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Saturday, June 17

AN AMERICAN VINTNER
Beaune is wine country. Surprisingly, one of the more prominent vintners here is an American. Alex Gambal hails from the Washington area and comes to Beaune by way of Boston. He crafts wine here the old fashioned way, aging it in oak barrels in a dark, humid cellar.

That an American expatriat is making wine in Beaune is truly bizarre. It’s as if a vegan Buddhist came to Chicago to break into the meat packing industry. It’s simply not done. And yet, here he is, producing wines that are purchased and praised by restauranteurs and critics throughout France.

I’d like to claim some knowledge of wine, but am more or less illiterate when it comes to the finer points. A wine is either good, or it’s not. I can’t go into more detail than that. But thanks to a tour of his facilities, arranged by Thomas for a few of the wedding guests, I’ve picked up just enough lingo to fake it. I can talk about soil quality and acidity and its impact on a particular vintage. It’s all bullshit coming from me, of course, but it sounds good. Either that or profoundly pretentious, depending on your perspective. Probably the latter in most cases…

On the wall of his office, Alex has two beautiful maps of the Burgundy area. They’re color coded according to the type of wine produced and the rating of the soil (the Cru) in each region. They’re truly beautiful. Especially if one has a thing for maps, as I do. I was able to track down copies of my own at a little shop here - I think they make a perfect souvenir. Of course, I’ll be lugging a poster tube around Europe for the next week and a half, but that’s a small price to pay.

PORK & PARSLEY
Enjoyed another impossibly wonderful dinner last night. This time with the extended family of the married couple. Marie’s parents were there along with her brother and sister, as was Thomas’ sister. The couple joined us for an appetizer but then left us on our own. Though I was the only one present who wasn’t a part of this newly joined family I felt entirely welcome. And the situation afforded me an opportunity for a decent toast (I’m seriously considering a Toastmasters membership).

One of the appetizers was simply “Jambon avec Parslei” - Ham and Parsley. As with everything else one can eat here, however, it was so much more. It wasn’t ham, it was cured pork marbled with fresh French parsley. Big green leaves, not the little curly things we use for decoration in the US. It’s held together with just a bit of gelatin. Not such that it’s mushy or sloppy, of course. The stuff is firm and flaky; it comes apart a bit like a swordfish steak (the best analogy I can come up with at the moment).

Pork and Parsley may not sound like much, but it was just incredible. Served cold, it was light and fresh tasting. Accompanied by a side of jellied onions that were sweet and tart. After dinner, I had a glass of cognac and bummed a cigarette from just to calm myself down.

This afternoon, at the vast open-air market that takes over Beaune every Saturday, I came across the dish again. This time it was being sold by the pound. It’s made in a large bowl and covered with a think layer of parsley leaves. The woman behind the counter cut out large slices as customers lined up. If I’d any way of keeping it, I’d have bought some myself. Instead, I walked around the market with my camera and took in the sights and smells of the place.

THE MEAT LOOKS BACK
The French have a different relationship with what they eat than we Americans do. The open-air market featured vendors selling all sorts of fish, chicken, beef and pork. Hogs spun on spits and rabbits, skinned whole, lay on ice. Game hens, though plucked, retain their heads and feet. There’s no question that the food being purchased was once a living, breathing thing.

I suppose it’s unappetizing to most Americans. I have to admit, despite my efforts toward worldliness (a sham if there ever was one), I was a bit startled myself. But, after a time, being able to actually see what it was I might be eating was far more pleasant than seeing it wrapped in plastic and under a fluorescent light.

WITHOUT FILM
I wandered around with both my digital and film cameras yesterday and immediately felt a greater affinity for the black and whitle film. There’s something about shooting on film - capturing images that I cannot immediately evaluate - that’s compelling. It feels far more romantic than shooting digital. and saves me the constant burden of stepping back from whatever it is I’m doing to check out the tiny screen. The film process seems much better suited for being in the moment, where digital is better for snapshots at a party. There’s something to this distinction that I’d like to consider a bit more.

In any case, I decided that I wanted to shoot black and white yesterday afternoon and went around Beaune grabbing shots of passersby and shopkeeprs. It felt good. I felt certain that I had a few usuable images in the can.

Later, I found that I’d nothing at all in the can. I’d spent the entire day with an empty camera. I felt just the slightest bit…stupid. Fortunately, there will be many future opportunities for great photographs.

With that, I’ve got to go prepare for the wedding. I’m standing in front of all assembled to read a Shakespeare sonnet. Best that I look respectable.

Friday, June 16

A QWERTY IN BEAUNE
Just when I’d consigned myself to pecking away at a maddening French keyboard I stumbled across a cafe that provides internet access via IBM laptops. Each sports a meat n’ potatoes QWERTY keyboard. Typewritten expression has never felt so good.

Sadly, a better keyboard doesn’t prevent tragic user error. One can still, as I’ve just discovered, type out pages of interesting commentary only to lose it by accidentally closing the browser window. Fortunately, I’m in far too beautiful a location to be concerned about such things.

I ordered a cappuccino a short while ago, but was given a couple shots of espresso topped with canned whipped cream. This seems decidedly un-French. I’m not certain if I misspoke my order somehow or if I was given what French people think Americans want when they order cappuccino. Either way, it’s somewhat disappointing. I don’t expect the watery American coffee that I’m accustomed to, of course, but you’d think a cappuccino would be top shelf stuff.

This dining experience (which can’t rightly be called dining as I’m not eating anything) is a far cry from what I experienced last night. Marie and Thomas (the friends who are getting married in Beaune - hence my being here) took me to the restaurant that will be providing catering for their reception. The cuisine was transcendent. I’d go into great detail, but if I started down that path, I’ve a feeling I’d write about nothing at all else. The food in France is good - everyone knows this already.

Part of what made it extraordinary, however, is that we were eating outside a little roadside cafe. The dishes were what you’d expect of a five star restaurant in New York or Chicago, but we were enjoying it casually and without fanfare.

BACKING UP
Now that I’ve time and a proper keyboard, I want to type up a few notes scribbled yesterday.

The trip began on a bit of a sour note as I discovered that my carefully packed, gauranteed to fit in the overhead compartment suitcase was over the weight limit for Swiss Air. I pointed out, calmly, that as the bag was going to be on the plane anyway, its weight couldn’t possibly make a difference. I was told that because “items placed in the overhead bins may shift during flight” the weight limit was designed to keep people safe. 8kg doesn’t hurt as much as 15kg, apparently.

Unless you’re in first class, wherein you’re allowed to bring on 20kg worth of carry on baggage. I was prepared to enter into full on class warfare with the ticket agent, but thought better of it. I checked the bag and hoped that it would transfer in Zurich with me and end up in Paris.

While waiting for the plane I noticed that my flight would be full of American students. Each wore a bright green t-shirt with a large pretzel on the back. They were hideous (the shirts, not the kids). I assume they were on a class trip to Bavaria or some such. I dreaded sitting near them. It wasn’t long ago that I traveled on school trips and annoyed everyone within earshot.

These students, however, were particularly well behaved. Clean cut and polite, they were almost insufferably decent. They couldn’t have been from Chicago or its suburbs. They must have come in from Minnesota or Iowa. Pale and blistered with fanny-packs they exuded Midwestern values. You could almost smell it.

I was seated next to an Isreali professor from Northwestern on his way to Tel Aviv. I thought about chatting him up about the Palestinian conflict but, thankfully, checked myself. I’m sure it would have been an enlightening discussion, but it’s probably something neither of us really wanted to get into. Better to stick to small talk.

He gave me a Melatonin tablet, a jet-lag preventative that he swore by. I was skeptical but swallowed it anyway. Later on (as I type this, actually) I realized that the stuff does indeed work wonders. From now on I shall always accept mediciation offered by Israeali professors.

Upon arriving to Paris, I hopped on the Metro and made my way to Gare de Lyon - that’s where one catches trains heading South. Using limited french I navigated all the necessary transfers and bought a round trip ticket to Beaune. This doesn’t seem like much, but I felt strangely proud of myself. Travel is empowering that way.

France’s high speed train system is incredible. The countryside sped by as the train moved almost soundlessly. Only the slightest rumble made it clear that it was the train moving, not the landscape itself. When an oncoming train passed, the car would lurch violently for just an instant. The motion, accomponied by an audible thump of air pressure, was startling. A bit like a sonic boom…

I transfered at Dijon where I had an hour to kill. A beautiful town, the train station was packed with people visiting for the Summer. All of them tanned and a few of them incredibly attractive. Were I a bit more confident with my French I’d have chatted up a few of the jeune filles. Instead, I just grabbed a baguette and some coffee and engaged in the French national passtime of people watching.

From Dijon it was on to Beaune and my charming hotel (about which I’ll write more later). The journey took about 17 hours door to door. Here’s the route:

92 Foster Ave. bust to Jefferson Park Blue line > Blue line to O’Hare > Swiss Air flight from O’Hare to Zurich > Swiss Air flight from O’Hare to Paris, Charles de Gaulle > RER B train from Charles de Gaulle to Chatelet des Halles > RER A train from Chatelet des Halles to Gare de Lyon > Bullet train from Gare de Lyon to Dijon > Commuter train from Dijon to Beaune > A stroll down Rue de Chateau to L’Hotel des Ramparts

Not a bad commute, really.

Friday, June 16

BEAUNE
I’ve been telling people that I’m visiting Paris, but this isn’t at all true. At least not at the moment. I was under the impression that the little village of Beaune was just outside Paris. It’s actually about 200 miles away. Thanks to the French high speed trains, however, the trip only takes a couple of hours. So it seems close to Paris.

I am experiencing, as I have on previous trips to Europe, an odd temporal disturbance. Everything here is ancient by American standards. I enjoyed an incredible meal (here in France they just call them meals) outside a small chruch built in 1620. My hotel is just steps ayay from a hospice built in the 1400’s. Coming from a city founded in 1839 and subsequently burned to the ground in 1873, I have no frame of reference for such spans of history. It is awe inspiring.

For nativees, it’s all very hum drum. They just don’t care about it. They feel as I do about the Sears Tower, a place I’ve never bothered to visit though I’ve lived in Chicago my entire life.

THE FRENCH KEYBOARD
My plans for a comprehensive travelogue have taken an unexpected turn. French keyboards are infuriating. If all the letters were in the wrong places I could manage. But because only a few characters are transposed, it’s incredibly difficult to work with. The entirety of my internet hour is spent corrrecting errors rather than typing anything. It’s time consuming and unpleasant labor.

But I’ll struggle on as best I can. Though I reqlly; reqlly hqte this rediculously lqid out keyboqrd zith qll the letters in the zrong plqces: I could get ,uyc ,ore written if they did things the proper; A,ericqn zqy11

Thursday, June 15

ARRIVAL IN ZURICH
I’ve some time to kill as my flight to Paris is slightly delayed. Sadly I can’t write much as my time on this machine is limited and Swiss keyboards are unpleasantly difficult to work with.

I think airports, with all their carefully orchestrated disorganization, are fascinating. Especially here in Europe. The woman from whom I bought a copy of the International Herald Tribune (who was kind enough to turn my dollars into .75 Swiss Francs) conducted transactions in three different currencies and spoke three languages. She works at the equivalent of a news and candy stand here in the international terminal.

It’s extraordinary. Makes me feel like quite the uncultured, and uneducated, American.

Gotta catch a plane to Paris.

Wednesday, June 14

MACHINE CHICAGO HAS LEFT THE COUNTRY
Which means I’m no longer in Chicago. I came up with all sorts of catchy phrases to illustrate this in the logo up there on the left, but didn’t have my act together enough to produce them. Perhaps I’ll crank them out when I get back and retroactively insert them into pages …

So here’s the plan: I leave, in mere moments, for Paris by way of Zurich (which doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, but it’s a lot cheaper). From there it’s off to Stockholm and thence to Venice and Padova. It’s the Machine Chicago European tour. There’s a t-shirt in that, I think.

My route has been traced on a nifty map located on the about page. It’ll dynamically update itself as I go from place to place. It doesn’t add much to the experience of the casual reader, but it’s great fun for me to see the journey illustrated Indiana Jones style.

I’ve not been particularly good about posting since merging Machine Chicago with Greasy Skillet, but plan to write religiously while away. I’ve a hipster Moleskine notebook in my backpack and will be taking notes. For the next two weeks, Machine Chicago is a travelogue.

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