, smiling and mentioning life's sweet poetry.

Later the woman proposed marriage. But that is, of course, another story...

( to be continued...)