Early Advent

A New Year's Resolution way back in 2008 was to pursue becoming "published" in some form other than Blogger. The closest I got that year was submitting anecdotes to Reader's Digest which, I've sadly deduced, were all rejected. After that year, I moved the goal to a list with a more attainable timeline--the Bucket List. (For the curious, I'm pretty sure it's the only thing on my Bucket List so far.)

Looks like I won't really have to wait so long. With a little generous nudging from friend and writer Dan Schmidt, I've been invited to join the ranks of several others submitting reflections to a guide for the Advent season. It'll be out and available..well..sometime around the Advent season. For those who still like feeling the texture of print on paper like my brother-in-law Wes, there will be a paperback. For those who've fallen prey to the sleek design of a Kindle like my brother-in-law Mark, there will be an e-book. Everyone wins!

If you're one of the three faithful readers around here, you may have caught on to the fact that I've been doing a fair amount of my own Advent reflecting in the past several years. And now that I think about it, that may have started around the time Dan passed on his own little informal Advent guide several years back. From then on, putting together some sort of collaborative Advent writing project in a church context has been a little dream of mine. That's on the bucket list, too, I guess. Better to let Dan do the unwieldy work of gathering, editing, prodding, refining, organizing for now.

Needless to say, I like this idea, excited to see the final product, glad to be a part of it.

I'll probably expound on this a bit more in weeks to come, but for now, you can take a peek of (or give your input on) a few of the potential covers.

Good Question

After eating chocolate cake, watching Thomas the Train, taking a bath, and getting his PJs on, the kid ran around the house some more and into his room, where he asked us earnestly,

"Where did the time go?"

After marveling nearly every minute of every day lately at just how much he has grown, it's a good question. We told him he'd be asking it over and over again, with us, for the rest of his life.

Art Museums with Kids

Musee de L'Orangerie may have become my new favorite museum in Paris. Much, much more manageable and digestable than the Louvre, and full of beautiful work. Of course, it is most famous for housing Monet's huge "Nympheas" the wall-to-ceiling water garden paintings hanging in two oval rooms, and for good reason.
The only semi-problem is we visited with two small children.

E had the other kid in a sling, and the security guard asked to put it through the x-ray machine. He was a bit embarrassed when he discovered the baby, and his colleague laughed and laughed as though this were the funniest thing to have happened in a long time. The lady at the bag check did the same thing, and then fawned for several minutes.

The kid loved the echo-inducing acoustics of those large oval rooms more than the huge paintings of water lilies. Unfortunately, the rest of the public loves basking in that beautiful grandeur in complete and utter stillness and silence.

The other kid settled down with me and looked at art quietly while others spent more time looking at him than Renoir. But something happened to make him explode into tears shortly thereafter, and we had to wonder if this museum ever heard so much noise.

The kid loved running through at rapid pace, hurrying us along. We kept trying to pull him back and circle around, but eventually even the security guards shushed his little stomps. I'm sure we're overly sensitive, but it definitely seemed like at certain points those guards were more stressed out about us than we were.

And so we learned the hard way that most art museums are not really meant for kids and babies. And yet I'm not quite willing to give up; I call it only a semi-problem because I think there is something wonderful about exposing kids to great works of art--especially when it's so easy to do in Paris. (This is me hoping my boys turn out to be like my astute fifth graders when visiting the Met.) Perhaps it would be prudent and productive of us to find those days when they do guided family visits.

And we learned that you must go at their pace. The kid ran through pretty much the entire thing, looking but looking quickly, until he got to one huge piece of Harlequin and Pierrot by Derain. Two clownish characters carrying guitars: what's better for a three year old? Sure beats fuzzy water lilies. He stopped, looked, pointed, sat, gazed, asked, and camped out for a little while, showing it to each of us, resting for several minutes. I liked that.

For us, on the other hand, we were forced to gaze in passing, with sorts of double takes, one eye on the kid, half an eye on the painting, and another half an eye on the name of the painter. It was an exercise on taking notes of where we will want to gaze the next time we visit without kids, whenever that might be. I was excited to discover some new names that I hadn't known before. I can't tell you what I liked about them and their paintings, really, other than the rushed feeling of "Oh! I like that!" and quickly letting go of the little one's hand long enough to scribble names into my notebook: Laurencin, Derain, Utrillo, Soutine.

And that leaves me here alone with Google Images, trying to remember what I saw and what I want to see again someday. And all in all, that's not a terrible place to be.

Mix Tape: Balkan and Neo-Balkan

The four of us were making our way through the main metro station in the center of Paris, catching a transfer to head home. We turned into the tunnel we needed, but heard some amazing music from the other direction. We froze, all together, and almost without having to say anything to each other, turned around and followed what we heard.

There we found two guitars, two accordions, a bass, a violin, a trumpet, and a hammered dulcimer: 8 men. All of them singing at some moments as if their lives depended on it. Maybe it does. The first song made us smile and dance. The second song took our breath away, literally giving me chills. Now I regret only taking 58 seconds of video, and yet I can still sing the melodies without it, they were that memorable.

What struck me funny is this: I instantly recognized the sound. That’s because the band Beirut has been described as “Neo-Balkan.” I’ve always thought that’s a ridiculous label for a genre of music at all, let alone indie music manufactured in Brooklyn, especially because 9 people who are using it out of 10, including me, don’t know where “the Balkans” are nor do they know what Balkan music sounds like. But I immediately knew this subway music was Balkan. It sounded like the grandfather of Beirut. Neo-Balkan isn’t so preposterous after all. And it's no wonder it's so painfully beautiful; it resembles its grandfather.

Sure enough, this band is from this Eastern European region. And the entire experience made me like these gentlemen more, made me like Beirut more.

With that, I leave you with this song, “The Penalty” from Beirut (live in Paris). Maybe not the best example of Neo-Balkan, but still my favorite of his. If you’ve received a mix tape from me in the past, there’s a good chance this song was on it. I’ve been rehearsing it on my ukulele to play in the metro someday. Maybe I’ve found my backing band now.

But if you're more taken with the original, authentic version of Balkan music, as I think I may be, I've found a bit more about them here.

(And incidentally, Beirut has a new album coming, currently streamable here.)

Mix Tape: Chanson

I first heard of Thomas Fersen from a hip language school teacher in 2007, who used his song Zaza in a lesson one day. E and I were instantly hooked, for good reason. Found out after, that he is also one of our friend's favorite French artists, who gave us some of his stuff to listen to.

Fast forward to 2011. I ask the librarian in the music section for recommendations of French artists. I told her I liked rock, and that I enjoy Thomas Fersen. "Well, he's not Rock," she informed me, "that's Chanson."

I thought Rock was a pretty large and generous umbrella term for anything that wasn't rap, classical, or polka. Apparently it's not the same in France. Chanson is the word for 'song,' but apparently a genre all its own as well. I'm not exactly sure what it includes other than the little bit Wikipedia is giving me, but my early estimations tell me the emphasis is on, first and foremost and if not completely, the lyrics. Each song, in some way, is an ode to the French language itself. It's one reason the French are known for taking so much pride in the beauty of their language.

I like this, even if it is sort of the extreme opposite of the majority of my musical tastes. Above all, I like instrumental music with no lyrics whatsoever. When there are lyrics, I rarely listen to them, at least never at first, and I typically tend to treat the voice as just one more instrument in the mix. The music I like depends mostly on unusual instrumentation, soaring harmonies, gimmicky dynamics (slow builds and dramatic stops), and the like. To make a song rest entirely on its lyrics and then melody? This comes closer to just plain poetry. And doing it well takes some serious skill, more skill than it takes to make a good crescendo.

There's a line of songwriters falling into this cherished tradition, and relatively speaking, Fersen is a newcomer. But I've heard him already called a master and one of the best, and I'm only just beginning to fully appreciate why.

I'm choosing this song "Monsieur" for how easily it gets stuck in my head. It's actually a bit morbid, about a murderer or assassin, but you can't understand French and I can't really either, so that doesn't matter, right? You can still enjoy the flawless rhythm of the words and pleasant sound of the rhymes. It's a little tale told by "un peu jardinier qui fait la cuisine," the lowly gardener who cooks.

But as I was saying, it gets stuck in your head. One day the kid and I were walking through Giverny--Claude Monet's little village--he on my shoulders, and I was whistling this song loudly (a habit I haven't yet kicked). He kept hitting my head and told me not to whistle, that we were busy walking and I couldn't whistle here, but I couldn't help it, I kept going. I whistled in the train. He told me no whistling. I whistled in the kitchen. He told me no whistling.

And so, I dare you to listen to this song just once and not whistle for the rest of the day. And when you and I can finally speak French fluently, we can get together and talk with even more appreciation about how wonderful this fellow is at what he does. Because it's not about that melody you'll be whistling, it's about the lyrics. Ironic, I guess.

Thomas Fersen - "Monsieur"

Famous Dance Moves

It's been determined that with the dance moves I typically employ, I belong on a children's cartoon. The resemblance, I'm afraid, is uncanny.
Exhibit A:

Exhibit B:

Needy Little Creatures

My wife is preparing a foot soak. I told her that sounded amazing, thinking about joining. I guess it's been one of those days.

Like the way we bolted out of Pizza Hut tonight--yes, Pizza Hut, first time in ten years or so, it's bizarre how being an expat makes the former least desirable options feel now like the only options--and slammed the car doors on two wailing little boys, speeding out of the parking lot towards home, laughing deliriously mostly to keep ourselves from crying, saying nothing to each other except, "This is our life. Look at our life," in puzzled disbelief over and over again.

Don't worry guys, I'm not soaking my feet, but as I watch, they're only aching more.

No, I'm writing instead, and I've typed this with one hand. After plenty more wailing, he's fallen asleep with his strong fist clutching my collar, stretching my t-shirt. Needy little creatures.

This is my life.

Mix Tape: Risking Disaster...and Escaping

I love the band Lake because their influences are so unexpected and they pull it off so effortlessly and charmingly.

I'm not sure there's a better example than this song, "Roger Miller" off of their newest Giving and Receiving. Not my favorite Lake song, but the most surprising of all.

Seriously, what genre is this? It's the sleazy jazz you'd hear in the elevator of the lounge. It's the dance music you'd hear in the lounge, but kids aren't dancing to it, forty-year-olds are. White forty-year-olds. Most likely wearing velour and showing chest hair. Is it 70's? 80's? When was the last time you heard a synth solo that awful? But those horns, is this the Lawrence Welk Show? What's going on? Where are we? How old am I? Is this a time machine? When did this album come out?

And then, of course, what in the world is she singing about? Hemingway? Roger Miller? What?

It's a barrage of questions, and most importantly, why do I feel like dancing? And why is the urge so uncontrollable? Why won't my hips stop swiveling, especially when I've never known how to swivel them before? Why am I smiling? Why do I never want this song to end? Am I really actually enjoying this?

The point is, in anyone else's hands, this is a disaster waiting to happen. Nobody would even attempt such a thing. Nobody would want to. These are genres best left in the decade they came from.

But here comes smart, sweet, charming, understated Lake, redeeming all things, making all things danceable, all things bright, all things irresistible.

Lake: "Roger Miller" from Giving and Receiving

Go

There are some moments where you say, "No, stop growing!!"

And there are others where you say, "Go ahead. Grow and keep growing. Because this is the most wonderful thing I've watched in a long time."
The kid knows how to fly a kite on his own now, apparently. He runs fast, holds tight, stares upward and giggles.

The (not as) New Guy, 4

For the first time since that dreaded first experience in the post office, today I was served by the same man who mumbled his way through helping me back then.

I understood (most of) what he said. And I opened my mouth and actually responded. And he understood me. And my knees didn't shake and my hands didn't get sweaty. And I could pay in exact change because I understood the numbers he said. And when I forgot to get the receipt I needed, I turned around and went back in without any pep talks, asked for it, and got it.

It was almost as if I was going to the post office in my homeland. That felt pretty good, you know.