Hazy Shade of Winter

Sound track of the day:
Time, time, time, see what's become of me
While I looked around
For my possibilities
I was so hard to please
But look around, leaves are brown
And the sky is a hazy shade of winter

Current Temperature: Definitely have a cold

Culture clash: Jen was right. The French urban youth are much like New Jersey suburban youth. Harmless. Just annoying in their desire for street cred.





There seems to be a permanent gray sheen over the backdrop of Versailles, or is it all of France? Or is it simply the season? The sun is out, shining and brightly bombarding my pupils with its unavoidable power. Even with sunglasses (Lunettes de soleil, as they say en francais), I’m forced to squint a little. Yet with this pervasive presence the skies are filtered through a gloomy gloss which seems to have permeated my very soul, keeping me nicely snuggled with my blues.

To shake the dust off I took a walk to Helios Pub, which is really a brasserie, where I had lunch of calzone and a glass of wine. I ate and read another chapter of The Master and Margarita before proceeding to my walk to the Chateau de Versailles. There I circled around back toward the garden hoping the landscape would inspire me.

I was right. However, it inspired me into a state of melancholy. The ornate residences of the glamorous Marie Antoinette and her rowdy entourage stood lifeless, abandoned. They seemed to whisper of the shame of generations. Rather than a lavishly dressed crew frolicking through the gardens as envisioned by Sofia Coppola, oddly dressed tourists with children in tow sauntered through the landscape, out of place. The meticulously manicured lawn emitted a fragrance of pine but stood cold and unwelcoming. The fountains ran still, deprived of movement, their waters flat and only occasionally flirted with a stiff, cool breeze. The walkways were dusted with loose white gravel that covered my suede boots with each step. I will now have to get these cleaned.

I took pictures, trying to capture the melancholy but found my heart heavy, falling deeper into a spell of sadness.

In an effort to rejoin the living world I turned back and headed to the Monoprix for dinner fixings. Tonight I would make borsch. Armed with my list, I entered with confidence, found a shopping basket and proceeded to the produce section. At this point it occurred to me that I didn’t actually know with all certainty what a beet looked like. I’ve seen them before: cooked, canned, sliced and diced. I’ve even seen them in their original state, but so infrequently that I was afraid I’d end up picking up a jicama or some other root vegetable and produce a disaster for dinner. Scouring the produce I couldn’t quite figure out how the French would say the word beet, and there on the shelves with the leeks, cabbage and celery I saw a package of what I know was cooked beets. Betteraves. But no, there were no fresh, raw betteraves. Because the recipe I had did not allow for cooked beets, I changed my plan. Dinner will be pork chops and string beans.