A day in the Marais.

Following breakfast at the apartment—pastries (croissant for me, pain au chocolat for The Wife), the last of the previous evening’s mirabelle plums, and tea—we headed into the Marais. It is Sunday, after all.

Our first stop was the Musée Picasso, a must-see for any visitor to Paris. (A brief aside: I react on a purely “gut note” when it comes to art. I either like a piece or I don’t . . . the same is typically true of an artist’s overall work. I like Picasso. His work strikes a resounding chord within me. I honestly don’t care why; and I certainly don’t try to figure out why, either. I liken it to a woman who catches my eye. I simply admire her beauty. Too much thinking lessens the impact . . . begins the disconnect.)

After the museum and a jaunt around the Marais we headed to rue des Rosiers and the famous L’As du Fallafel. A fresh pita stuffed with falafel, hummus, cucumber, fried eggplant, and a wonderful lightly-pickled, still crunchy red cabbage slaw, topped with spicy (though not enough) harissa. Despite the hype, it’s a great sandwich . . . and a messy one. You’re given one napkin (if taking it to go). My best bet is to power through without using the napkin; save it for when you’re finished. L’As du Fallafel is quite the food machine; hawkers standing outside take your order and your money; all you have to do is hand the man behind the counter your order and within a minute you’re stuffing your face.

The late afternoon found us heading back to our area to catch Liverpool away to Aston Villa at The Frog & Rosbif. Unfortunately, we decided to pop into a Scottish pub, The Thistle, just across the street which was far livelier. We left at halftime, unable to hear the TV (or enjoy the dreadful match) because of the group of drunken British louts whose idea of a good time is to go overseas and hole up in a British pub and drink till passing out, making sure the entire neighborhood can hear them singing their little ditties of British dominance. No wonder police worldwide take such great pleasure in beating these pathetic scum with their truncheons. One-on-one, these yobbos would be as timid as a dead doormouse. Buoyed by large numbers, cheap lager, and cheaper shots, however, they think they’re invincible . . . and, incredulously, the crème de la crème, or as one of wankers told me: “Our culture pisses all over French culture.” From where I was standing (at the urinal, natch), the only thing British culture pisses on is itself. Absolutely ashamed to be English, yesterday; so bad I actually told the wanker at the urinal I was from California. Shudder.

We watched the second-half at The Frog & Rosbif with a Liverpool fan from Sweden and an Australian bartender who took great pleasure in mocking the beautiful game (with a sense of humour). How sad that I couldn’t enjoy the match with my fellow countrymen.

A failed trip to the Latin Quarter for dinner at Christophe ensued. Yeah, you really need to make reservations for Sunday night dinner. Will make reservations on Monday for next Sunday. So, we ended up back in the Marais eating at Chez Marianne (though not for falafel). Marianne is also known for their house pastrami and chopped liver, both of which were the best I’ve tasted.

To bed, then. Bon soir!

Paris, 7:10 p.m.

I won’t say it was the best transatlantic flight ever . . . the cabin felt as hot as Paris this afternoon—eighty-plus degrees (minus the sun beaming down on our heads)—and the food was truly dreadful (no surprise, eh?). One of the Air Tahiti stewardesses, however, ranks as the Hottest. Stewardess. Ever. Small victories . . .

Arrived at 9 a.m., midnight Laguna Beach . . . a thirty-minute taxi into
the city and, after a brief wait for the concierge, we were in our apartment and unpacked.

The rest of the day we waged the battle of staying awake. Considering it’s past seven and we’ve yet to succumb I’d say we’re not doing too poorly. (Of course, a few pints and a few Ricards certainly help.)

We’re now in for the evening: a bottle of 2005 Château Belvue Bordeaux (a gift from the apartment owner), rillettes, pâté, baguettes, mirabelle plums, and a rhubarb tart for dinner. If we make it till 10 p.m. I’ll be amazed.

More to follow . . . (guaranteed to be more exciting than this!)

The Wife and I leave this morning for a two-week holiday in Paris, staying in an apartment in the 2e arrondissement (which gives us the chance to enjoy more than sightseeing at the markets). This is the first holiday we’ve taken by ourselves in a very long time; as much as we enjoying travelling with friends, we’re really looking forward to being alone . . .

I’ve left my phone at home. Peace & Quiet, the order of the day. The only way to contact us is via e-mail or this site.

I’ll blog when inspired, and may even include the odd photo.

Au revoir!

The buffoonery continues at my beloved Liverpool:

The troubled regime of Tom Hicks and George Gillett Jr at Liverpool suffered another severe blow last night when it emerged that they are preparing to postpone construction of the club’s new stadium because of difficulties raising the funds in an unforgiving financial market. . . . [T]heir apparent failure to [start work on the stadium] casts further doubt about their credibility as owners, increasing the pressure on them to sell to Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum, the ruler of Dubai.

How the hell did these fools become wealthy in the first place? And then how the hell did they end up at Anfield?

Honestly, my yanqui friends, playing the national anthem at the beginning of every game’s bad enough (save it for national games, OK?), but this “God Bless America” nonsense during the seventh-inning stretch? Blech. Over the top in the gayest musical theatre kind of way.

Some take it pretty seriously, though:

Baseball fan Brad Campeau-Laurion says a uniformed police officer (perhaps off-duty but working security for overtime) forcibly ejected him from the stadium last night during the Yankees-Red Sox game.

Why? He says all he did was try to go to the bathroom while “God Bless America” was played during the 7th inning stretch.

Thanks to Sean for the heads-up.

Don’t let the statistics fool you:

The Census Bureau released its annual report on income and poverty Tuesday. The results offer an interesting—and often unexpected—portrait of who’s rich and who’s poor in the USA.

Plano [Texas] was the report’s star among cities with populations of 250,000 or more. It had the highest income and lowest poverty rate.

Those of us who spent some of our formative years in Plano (junior and senior years of high school for yours truly, PSHS class of ’83) know the ugly truth that lurks behind Plano’s faux Tuscan façade: in the ’70s it was The Prairie, a distant outpost of Big D. In the ’80s The Prairie became The Sprawl and begat the era of Teenage Suicide. In the ’90s Heroin was Killer No. 1. In the ’00s King Steroid reigned.

Who knows what the ’10s will bring to that soulless suburb . . . Plano is not a place where I’d raise my children, wealth be damned.

Does Liverpool deserve Champions League football any more than Standard Liège? Should Standard Liège be given a free pass for holding Liverpool goalless for 208 minutes . . . for looking the better team for the better part of that 208 minutes?

The answer to both questions, obviously, is “no”: the match goes till the final whistle, which the ref correctly blew after 210 minutes, the score now 1 – 0.

I honestly thought the match was going to penalties when Ryan Babel and Dirk Kuyt served up a last-gasp Dutch treat on 118 minutes, Kuyt meeting Babel’s left-wing cross at the back post to secure a victory worth at least £10 million.

So . . . we’ve looked average at best for our first four competitive matches of the season (two in Champions League qualifying; two in the Premiership), yet we’ve won three of four and remain unbeaten. We’re the only team in the Premiership (besides Chelsea) on six points and we’re guaranteed Champions League football for at least the group stages.

Sure, the Torres-Keane partnership has yet to blossom . . . Gerrard’s been fading in and out of games . . . and the defence has come unstuck too many times. Then again, we’ve yet to play a competitive match with our most competitive player: Javier Mascherano, Olympic gold medal winner and the one player Liverpool has been missing terribly.

Welcome back, Javier. I expect to see you in your starting rôle on Sunday . . . Now to find a pub in Paris showing the match.