You may remember me waxing rhapsodic last year about espresso in Rome. And it's true. An espresso (un caffe or a naturale) in Rome is sublime. When I was in Paris I had espresso several times at several different locations, and I'm sad to report that it was never as good as it was in Rome.
Ah, but café society is non-pareil. Think Toulouse-Lautrec. Or Renoir's famous painting of the Moulin de la Galette.
If Paris is the very expression of the cafe culture, the center of the cafe universe seems to be Saint-Germain-des-Prés, a neighborhood on the Left Bank of the Seine, across the river from the Louvre. It also happens to be the location of the Le Procope, which is credited as the first cafe in the Europe. It opened its doors in 1686 -- and amazingly is still there. It's now an elegant restaurant, and my friend Ann and I didn't stop there. Instead, we went to Café de Flore, which is right next door to Les Deux Magots, a cafe that Hemingway frequented and celebrated in The Sun Also Rises (one of my all-time favorite novels) as the place where Jake meets Brett.
We arrived at Café de Flore just as a table outside opened up. We grabbed it. That it was cool outside and an occasional light rain was falling mattered not in the least. In this cafe, as in so many others in the area, the tables on the sidewalk line the outside of the building, one deep, under the awning with an electric heater above each table. We were toasty. Naturally you sit with your back to the cafe's window facing the sidewalk. It's a bit amusing, actually. Everyone sits that way -- as if the only thing in the world that mattered was flow of pedestrians past your table, watching you watching them, everyone dressed to the nines, as if on the runway, parading their wares for you alone to judge...
Sorry, where was I?
So Ann and I sat down and each ordered an espresso. I felt kind of bad about taking this table located on prime real estate for people watching and ordering only two espressos, until we got the bill.
8.80 euros
In today's market, that's about $13. For two espressos. About 3 ounces of coffee. Total. If a venti cup of drip coffee at Starbucks was priced at the same rate, it would be $80.
But to say that the coffee wasn't great or that it was expensive would be to miss the point entirely. It's all about being there. And that was easily worth the price.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Friday, November 9, 2007
How to travel in France (without a computer)
Your obvious response, it seems to me, should be, "Why would you travel with a computer?"
Well, perhaps you're a person who stores your travel itinerary on your computer, including your flight information from Paris to home. Perhaps you saved the location of the studio apartment where you would be staying in Paris. On your computer. Including the phone number of the people you were renting from. Speaking hypothetically, let's say you're the kind of person who relies on your computer as a storage device for every piece of information you will ever need. And let’s say that you didn't print any of that information out. Or write any of it down. In a situation like that, it might be nice to have your computer with you when you're traveling.
Now let's just say for the sake of argument that you're at the Nice airport on your way to Paris and your computer crashes. And suddenly all of that information -- itinerary, addresses, phone numbers -- gone.
You might be thinking (calmly) to yourself, "I'm going to land in Paris in an hour and a half, and I haven't got a clue where I'm supposed to go, how to get from the airport to the apartment, or even how to get hold of the people who have the keys to the place I'm supposed to sleep at that night, or the next three nights. And I'm in a country where I don't speak more than three words of the language. That's an interesting challenge."
Or you might be thinking (as I was at that particular moment), "HOLY SHIT!"
All I did know, in fact, was that I was about to board a plane from Nice to Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris, that it was then Friday morning, and that at some point on Monday I was supposed to be back at CDG airport to board a plane for San Francisco. What time was the flight on Monday? More to the point, where was I supposed to stay between the time I arrived in Paris on Friday and the time I was supposed to be back at the airport on Monday? Where was I supposed to stay -- and how was I supposed to get there? All of that information was locked safely inside my laptop. Which was safely dead.
As you know by now, I did survive. I was able to find the people whom I had rented the studio apartment from in Montmartre. I stayed there and had a lovely time in Paris. It was technology that nearly sunk me, but it was technology that saved me.
By a miracle of divine intervention, I had just that week invited my friends Ann and Benny to stay with me. They live in Ireland, and it's a relatively cheap flight from Shannon to Paris for a weekend away, especially when accommodations are free. Tight, but free. Benny couldn't get away, but Ann took me up on the offer. Because she was coming I had sent her all the information, including the location and phone number for the people whom I had rented the apartment from. More fortunate, I had a cell phone and I had Ann and Benny’s number programmed in it. So I called Ann. Ann dictated. I wrote. And then I called the Marlys and Michael, the owners of the studio. They turned out to be very nice people, btw. Between Ann's directions and theirs, I found my way to Montmartre from CDG airport (with a short detour to Stassburg, but that's a story for another day).
With cell phone in hand, I was also able to call back to the States, talk to one of my colleagues, get the number for AmEx Travel, and talk to a travel agent who gave me my flight itinerary.
There's a lesson in here, though to be honest I can't quite put my finger on it. It would be easy to say that relying too heavily on technology leaves you vulnerable when the technology you rely upon fails. But in the end, it was also technology that saved me. Were it not for cell phones and e-mail, I would never have been able to track down the information I hadn't bothered to print or memorize.
And here's an amusing little twist on that whole topic. I got the phone number for my company's IT department (help desk) by calling another one of my colleagues. I called IT to explain that I was in France, that my laptop had crashed, and that I was not able to boot it up. Could they help me? Yes, they could. All I had to do was go online and fill out a help desk ticket.
Well, perhaps you're a person who stores your travel itinerary on your computer, including your flight information from Paris to home. Perhaps you saved the location of the studio apartment where you would be staying in Paris. On your computer. Including the phone number of the people you were renting from. Speaking hypothetically, let's say you're the kind of person who relies on your computer as a storage device for every piece of information you will ever need. And let’s say that you didn't print any of that information out. Or write any of it down. In a situation like that, it might be nice to have your computer with you when you're traveling.
Now let's just say for the sake of argument that you're at the Nice airport on your way to Paris and your computer crashes. And suddenly all of that information -- itinerary, addresses, phone numbers -- gone.
You might be thinking (calmly) to yourself, "I'm going to land in Paris in an hour and a half, and I haven't got a clue where I'm supposed to go, how to get from the airport to the apartment, or even how to get hold of the people who have the keys to the place I'm supposed to sleep at that night, or the next three nights. And I'm in a country where I don't speak more than three words of the language. That's an interesting challenge."
Or you might be thinking (as I was at that particular moment), "HOLY SHIT!"
All I did know, in fact, was that I was about to board a plane from Nice to Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris, that it was then Friday morning, and that at some point on Monday I was supposed to be back at CDG airport to board a plane for San Francisco. What time was the flight on Monday? More to the point, where was I supposed to stay between the time I arrived in Paris on Friday and the time I was supposed to be back at the airport on Monday? Where was I supposed to stay -- and how was I supposed to get there? All of that information was locked safely inside my laptop. Which was safely dead.
As you know by now, I did survive. I was able to find the people whom I had rented the studio apartment from in Montmartre. I stayed there and had a lovely time in Paris. It was technology that nearly sunk me, but it was technology that saved me.
By a miracle of divine intervention, I had just that week invited my friends Ann and Benny to stay with me. They live in Ireland, and it's a relatively cheap flight from Shannon to Paris for a weekend away, especially when accommodations are free. Tight, but free. Benny couldn't get away, but Ann took me up on the offer. Because she was coming I had sent her all the information, including the location and phone number for the people whom I had rented the apartment from. More fortunate, I had a cell phone and I had Ann and Benny’s number programmed in it. So I called Ann. Ann dictated. I wrote. And then I called the Marlys and Michael, the owners of the studio. They turned out to be very nice people, btw. Between Ann's directions and theirs, I found my way to Montmartre from CDG airport (with a short detour to Stassburg, but that's a story for another day).
With cell phone in hand, I was also able to call back to the States, talk to one of my colleagues, get the number for AmEx Travel, and talk to a travel agent who gave me my flight itinerary.
There's a lesson in here, though to be honest I can't quite put my finger on it. It would be easy to say that relying too heavily on technology leaves you vulnerable when the technology you rely upon fails. But in the end, it was also technology that saved me. Were it not for cell phones and e-mail, I would never have been able to track down the information I hadn't bothered to print or memorize.
And here's an amusing little twist on that whole topic. I got the phone number for my company's IT department (help desk) by calling another one of my colleagues. I called IT to explain that I was in France, that my laptop had crashed, and that I was not able to boot it up. Could they help me? Yes, they could. All I had to do was go online and fill out a help desk ticket.
In Monaco, with eyes wide open
4-1/2 hours. Like clockwork.
I went to bed at 1a last night. 5:30 rolls around. Ping ! Wide awake. Fair play: I did get a nap yesterday afternoon for an hour or two, so that certainly had an affect. But that follows a night in which I crawled into bed -- crawled being the operative word -- at about the time I was waking up today. I crawled into bed at 5:30 on Thursday morning, got up again at 8:30, dragged my ass into the shower, and was fresh and perky for the conference's activities. As if. I won't go into details about what I was doing before 5:30 in the morning, but vodka and Red Bull were complicit, and several moments were spent contemplating toilets and the uniquely smooth surface of porcelain. Wednesday night was the conference's big party with open bars that stayed open well past the time it was wise to be attending them.
The conference is actually why I'm here in Monaco, and I'll say a few words about that in a bit. But first a couple of random observations.
My friend Andrew, who's from England but lives in the US (and works for EMC), told me he loves to say "toilet" when he's hanging out with Americans in Europe, as in, "Do you know where the toilet is?" That of course is what they say in the UK. Americans, he observes, do not like to call the bathroom a toilet (and I confirmed it) because, he says, "You don't like to acknowledge what you're actually using that room for." We like to say we're going to the bathroom or the restroom.
As if we're simply taking a few minutes to rest ourselves. From what? The strenuous activity of dining in a restaurant?
Or as if we're actually stepping away for a quick bath, as we Americans are prone to do. "Excuse me, can you tell me where the bathroom is? I need to bathe myself. We've been telling dirty jokes at the table and I don't feel clean."
Andrew, being British, loves to see Americans squirm.
Another Britishism I like is the expression "Fair play," as I used it above. We would say, "To be fair" or "To be honest," but when the Brits say, "Fair play" -- and it has a subtle meaning we don't pick up here. In typical British fashion it's used in a slightly self-deprecating way. As if to say, I deserved that. "Oh, my back is bloody killing me today. I slept on the couch last night, didn't I? Fair play: I came home from the pub at three, half-cocked, and the wife wouldn't let me through the bedroom door." See what I mean?
I've been surrounded by Brits in this conference, and their dry sense of humor and wry use of language has amused me on a constant basis through the event. I asked Ian, one of the lads who helps coordinate a number of different bits of the conference behind the scenes, where I could find the signage directing people to shuttle buses to take them back to the airport at the end of the conference.
Me: "Ian, I'm looking for a sign."
Ian (completely deadpan): "Well, you might see a blinding flash of light, maybe the face of the Virgin Mary on a piece of toast, that sort of thing."
.....
In my first missive from Monaco, I talked about cars. I don't know why I was so impressed by the price of a Bentley. The next day after telling you all about the $300,000 cabriolet model, I saw a black Mercedes Mclaren in a dealer's window and realized what a bargain the Bentley was.
For only 450,000 euros, you can drive the Mercedes Mclaren out the door. At today's exchange rate, that's a tidy $661,500. The Mclaren is a sports car, and apparently a somewhat speedy one. I think I remember seeing that its engine was rated at 650 hp. Now, I know what you're thinking: No one actually owns a car like that. I mean, who in their right mind would spend that kind of money on a vehicle? Well, last night I saw a silver one parked outside the Monte-Carlo. So apparently someone does see it as a justifiable investment of their after-tax income.
.....
Last year when I went to Rome, I spent several months studying Italian beforehand so that I would at least be able to get by. I didn't pretend I would be able to communicate more than the simplest things, and some of my experiences, as you may recall, were pretty amusing. This year I'll be in Paris without the benefit of having spent any time brushing up. (I did study French for a year in college, but that was a long time ago.) This should be entertaining, and I'll be sure to share any particularly embarrassing stories.
.....
I assumed you all knew why I'm here in Monaco, but I realized (having exchanged e-mails with some of you since) that I hadn't explained the reason for my trip. I'm at my company's annual European user conference. I've been fortunate to have been invited for the past four years (including this one). It's my ticket to Europe. Prior to going to Lisbon in 2004, I didn't own a passport. I'd only been outside the US one time, and that was for about 45 minutes when we crossed into Canada at Niagara Falls. I work on staff at the conference, which makes for a very busy week. It's not a job I would want to do on a regular basis: People who work conferences work very hard for very long hours on very little sleep. I do it because I am truly grateful for the opportunity to travel and see parts of the world I'd only dreamed about previously. After Monaco, for example, I'm going to Paris for a couple of days, a city I've wanted to see for a long time. I really do feel blessed to have had these opportunities.
At this moment I'm sitting in a taxi on my way to the airport in Nice. Leaving Monaco, which I know I haven't told you much about. It's a beautiful city, rising right out of the sea and tucked into a little cove in the mountain range that lines the coastline of southern France. It's an extraordinarily clean city, which might not surprise you considering the amount of money here. But in my limited observation, even wealthy European cities have an accumulated layer of dirt built up over the centuries. Their cobblestone roads are old and small, which of course is part of the charm but not conducive for cleaning. Their buildings -- ancient and architecturally intricate -- are impossible to keep clean.
Not so in Monaco, where the roads are smooth and well paved, the buildings (like the Monte-Carlo Casino and the old hotels that cozy up to it) are newly painted, and the cars are freshly minted from the factory floor. And the women? In Monaco they are wrapped in Prada and trail in their wake a scent of some complex eau de toilette that leaves an American male like myself acutely conscious of his raw status in the monied world of old Europe.
Au revoir for now.
I went to bed at 1a last night. 5:30 rolls around. Ping ! Wide awake. Fair play: I did get a nap yesterday afternoon for an hour or two, so that certainly had an affect. But that follows a night in which I crawled into bed -- crawled being the operative word -- at about the time I was waking up today. I crawled into bed at 5:30 on Thursday morning, got up again at 8:30, dragged my ass into the shower, and was fresh and perky for the conference's activities. As if. I won't go into details about what I was doing before 5:30 in the morning, but vodka and Red Bull were complicit, and several moments were spent contemplating toilets and the uniquely smooth surface of porcelain. Wednesday night was the conference's big party with open bars that stayed open well past the time it was wise to be attending them.
The conference is actually why I'm here in Monaco, and I'll say a few words about that in a bit. But first a couple of random observations.
My friend Andrew, who's from England but lives in the US (and works for EMC), told me he loves to say "toilet" when he's hanging out with Americans in Europe, as in, "Do you know where the toilet is?" That of course is what they say in the UK. Americans, he observes, do not like to call the bathroom a toilet (and I confirmed it) because, he says, "You don't like to acknowledge what you're actually using that room for." We like to say we're going to the bathroom or the restroom.
As if we're simply taking a few minutes to rest ourselves. From what? The strenuous activity of dining in a restaurant?
Or as if we're actually stepping away for a quick bath, as we Americans are prone to do. "Excuse me, can you tell me where the bathroom is? I need to bathe myself. We've been telling dirty jokes at the table and I don't feel clean."
Andrew, being British, loves to see Americans squirm.
Another Britishism I like is the expression "Fair play," as I used it above. We would say, "To be fair" or "To be honest," but when the Brits say, "Fair play" -- and it has a subtle meaning we don't pick up here. In typical British fashion it's used in a slightly self-deprecating way. As if to say, I deserved that. "Oh, my back is bloody killing me today. I slept on the couch last night, didn't I? Fair play: I came home from the pub at three, half-cocked, and the wife wouldn't let me through the bedroom door." See what I mean?
I've been surrounded by Brits in this conference, and their dry sense of humor and wry use of language has amused me on a constant basis through the event. I asked Ian, one of the lads who helps coordinate a number of different bits of the conference behind the scenes, where I could find the signage directing people to shuttle buses to take them back to the airport at the end of the conference.
Me: "Ian, I'm looking for a sign."
Ian (completely deadpan): "Well, you might see a blinding flash of light, maybe the face of the Virgin Mary on a piece of toast, that sort of thing."
.....
In my first missive from Monaco, I talked about cars. I don't know why I was so impressed by the price of a Bentley. The next day after telling you all about the $300,000 cabriolet model, I saw a black Mercedes Mclaren in a dealer's window and realized what a bargain the Bentley was.
For only 450,000 euros, you can drive the Mercedes Mclaren out the door. At today's exchange rate, that's a tidy $661,500. The Mclaren is a sports car, and apparently a somewhat speedy one. I think I remember seeing that its engine was rated at 650 hp. Now, I know what you're thinking: No one actually owns a car like that. I mean, who in their right mind would spend that kind of money on a vehicle? Well, last night I saw a silver one parked outside the Monte-Carlo. So apparently someone does see it as a justifiable investment of their after-tax income.
.....
Last year when I went to Rome, I spent several months studying Italian beforehand so that I would at least be able to get by. I didn't pretend I would be able to communicate more than the simplest things, and some of my experiences, as you may recall, were pretty amusing. This year I'll be in Paris without the benefit of having spent any time brushing up. (I did study French for a year in college, but that was a long time ago.) This should be entertaining, and I'll be sure to share any particularly embarrassing stories.
.....
I assumed you all knew why I'm here in Monaco, but I realized (having exchanged e-mails with some of you since) that I hadn't explained the reason for my trip. I'm at my company's annual European user conference. I've been fortunate to have been invited for the past four years (including this one). It's my ticket to Europe. Prior to going to Lisbon in 2004, I didn't own a passport. I'd only been outside the US one time, and that was for about 45 minutes when we crossed into Canada at Niagara Falls. I work on staff at the conference, which makes for a very busy week. It's not a job I would want to do on a regular basis: People who work conferences work very hard for very long hours on very little sleep. I do it because I am truly grateful for the opportunity to travel and see parts of the world I'd only dreamed about previously. After Monaco, for example, I'm going to Paris for a couple of days, a city I've wanted to see for a long time. I really do feel blessed to have had these opportunities.
At this moment I'm sitting in a taxi on my way to the airport in Nice. Leaving Monaco, which I know I haven't told you much about. It's a beautiful city, rising right out of the sea and tucked into a little cove in the mountain range that lines the coastline of southern France. It's an extraordinarily clean city, which might not surprise you considering the amount of money here. But in my limited observation, even wealthy European cities have an accumulated layer of dirt built up over the centuries. Their cobblestone roads are old and small, which of course is part of the charm but not conducive for cleaning. Their buildings -- ancient and architecturally intricate -- are impossible to keep clean.
Not so in Monaco, where the roads are smooth and well paved, the buildings (like the Monte-Carlo Casino and the old hotels that cozy up to it) are newly painted, and the cars are freshly minted from the factory floor. And the women? In Monaco they are wrapped in Prada and trail in their wake a scent of some complex eau de toilette that leaves an American male like myself acutely conscious of his raw status in the monied world of old Europe.
Au revoir for now.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Postcard from Monaco
As some of you will recall, last year when I was in Rome I sent a few written "postcards" to friends and family. In my first, I wrote words to this effect: There’s something about waking up in a European city that can’t be beat. I would like to further refine that statement: There’s something rather indescribable about waking up in a European city on the Mediterranean coast.
Now let me try to describe it.
Imagine yourself waking up, walking out to your hotel balcony overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, and watching the sun rise on waters as tranquil and serene as an alpine lake. In Barcelona, the Mediterranean lapped the beach in gentle waves. Here in Monaco (at least when the weather is calm), there are no waves. So when the sun rises, it reflects itself in an infinite number of tiny golden stars that form on the water a straight and nearly unbroken band of shimmering light.
My hotel is quite literally on the ocean. I can stand on my room’s balcony on the first floor and look down 30 feet directly onto the water. And because my room faces due east, my view of the rising sun is unobscured, unhindered by anything made by man or nature. It’s as if I am meant to think of the very first time the sun ever rose upon the new earth, rising then as it has for an eternity since, simply and perfectly serene in all its glory.
Does that do it any justice?
Monaco, like Vatican City, is essentially both a city and a country. And like Vatican City, Monaco is not embarrassed to display its wealth for all to see. For the Vatican, that wealth is apparent in its marble and art. For Monaco, the wealth is most perfectly represented in its cars. Outside my hotel at this moment are probably several Mercedes, BMWs, and Ferraris. A white Lamborghini has been parked outside for the last day or so. Between the hotel and the convention center (just 2 or 3 blocks away) is a Bentley dealership, where one can purchase a cabriolet model starting at about $300,000 dollars. Yes, there are cars inside the window of that dealership that are worth as much as my whole house and the land it sits on.
Monaco is known of course for its Grand Prix race, perhaps the city’s most ostentatious display of vehicle value. (I believe the race goes right past this hotel. The edges of the curves in the road are painted with red and white stripes, which makes me think so.) Monaco is also known for Monte-Carlo, the casino catering to the very very rich, where at any moment day or night one may see a row of Ferraris or Bentleys lined up outside like thoroughbreds at the gates, while their owners play at the tables inside, undoubtedly dropping thousands of dollars as casually as you or I might drop a buck for a coke at the 7-11 down the street.
Speaking of which, I dropped a glass of Coca-Cola at the Firewood Gill in San Francisco International airport. The glass broke, the coke spilled, and now the keyboard of my laptop sticks. It would be really funny if it weren’t such a pita to type on it now. Actually, it is pretty funny. To me. But I doubt IT will find it all that amusing when I call them next Monday to ask how I get a new keyboard and explain why. I desperately need one though, as typing even the simplest sentence is quite an effort. The space bar is particularly uncooperative, and if Idon’t reallyworkat itallofmy wordsstarttoflowtogether. The muscles in my right thumb, which I use to type the space bar, are beginning to hypertrophy.
(Can one use that noun as a verb? Btw, I just learned this word. It’s the opposite of atrophy. I know because I googled it. Those of you who were English majors are now laughing hysterically. The rest of you, who suddenly remember why you didn’t study English in college, are wondering how English majors ever find work outside of the restaurant business and academia.)
As I type this letter to you all, it’s about 5:30 in the morning. (Which means of course that the sun is about to rise again. Another glorious day in the south of France. Ho hum.) I went to bed last night just after midnight and woke up at 4:30. Four and a half hours seems to be my limit for unbroken sleep. I went to bed the night before at 10 and woke up at 2:30. I believe I went on ad nausea last year about jet lag, so I won’t bore you again with that detail. If you’re interested, you can read my letters from Rome here: http://flotationdevice.blogspot.com/
I’ll say more about Monaco later. In the meantime, if you’re bored here’s a link to the hotel I’m staying at: www.fairmont.com/MonteCarlo
And if you want to read a little more about Monaco and see some photos, try the official site of the Government Tourist Office for the Principality of Monaco: http://www.visitmonaco.com/
Now let me try to describe it.
Imagine yourself waking up, walking out to your hotel balcony overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, and watching the sun rise on waters as tranquil and serene as an alpine lake. In Barcelona, the Mediterranean lapped the beach in gentle waves. Here in Monaco (at least when the weather is calm), there are no waves. So when the sun rises, it reflects itself in an infinite number of tiny golden stars that form on the water a straight and nearly unbroken band of shimmering light.
My hotel is quite literally on the ocean. I can stand on my room’s balcony on the first floor and look down 30 feet directly onto the water. And because my room faces due east, my view of the rising sun is unobscured, unhindered by anything made by man or nature. It’s as if I am meant to think of the very first time the sun ever rose upon the new earth, rising then as it has for an eternity since, simply and perfectly serene in all its glory.
Does that do it any justice?
Monaco, like Vatican City, is essentially both a city and a country. And like Vatican City, Monaco is not embarrassed to display its wealth for all to see. For the Vatican, that wealth is apparent in its marble and art. For Monaco, the wealth is most perfectly represented in its cars. Outside my hotel at this moment are probably several Mercedes, BMWs, and Ferraris. A white Lamborghini has been parked outside for the last day or so. Between the hotel and the convention center (just 2 or 3 blocks away) is a Bentley dealership, where one can purchase a cabriolet model starting at about $300,000 dollars. Yes, there are cars inside the window of that dealership that are worth as much as my whole house and the land it sits on.
Monaco is known of course for its Grand Prix race, perhaps the city’s most ostentatious display of vehicle value. (I believe the race goes right past this hotel. The edges of the curves in the road are painted with red and white stripes, which makes me think so.) Monaco is also known for Monte-Carlo, the casino catering to the very very rich, where at any moment day or night one may see a row of Ferraris or Bentleys lined up outside like thoroughbreds at the gates, while their owners play at the tables inside, undoubtedly dropping thousands of dollars as casually as you or I might drop a buck for a coke at the 7-11 down the street.
Speaking of which, I dropped a glass of Coca-Cola at the Firewood Gill in San Francisco International airport. The glass broke, the coke spilled, and now the keyboard of my laptop sticks. It would be really funny if it weren’t such a pita to type on it now. Actually, it is pretty funny. To me. But I doubt IT will find it all that amusing when I call them next Monday to ask how I get a new keyboard and explain why. I desperately need one though, as typing even the simplest sentence is quite an effort. The space bar is particularly uncooperative, and if Idon’t reallyworkat itallofmy wordsstarttoflowtogether. The muscles in my right thumb, which I use to type the space bar, are beginning to hypertrophy.
(Can one use that noun as a verb? Btw, I just learned this word. It’s the opposite of atrophy. I know because I googled it. Those of you who were English majors are now laughing hysterically. The rest of you, who suddenly remember why you didn’t study English in college, are wondering how English majors ever find work outside of the restaurant business and academia.)
As I type this letter to you all, it’s about 5:30 in the morning. (Which means of course that the sun is about to rise again. Another glorious day in the south of France. Ho hum.) I went to bed last night just after midnight and woke up at 4:30. Four and a half hours seems to be my limit for unbroken sleep. I went to bed the night before at 10 and woke up at 2:30. I believe I went on ad nausea last year about jet lag, so I won’t bore you again with that detail. If you’re interested, you can read my letters from Rome here: http://flotationdevice.blogspot.com/
I’ll say more about Monaco later. In the meantime, if you’re bored here’s a link to the hotel I’m staying at: www.fairmont.com/MonteCarlo
And if you want to read a little more about Monaco and see some photos, try the official site of the Government Tourist Office for the Principality of Monaco: http://www.visitmonaco.com/
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