"Pensativa" - A Thoughtful Book

My 94-year old father is a retired dentist with the memory of an elephant. He use to tell his  stories to patients sitting in the chair with their mouths wide open so they’d be entertained instead of pained. Recently, he must have needed to tell a story because he said, “Say, Joanna, do you remember the one about “Pensativa?” The immediate truth was that I couldn’t recall. I really had to dig back deep into my memory. And yes, he was right, & there it was. 

First one needs to understand that when I was in high school I was a twit. I was clueless about so many things. Such was the case about learning Spanish. I just loved Spanish, but I could hardly scrape out a “B” & most of the time it was a C. My idea of Spanish was going dancing at the Pan American Club weekends with Conchita Chavez, and learning to sing intoxicating boleros. It certainly wasn’t about memorizing verb tense endings and churning out intricate translations. Yet, in Spanish IV, my senior year, I borrowed a book from my teacher, Senora Brown, that I could actually understand & I was quite surprised. The title character, Pensativa, was everything I imagined a beautiful Mexican woman could be, especially deeply pensive, as her name suggested. She was sultry but never vulgar. She was coy but never cruel. She smoldered with passion, ever so controlled. All the men lusted after her, but she was cool. Now I can’t remember what her problem was-- because she had to have a problem or else there would be no novel--but I just remember for a short moment in my youth she was my idol.

I have no idea how long the cherished book had been in my possession, but one morning I passed Senora Brown in the hall passing between classes. I said in my pitiful Spanish, “I’m the one who has the book “Pensativa.” Me le gusta mucho! (I just love it!) I just wanted to remind you that I have it.” She harumphed with a glint in her cold, ice blue eyes & replied, “ Lo veo.” (I see.) And that was that. Still, there was something discomforting in they way she had replied. Wasn’t she glad I told her? But, since I was used to being discomforted by her I just shrugged it off. 

Here I must digress because of the event later that day. Twit that I was, I had no idea about the grand scheme of things, especially time.  School time was based on tests & assignments. A six-weeks grading period seemed rushed because I never had enough time to raise my less than stellar grades, but, a semester was an eternity. & though I had borrowed “Pensativa” from Senora Brown, I honestly had no clue how long I had it in my possession. I was about to find out. 

At the end of the day about 10 minutes before school was out we always had announcements. Did I ever really listen to them? Suddenly I heard as loud as a megaphone: “Would JOANNA SEDLEY please return the book “Pensativa” to Mrs. Brown in room 208?” And just to be certain that JOANNA SEDLEY had heard the announcement the voice repeated: "JOANNA SEDLEY should return “Pensativa” to Mrs. Brown as soon as possible to room 208!”

Of course, I was mortified and furious.  Hardly Pensativa-like, I fulminated, “Why did she need to do that? After all, I  told her. All she had to do was say she wanted it back!” Well, have to say, this once she got my attention and her book back.

Carmen the Modern Woman

I wrote this entry a couple of months back & didn't post it. I was afraid of attracting a feminist troll...& I might still. Those gals tend to have no sense of humor. JJ & I are in France now where the French have groused for the entire month of mai. The sun never came out, it rained everywhere--even the midi. It was so chilly they couldn't even throw off their scruffy neck scarfs, or leave their umbrellas at home. When I get a chance I'll be telling a funny story or two. 

So...as I mentioned, we listen to the matinee of the New York Metropolitan Opera on Saturdays, including the interviews and games at intermission. Recently a young diva was being interviewed she was asked to compare two characters, Gilda & Carmen. She said that Gilda was an old-fashioned girl and that Carmen was a modern woman. Honestly I found this appraisal quite shocking. That Gilda is old-fashioned is cliché, but is Carmen really a modern woman?  

I see these two characters from an historic perspective: Gilda is the modern woman and Carmen is the fossil. Before recorded history, we know that humans roamed the earth for eons relatively free of a moral code. I imagine those days when might made right & females were brutalized chattel. With the advent of civilizations came moral codes that protected women and children. Women were expected to adhere to the rules for their own good and the good of society. A woman who lived freely & thumbed her nose at common decency was seen as low, merely reverting to her animal instincts. The good woman was enlightened and rewarded; the bad woman had not evolved properly & she would suffer the consequences. 

I want to understand how Carmen is modern woman. If she is, then Bizet’s tragedy is no tragedy, at all, but a mere a tale of two hapless lovers. His gypsy woman sings her first aria (the famed Habanera in minor mode) warning her would-be lovers that she is free as a bird and she follows no rules. I find that rather fair-play of Carmen. She then proceeds to beguile Don Jose, a military officer. She will drop him without pity when she moves on to her next conquest, Don Escamillo, a toreador. Carmen is definitely the initiator & closer of her affairs. Since she can do as she likes, Don Jose, surely a modern man, should accept that she’s through with him & move on in a gentlemanly fashion. For modern times, this should be the tale of an uncontested modern woman, but surely not a tragedy. There’s no need for Carmen to die because she is within her rights. Only Don Jose should die for his murderous jealousy. (Of course, they both die.)

In my mind the definition of tragedy is when flawed characters die at the end. Gilda is “good” in the old-fashioned sense, but she allows a moral weakness to trump the social code. But, Carmen as the modern woman is not flawed. As the new norm she perfectly within her rights. If Gilda is no longer the standard, and Carmen is, then what of civilization? If Carmen’s freedom & sexual equality are now taken for granted all she must do is protect herself and carry on. 

The worm has indeed turned: Meet Carmen, the modern woman and Gilda, the relic. 

As Scott Walker might say, “Ms. Darcy meet the new world.”

A Jolt in the Night

May 2, 2013 - The Flight Over

There were two notable events on the flight from Dallas to Paris. But before I relate them I should tell you that JJ & I didn’t sit exactly together. Those who have read my blogs know that often we sit apart. Sometimes it’s more interesting, such as at dinner parties and church discussion groups; and at others, it’s the practical thing to do, such as posting in 2 different lines, or general reconnoissance. For the 9 or 10 hours over the big pond, we each opted for an aisle seat. (We never forgot the big fat woman who had obviously taken sleeping pills, inert for entire flight duration. Try climbing over that.) 

I tell you this so you will understand what I’m about to tell you. JJ’s good fortune was that the seat next to him was vacant. That just means he had the luxury of a little more space. But I had a seat-mate next to the window, a 30-ish man who was keeping to himself. I couldn’t say what the ethnic diversity was among the passengers, but one thing I do know is that, as a group, these were a well brought up lot because the toilets stayed clean & no one trashed or clogged the aisles. The few small children who were on the flight were shushed soon after trying to begin a crying session. Collectively it was to be a satisfactory experience. 

As #3 would say, American Airlines is just the most bare bones company possible for an overseas flight. The food is fair & the movies are not even worth renting the earphones. The flight attendants do their best with the little they have. So, maybe it’s not so much la luxe, but other things that made the trip bearable. In this case the cabin staff was down to earth, relaxed, & doing the necessary with good humor. Which brings me to the first event.

The overhead screens went out for sleepy-time. I noticed there wasn’t even one reading light. All, even the babies, seemed to be in the land of Winkin’ Blinkin’ & Nod. When all of a sudden there came a great turbulence, so very unusual when planes are obviously flying so high. There had been a little here and there, such that we should all have been seat-belted. Nevertheless, there came a huge exterior blow to the aircraft which scared the living daylights out of us all. There were no squeals or howls because we were all drowsy. But, it was a jolt which lasted about 20 seconds & awoke us all with a start which caused a flutter of low comments. But then everything calmed almost as quickly as it came. The only repercussion was that we were all wide awake, never to return to sleep for the rest of the trip which was at least another 4 hours! Even without a sleeping pill most travelers are able to nod off for a short night’s sleep, so that they can almost make it through the next waking day in Paris. The upshot for us all would be that we’d have serious some jet lag.

(When I asked an attendant about it, she told me that the captain had informed the crew to expect some serious turbulence. She admitted that it was stronger than she had usually experienced.)

The second thing was was meeting my seat-mate. The Great Jolt turned out to be a blessing because, as I said, it  opened conversation. It’s my policy to refrain from intruding on a stranger’s privacy, but as we noticed the sun gleaming through the cracks of the window shutter, I wanted to see a glorious sunrise at such a great height. My seat mate lifted the shutter to take a photo of it for himself with his IPhone. I asked him to take one for me with my small camera, which he was glad to do. In such a way was the ice broken. Doesn’t take much, does it? 

As it turned out my seat mate was an executive chef at a posh country club in Oklahoma City. At 38, he & his wife were expecting their 3rd child. We had a lot in common as he told me he had graduated from a Baton Rouge high school, at about the same time my eldest boys were finishing another B.R. high school. He had formed his culinary palate in New Orleans and Baton Rouge. “My sister & I always got in the kitchen & cooked for friends and family.” His formal chef’s training was in a noted Houston Institution, but he insisted that the palate had to be acquired, it couldn’t be taught. “You either have it, or you don’t. Recipes & books aren’t going to provide that.” He explained that he would be in France for about two weeks looking for new culinary ideas & fresh plating presentations from among famous French restaurants. 

JJ & I have always believed that the top ranks of chefs are among those who, as my mother once said, “never had a choice.” From tender beginnings the talent manifests itself & no other direction is possible. I felt privileged to be able to “interview” this unpretentious executive chef who supervised six other specialized chefs, plus a staff of over 150. Who knows? Without the great jolt I might never have met him.

Just call me Stew

No matter how long the trip, I stew. I worry about everything, from how I’m going to pack to how I’m going to get everything arranged before departure. This trip is what I’ll call a real doozy. Ol’ JJ & I will need duds for two seasons, which includes some wedding outfits for #3’s big day in Paris. The family house in Dallas, designated by our kids as The Ranch, must seen to for 2 months. Plus, I needed to get a cat-feeder. Details, details! I still must email my catty-corner neighbor to tell him we aren’t there.

For the benefit of my readers I should tell you that this year we will be touring mostly France. We’ll be in England 6 days before we fly out of Heathrow. JJ’s family is vast & welcoming, although for the most part we won’t be staying with them, but near them in some kind of cozy accommodation. I’ll tell you all about it. 

Rigoletto on Reality Radio

On Saturdays around mid-day it’s our tradition to listen to a live matinee performance at the New York Metropolitan Opera while we clean our house. We especially like the intermissions when there are interviews of producers and singers, & guessing games. Last Saturday the opera was Giuseppe Verdi’s Rigoletto. It’s what I call a “war horse” because it never fails to bring out the crowds &, by the end, have them weeping in the aisles. I learned during the interviews that Verdi had a profound love and respect for Shakespeare. He believed that with Rigoletto he had created a tragic character almost equal to those of the Bard. Many times have the poet’s plays been produced in modern settings. Has it ever really worked? Would Rigoletto stand the same test? 

As we mop floors & scrub toilets we imagine Rigoletto, a burly basso clad in brilliant satins of his court jester's garb. The joker’s cap of floppy points covers his piteous smile belying great anger and passion. Rigoletto is hell-bent to protect his precious daughter from the predaceous Duke, even if he must conspire to commit murder by proxy. Gilda is surely the most beautiful, sweet-young-thing in opera, as she graces the stage bouncing her mass of blonde tendrils in her modest, frilly, pastel gown. She loves & respects her father; nevertheless, she is seduced by the dapper Duke. This aristocratic dandy prances around in his pale hose, shiny knee-high boots, short puffy pantaloons, slit-sleeved waistcoat, & cocky plumed hat. 

We toil away at mundane tasks as we are transported in time & place to 16th century Italy. Of course, we know that by Act III the Duke, a heartless cad, has moved on to his next conquest, & though Gilda sees it, she won’t believe her eyes. Secretly we all want the professional hit-man to kill him, but that’s not going to happen. Rigoletto is in the wrong & he is going to pay dearly for his sin. In a twist of fate the hit-man murders self-sacrificing Gilda. (Ach!) With his daughter dead in his arms Rigoletto closes the opera with "Oh the Curse!" He will live out his days ruing his misdeed while the Duke--never the wiser-- continues his life of lechery. Life can be so unfair. C'est la realité. 

Opera lovers don’t question ridiculous plots or obsolete characters, but the intermission interviews have made me aware of the great difficulty for 21st century productions to be relevant.  Who would be a court jester in the world of modern politics? Is it important for Gilda to remain a paragon of purity? Would her father need to protect her so fiercely? And the Duke? Didn’t he go out with the French Revolution? These days all sorts of sexual predators abound regardless of class or privilege. 

I really do like the opera radio hostess for these broadcasts. She’s a competent messenger, who delivers in detail the plot, sets, costumes, & curtain calls. But when I realized that she was describing a contemporary Rigoletto, I thought, “Are you kidding me? Get real!” When I tried to visualize it, I just LOL-ed. At the close of each intermission I immediately went back to my own private version. I was glad to be a listener, & not a spectator. For me Rigoletto in 2013 is utter nonsense.

Miss Piggy's Palaces

I recently read that Elin Nordegren, Tiger Wood’s Ex, is ready to move into her 21,000 square foot “mega-home” in Florida. It features an olympic pool, koi ponds, and a spa. Ooooh, how homey indeed? The announcement, loaded with superlatives, is the very thing that house-hoppers and high-end realtors thrive on. It screams, “DON’T YOU JUST WISH THIS WAS YOURS!?” 

Paradoxically, the Dallas Morning News announced that Dallas can boast the most expensive house on the market ANYWHERE in the entire USA: $135 million. (Surprise! Not Hollywood, California!) Oh yes! Dallas peons get to drive by miles and miles of these stupendous structures on their way to just about anywhere. It’s a laugh & a half to name some of these monstrosities. At any given time these exclusive areas always have many "for sale" signs. So, what gives? Aren’t the residents mega-cozy in such impressive space and luxury?  

I call these mansions Miss Piggy’s Palaces.  During a lifetime in different places and societies I’ve observed that it is the wife who has the itch for the house of her dreams. She obsesses & schemes about it much of the time until she arrives. (Joanna admits she's done this from time to time.) While normal couples usually work toward a reasonable goal, Miss Piggy doesn't seem to know when to arrive.  With Kermit finally at her side, she will best all the rest. 

Several years back I was having coffee in a lovely home of ordinary human dimensions when a budding Miss Piggy exclaimed, “This house just isn’t me! Well, actually we probably won’t be living in Dallas for very long, but still I want something that’s more moi." Then with a gleam in her eye she confided, "Even though we don’t have children, only Snookie [the toy dog] and Puff [the Persian cat], we are going to build five times as big & ultra luxurious for eventual resale.” She added piteously, “Do you think I’m crazy?” 

I truly did, but I managed to tell a saccharine white lie, “Well of course not, dear, if that’s what is important to you.” Three years later, one for construction & two for habitation, the couple with their pets moved away. I’m told that they sold their mega-home for a nice mega-profit. 

Lance & France

Doping has been a rotting rat in the Tour de France for a very long time. Does anyone imagine that Lance was the culprit who introduced these drugs? Those that doped won, those who didn’t knew they weren’t going to. In a recent interview Lance dared to say he felt that he was leveling the field. No one dared ask what he meant...... 

If Lance does not show the tears of contrition, consider how long he has been at the vortex of doping accusations: at least a decade & a half! He has become quite inured to media and personal accusations & it is doubtful that he is going to find some fresh sensitivity. But, give the guy some credit. Has he shunned the press or gone into hiding? Did you wish that he had?  

The short story of.....  Lance & France

My husband and I were roaming around the French countryside and spent the night at a chambre d’hôte, or B & B. Thanks to another unpopular person, ex-French President Nicolas Sarkosy, just about anybody who was property-poor could create a small business by opening a B & B. It allowed the French economy to open up nicely to more tourists and helped struggling real-estate owners to at least pay their crushing taxes. The couple who ran this B & B were approaching their 80’s. They depended on their grandson to help with operations, as both of them had evidently slowed down quite a bit. They were elegant in the grand old style, speaking beautiful French & knowing how to stroke their guests. 

The manor matched the couple by being genuinely noble in appearance, antiquated, & in need of repairs. With a few instructions on the peculiarities of the establishment our overnight promised a genuinely French provincial experience. Our room was vast, about the size of a medium-sized classroom, painted sky blue and trimmed out in curlicue off-white. The ceilings were no less than 10 feet high & two long single-paned double windows opened out to the gravel driveway and porte-cochére one story below.  The bed was composed of two singles pushed together, unified by an upholstered faded French blue velvet head board & bordered in gold braid. The attached bath with ancient fixtures was a trot away. The impractical wood-inlaid chest of drawers and uncomfortable upholstered chairs rested on delicate bowed legs with carved paws...which we wouldn't be using. 

The next morning we discovered the breakfast room of five tables was filled to capacity. Even an American foursome had found this place and their French was admirably functional. Madame notre (our) hôtesse made brief appearances, to tell her servant how to serve hot croissants, homemade preserves, & café au lait, for she was obviously tenuous on her swollen ankles.  But, the person in charge of keeping the conversation lively was definitely Monsieur notre hôte who remained feebly standing & ready to relay our slightest need to the back kitchen. 

Imagine our surprise in such a historical setting when right away our host began to tell us that he had been a biker in the Tour de France back in the 70’s. He obviously enjoyed expounding & fielding a few polite questions concerning the Tour in his day. How the French loved Poulidor who never won a Tour de France, but consistently came in second!  The winner was Jacques Anquetil who won five times. As Monsieur  spoke he conveyed the excitement & competitive nature of the Tour. He spoke openly about how his body had suffered, why he limped, and was arthritic. But oh, it was all worth it!  We guests were captivated as we ate quietly & mostly listened. 

Once he had gotten our undivided attention he began to explain that doping had been part of the Tour de France culture as far back as he could remember. In those days the teams came from various European countries, and from a few French provinces. There were 2 categories of bikers. Category 1 included the potential champions who were, in fact, the leaders of their teams, deemed most likely to place in the Tour de France. As team leaders they deserved the best dietitians, masseurs, & soigneurs. These sports doctors discovered that they could administer substances to their cyclists on a particular day without leaving traces in their systems.  And so it happened that the leaders were offered drugs to enhance their performance on days when the climbing was particularly arduous.

Category 2 was Les domestiques (servants); their purpose was not to win the race, but to serve the leaders of their team. Our hôte quite openly cast himself as a domestique. "Our duties were to switch out a broken bike, always have water & plenty of snacks, & help the leaders to rejoin the peloton (the leading group) when they were stopped on the side of the road for any reason. Les Domestiques were never offered drugs." 

What we learned was that doping was part of the Tour de France culture well before the advent of Lance. Not until the sudden death of champion British biker Tom Simpson in 1967, did anyone really questioned the use of drug enhancements. From then on the Tour de France governing body began systematic urinalysis and blood tests on daily winners to control doping. When Lance entered the competition in 1992 he failed miserably on the mountains. He soon learned that the only way to win was to dope. At a time when cheaters were being outed left & right Lance found a way to beat the system. In this way he won seven Tour de France to the dismay of other runners who maintained that he was doping.

Our always-a-domestique-but-never-a-leader closed with this rousing statement. "The Tour de France is such that every participant is under tremendous pressure to win at any price. This is something that is almost impossible for fans to grasp. If I had been offered to take drugs, I tell you, I would have been honored to take them! That would have meant I was destined to be a leader. & who knows? Maybe a winner!” 

With this declaration there was a prolonged silence. If this old biker was not ready to cry out, “J’accuse!", should we? Probably none would have had the courage to defend Lance, but I doubt we would be jumping on our soap box to excoriate him.  

Epilogue

Lance Armstrong has never been caught taking drugs...as so many others have been i.e. Alberto Cantador, Bjarne Riis, & Marco Pantini. The case against him has been won on the testimony of teammates, in particular Floyd Landis who thought he could win after Lance retired, but got caught for doping anyway.