Sorry, folks!  The reality is that I have come to lead a schizoid life in the last couple of years!  There's my Connecticut life, and my Parisian life and boy-oh-brother never the twain shall meet!  In Paris it's all go-go-go, manic, manic manic!  In Connecticut, it's ahhh... the beautiful light, the gorgeous colors, the stream out back and the squirrels...  And then there's my own, sweet, little bed...

In short, I've been resting and recharging, but will re-emerge soon!

Thank you for bearing with me...
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When the French use the word "cocktail," they often mean a party, not a drink.  The term "cocktail" in French refers to a brief get-together around 6 or 7 in the evening for people to eat an olive or a peanut, have a little glass of something and then skip off to dinner or some other event.  

Such was my concept when I invited 15 people to my studio apartment on Friday night.  My apartment is 19 square meters, which is about the size of an average hotel room, and half of that is bathroom.  It was for practical reasons, therefore, that I never entertained the notion of a dinner-party.  My table seats three people comfortably.  

Still, I love this apartment and wanted to share it with people I also love.  It was a way of saying thank you for certain kindnesses, and to get people together who hadn't previously met.  Such was the spirit with which I embarked on Friday evening's adventure...

Being an anxious person by nature, it took me more than 6 weeks to work myself up to this event.  There seemed to be so many details to arrange and so many things that could go wrong.  Where would everyone sit?  Would there be enough to eat?  What would I serve to drink?  Could I really pull this off?  

As it turned out, there were nine of us in all, and it was the perfect number.  Everyone found a spot and perched, making a comfortable, little nest for themselves.  I had a bottle of sweet, white wine, a bottle of dry, 2 bottles of red, a bottle of champagne, and half a bottle of freezer-chilled vodka.  Several people brought bottles of wine.

For food, I had a small amount of caviar, which I placed in little globs on top of small blinis, covered with creme fraiche.  This was rapidly inhaled by the first two guests and myself.  I also had a duck breast, stuffed with foie gras, and a smoked, pork sausage that I had gotten at the salon d'agriculture. 

There was a plate of little flavored cheeses, wrapped in crepes, from the supermarket and a plate of prosciutto and salami.  I had a round of cheese, known as a "monk's head."  This kind of cheese is from Switzerland, and comes with a special serving platter with a built-in utensil.  You turn the handle and it shaves lacy slices off the top of the cheese...

When it was 9:00 and everyone was still there, I began pulling things out of the refrigerator.  I made a platter of bresaola and sliced, vine tomatoes, sprinkled with herbed fleur-de-sel and white pepper.  I cut more duck breast and sausage.  I filled a dish with pickles.
 
At 10, I heated the "mont d'or."  This is a cheese which is served hot, to be eaten with bread, sausage or potatoes and is similar to a fondue.  The only thing I didn't have was potatoes.  I sliced more tomatoes, set out more bresaola.  

As the evening wore on, one person left and another showed up.  I continued pulling things out of the refrigerator and opening bottles of wine.  The person who had left came back, and I opened more wine.  

When I ran out of other things to serve, I put on the table a little vase, full of candied orange rinds, which I replaced with dark chocolate-covered orange rinds, when the first lot was cleaned out.

Around 1:30 am, a number of people left to catch the last metro.  At 2:30, my neighbor returned to her own apartment.  At 4:00 my last guest left.  

When I took inventory, my refrigerator was empty, my wine stash a memory, there were 2 bags of garbage and 12 empty bottles standing in line, waiting to be recycled.  There was also a big mess to clean up and I was exhausted, but what greater compliment for a hostess? 
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I just ran across a quote that describes in one sentence that ghastly play I saw and reviewed the other day.  Dorothy Parker once said (I'd love to know about what!), "This wasn't just plain terrible, this was fancy terrible.  This was terrible with raisins in it." 
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A good friend invited me to the theater to see an avant-guarde play, called "Divine Party."  I post here an announcement for the event so that you will recognize it if it ever comes to your town.  This way, you will be able to avoid it immediately and not have to learn the hard way, like I did.
If I were to tell you that this is a "bad play," I would not be doing justice to the event.  Unfortunately, there are no words in my vocabulary to describe just how bad this play actually is.  In fact, it's not really a play at all.  It's a sort of mixed-media piece, combining Dante's "Inferno" with lines from Kafka, liberally peppered with other forms of human sacrifice and torture.  

Most of the thing is in Italian, with French subtitles projected onto a white rectangle, suspended at the upper left of the stage.  Some of it is in German, with French subtitles projected onto a white circle at the upper right of the stage.  The one female member of the cast recites endless passages of the "Inferno" in Italian.  Sometimes she changes clothes on stage so that she can recite her lines in a bathing-suit or a baggy coat.  

While she's changing clothes and reciting Dante, one of the male cast members in a ridiculous wig, chants or sings lines from Kafka in German, at the same time.  Occasionally, someone sings or speaks in English, but with such a horrible accent and such poor pronunciation that it takes some time before you realize what language it is you're trying to keep from hearing.

And, speaking of time, you've got tons of it here!  Time to contemplate your past, your future, your place in this great universe of ours and all the events leading up to the moment of your captivity.  A moment you will never forget, no matter how hard you try.

Oh!  And there's also a movie screen at the back of the stage, onto which occasional frames are projected.  These images are of such poor quality that they go perfectly with the rest of the event!  

Occasionally, the actors play games with the lights to make it look like fire, or rattle pieces of aluminum to make it sound like thunder.  From time to time they pollute the atmosphere with smoke from a smoke machine, and alongside the clashing of Italian, German, English, and aluminum, is added the sound of sneezing and coughing from among the imprisoned and choking spectators.

Another instrument of torture is German, rock 'n roll music.  Some of the actors play keyboards, others play electric guitars.  It is very loud.  You can block up your ears, but it will still penetrate your brain and leave scars.

Sometimes the actors throw mud onto plexiglass or drink water out of plastic tubing.  At one point, one of them starts swinging around this enormous, nasty looking metal thing.  It looks like some kind of anchor or steel claw.  As the actor swings this thing  out toward the audience, it will occur to you that you are in danger of being hurt even worse than you already have been.  You will survive this moment, however, because other forms of torture await you!

At one point I actually got mad (anger is one of the phases all prisoners experience).  This is when they forced us to watch the entire cast break down the set and put it together again, but differently, for the second part of the show!  Clearly, no one ever explained the concept of "entertainment" to this particular theater group.  Also, they kept the theater lights off so escape was impossible.  

Now I'm sure you're wondering where my survival instincts had gotten to!  I did spend at least half of the first act, working out an escape plan.  But the bastards had thought of everything!  The room was always pitch black and I was high up in the middle of the theater, in the middle of my row.  Not only would I have had to crush and mutilate at least 10 people to maneuver to the end of the row (this part didn't bother me in the slightest) but I most certainly would have killed myself trying to get down the stairs.  

In the unlikely event that I survived the descent down all those stairs, I would have had to walk right past the stage on my way out.  It would never have worked.  I would have been a sitting duck at close range.  Finally, I resigned myself to my fate, as one does when all avenues of escape have been blocked and despair sets in.  

There would be no "coup de grace" for me, no sharp and welcome blade of the guillotine.  No, this would be a gradual death, my vitality dwindling in stages, until I was too weak to fight, and my life-force was gradually but irrevocably extinguished...   

The best part of "Divine Party" (if putting the words "best" and "Divine Party" into the same sentence isn't actually illegal) is when they start throwing around rubber heads and body parts.  Then a headless guy comes out, searching among the heads to find out which one is his and kicking away the ones that aren't.  I liked that.

At one point, the guy pounding the keyboards and singing weird stuff in German, says to the audience, "Do you want to go to sleep?"  The girl next to me whispers in a soft voice, "Yes.  PLEASE..."  This did not surprise me. 

At another point, I panicked (panic is another phase all prisoners experience) and I whispered to my friend, "My God!  There's not going to be an intermission!  How can there be?  How would they ever get all these people back in here without paying us first, and then using a cattle prod?"  My friend did not agree and assured me that an intermission was coming.  

And she was right!  Two and a half hours after the start of the show, we were temporarily released.  We clapped joyously as Freedom appeared on the horizon.  The German guy, still pounding away at the keyboard said, "We're taking a 30-minute intermission.  If you come back..."  That's all I heard, but it was enough.  At least he wasn't in denial.

The most enjoyable part of the show was intermission!  There was very nice wine to drink and lovely antipasto.  It crossed my mind that maybe the wine was poisoned, but I took the risk.  Then, when they came to lead the lambs back into the slaughterhouse, by a clever device I shimmied out the front door of the theater, just as it was closing.  I was in time to see the full moon, rising over the Holiday Inn.

Incredibly, my friend elected of her own free will and choice to return to the theater for the second act.  We met, hours later, when the thing was finally over.  She said that the second act was "worse than the first."  I didn't say anything, for fear of hurting her feelings, but believe me, that simply isn't possible.
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As I observe my current, almost manic lifestyle - trying to fit everything in during these final weeks before I return to the States, I feel like Edna St. Vincent Millay.  I have become a modern-day version, not burning one candle from two ends, but living instead, a permanent, incendiary explosion...

"My candle burns at both ends
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends -
It gives a lovely light."

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London has a lot to do with honoring the past for me - family history, personal history, and the rich history of England, herself.  For this reason, I pay regular homage to several traditions there, one of which is visiting the Dorchester Hotel...  
In order for you to appreciate the importance of the Dorchester in my life, I need to give you a little background...  

My parents lived in England during the first year of their married life and the Dorchester is where they were staying when they got married.  To this day, I have a little cream pitcher that my mother stole from there.  (My mother was a big believer in stealing flowers and fruit out of people's gardens, towels from hotels, and ashtrays and other memorabilia from restaurants.)    

Here's a story to illustrate...  

The "Pen and Pencil" was a famous restaurant on 45th Street, on the East side of New York City from 1939 until I don't know when (it's not there any more) and it was a hangout for movie people, like my parents.  One evening, my mother and father were eating dinner there with a group of people in the business, including Ava Gardner, who was a buddy of my mother's.  

My mother knew Ava from working with her on "The Barefoot Contessa," starring Humphrey Bogart, Ava, and Rossano Brazzi.  (Mama has a wonderful part in the movie - she's the fabulous looking, trashy blond who gets slapped across the face in the first scene and singes your eyeballs in a skintight, gold lame dress at the end!) 

This was my mother's first time at the "Pen and Pencil" and she was enchanted by the unusual looking, pepper-grinder that sat on the table.  Apparently, Mama oohed and aahed over that pepper-grinder until Ava finally said, "Just take it, Mari."  

For some reason, Mama was shy that night and couldn't work up the courage to purloin the pepper-grinder, so Ava said something along the lines of, "Stop being silly, Mari!"  With these words, Ava Gardner helped my mother out by picking up the pepper-grinder and shoving it into Mama's handbag.  The pepper-grinder was a little, green, square, wooden mill, like the old-fashioned kind for grinding coffee, and it said, "Pen and Pencil" on it in cursive writing.  I know this because it was on our dinner table every night throughout my childhood.  

But I digress...

The point is that I have a sort of vicarious nostalgia for the Dorchester Hotel because it was such a magical time and place for my parents, especially my mother.  She talked about it for years - how elegant it was, the afternoon teas, blah, blah, blah.  The Dorchester Hotel was basically branded into my brain from an early age.  So I never go to London without stopping by for a visit.  

In case you want to visit  the Dorchester yourself, you can go there for afternoon tea or for an afternoon or evening cocktail or for a meal.  When you do, make sure you bring lots of money!
One evening on my recent trip to London, I was feeling sad (please see blog post entitled "Missing Kew Gardens.")  After dinner, I decided to go the Dorchester for a drink.
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The lobby is a Fairyland, and as long as a city block...
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They always have beautiful arrangements of fresh, cut flowers...
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                                                    Here's the restaurant...
After I finish going crazy over the flowers, I sit at the bar, which is all the way at the end of the lobby.  There's always great conversation with the bartenders. 

 I usually drink a special champagne cocktail, made with raspberry and litchi liqueur, but this time I had a glass of Bernard Bremont Grand Cru rose champagne, which is exclusive to the Dorchester.  Chris, the bartender, gave me some fascinating information.  He said the Dorchester sells between 150,000 and 200,000 bottles of champagne a year - at least 50 bottles every day!  He also told me that Laurent-Perrier has never changed their champagne label in all the years they've been in business - until this year - and they did it to honor the Dorchester hotel.  The label still looks the same, but at the bottom, it says, "The Dorchester hotel is celebrating their 80th Anniversary!"  Pretty neat, huh?

Chris and I agreed that, in terms of quality vs. price, champagne is way over-priced.  He told me that he prefers Prosecco.  I don't, and I told him so, which he took as a challenge, and gave me half a glass of a top-shelf Prosecco.  It actually tasted better than my champagne, although it didn't have as many bubbles.  I was very surprised.

We also talked about what a unique place the Dorchester is and how the people who work there are like a family.  I can believe it.  I ended up staying until closing.  The other bartender, Sam, joined our conversation.  Chris told him his sink was clogged up and that whoever was opening the bar in the morning was in for a nasty surprise.  "That would be me," said Sam.  I laughed, because I worked for years as a bartender, so I could feel his pain.

The best part of my evening with Chris and Sam was that, when I told them I had been a bartender, too, they actually invited me behind the bar!  This is a very great honor.
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Me, behind the bar of the Dorchester Hotel, with my friend, Chris...
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And here I am with my friend, Sam.  I told him I would try to come back to visit him on his shift the following day, but sadly, I didn't manage it.
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Here's who I hung out with instead of Sam.  The concierge at the Thistle told me his favorite park in London was Holland Park, so I decided to check it out.  Having missed Kew Gardens, I was in need of a little communion with nature.
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I learned that it's difficult to take a picture of a peacock with his tail fully fanned-out, because he's so busy showing off that he doesn't stand still for a second.  This is as close as I got.  It looks like his tail is defective but believe me, the only defect was with the photographer!
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Here the peacock is telling me what he thinks of me.  If you're wondering why you can't see his head, that would be because this is the other end...
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Here's something I've never seen before - squirrels and pigeons, playing together!  Can you see through their camouflage?
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This is Lord Holland, who gave his name to the park.  This image brings to mind the expression, "Familiarity breeds contempt," wouldn't you say?
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One of the most fun parts of my weekend in London was going to the theatre on Saturday night.  Being an anglophile, I wanted to see an English play, and what could be more English than Noel Coward?
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What a great play!  And what great performances!  Every actor in it was wonderful, but I especially enjoyed Phoebe Waller-Bridge as Sorel Bliss.  The relationship between the mother, Judith Bliss, and her son and daughter reminded so much of my relationship with my own kids.  Obviously, they adore each other, but they fight all the time!!!  Very, very, funny! 
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                                                           Phoebe Waller-Bridge as Sorel... 
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... Lindsay Duncan as Judith Bliss
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                                                         The theatre, before the show...
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  .




At the end of the show
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What a wonderful set, huh?
Inside the historic, Noel Coward theatre...
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The Noel Coward Theatre, St. Martin's Lane, Charing Cross, London...
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The one shadow cast over a perfect evening was that on the way to the theatre, my cab driver told me that soccer star, Fabrice Muamba had collapsed on the field, during a match.  The cause was a heart attack, and it wasn't clear for some time whether he was going to live or die.  In fact, his heart stopped beating for 78 minutes! 

Muamba is so loved that even members of the opposing team were crying their eyes out.  The following day, players were dedicating their matches to him.  Now, from what I understand, he's making a miraculous recovery!

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I arrived in London at noon on a Friday via Eurostar, King's Cross/St. Pancras station...
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American tourists are always good for a laugh.  I stood next to a middle-aged couple as they were looking at the Tube map...  

Her to him: "So here we are at St. Pancreas..."  

Next stop Sacred Spleen?

The last several times I've stayed in London, I've stayed at the Thistle, Marble Arch.  The location is great (Oxford Street), the rooms are large, the bathrooms are terrific and they have beautiful flower arrangements in the lobby.
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That first evening, I had dinner at Chutney Mary's, my favorite Indian restaurant in the world...
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My aperitif was champagne, with hibiscus liqueur and  an edible hibiscus flower.
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My starter was this little vegetarian, yummy thing, made out of spinach, artichokes, pine nuts and chilies, with a spicy, tomato dipping paste on the side.
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My main course was a sampling of curries with Tandoori roti (the bread).
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This was my dessert: 3 sorbets - mandarine orange, dark chocolate with a wedge of white chocolate on the top, and raspberry.  The mandarine orange was my favorite.
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My tea had a flower in it.
When I was finished eating, this is what was left...
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Enough with this "victim" stuff!  I'm surrounded by it and it's driving me crazy!  

The world is full to overflowing with people who believe they're victims.  I should know - I used to be one of them!  For that reason, I totally understand the pay-off:  If I'm a victim, then nothing's my fault; I don't have to take responsibility for anything!  If my life isn't exactly the way I want it, well that's okay, too.  There will always be someone or something I can blame it on, which is a lot more comfortable than accepting that the life I have is the one I've created!

There are lots of toys in the victim's bag of tricks...  One of the victim's favorite playthings is resentment.  (It goes without saying that I can only experience resentment if I believe myself to be someone else's victim.)  

Resentment is something a little kid feels toward a parent.  In this case, it's appropriate because, technically, the parent really does have power over the child.  However, as an adult, it isn't possible to feel resentment if I take full responsibility for myself, my feelings and my actions.  In order to feel resentment, I have to believe that someone has power over me.  Someone else is keeping me from doing something I want to do or forcing me to do something against my will.  Someone else is inhibiting my freedom.

My question is this: How does someone else have power over me, if I don't give it to them?  Hmmm??  Well, I'm waiting...  What did you say?  That's right!  You've got it!   No one can have power over me unless I give them my power!  Now why on earth would I do that?!

Isn't it time we all WOKE UP?!?!  

THERE ARE NO VICTIMS!!!  Period.  End of statement.  Each one of us is entirely responsible for our own lives.  Can you feel how empowering this notion is?  Which is not to say that we all recognize the power that we have!  Self-empowerment is a process, a gradual coming to awareness that we are the Masters of our own lives.  
  
Please don't misunderstand!  There are times, on this beautiful and challenging planet of ours when "tragedies" occur - innocent people dying at the hands of an aggressor, for example.  I am not discussing "perpetrator" and "victim" in that sense.  But even in that case, is it not possible that the so-called "victims" of violence might not, in fact, be evolved souls, whose mission on earth is to demonstrate the impossibility of living without love? 


Everything is consciousness.  Everything.  Our lives are mere reflections.  They are reflections of our own, individual consciousness, including our beliefs, our programming and our current level of evolution, nothing more and nothing less.  

Let's agree today to release this toxic, victim mentality, which robs us of our potential and squelches our joy.  Let's recognize that our true nature is to be empowered beings.  Let's empower ourselves now!
 
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