Chris Horner Lost in Spain's Corner

In January of this year (2013) I submitted an entry entitled, “Lance and France.” I got quite a lot of commentary, enlightening and enjoyable. As a follow up I would like to report that last month, September 2013, Chris Horner, a 41-year old American won the Tour d’Espagne, an unexpected feat for a veteran cyclist. In fact, Horner was the oldest winner of any major tour in history.* 

This should have made headline news in our press.  But, alas it did not, as our press after having taken the wrong side in L'Affaire Armstrong would not talk about any other cyclist. If our journalists had done their homework they would have discovered that Horner had won fair and square.  For twenty years Horner had been reduced to the rank of domestique because he had never been earmarked initially as a potential champion.  Therefore, he had not been offered drugs like his leader, Lance Armstrong.

The magic portals opened for Horner when the cycling authorities succeeded in eliminating doping. Without asking anyone's permission, Horner decided to peddle his own race in the Tour d'Espagne 2013, a particularly difficult grand tour because of the many mountains that the cyclists had to climb.  Lo and behold! Horner showed that he was the best.  His win is all the more outstanding because he made it on bad knees. Following the advice of his son he decided to put off surgery and compete.  With only steroid injections into the knees -- which are allowed -- he won against much younger, fitter cyclists. One of these was Vincenzo Nibali, 28, who won the Tour d’Italie in 2012 and 2013. 

Just as we believe that the election of Obama made "race" a non-issue, we hope that Chris Horner's win will be the marker of a new era in cycling in which "doping" is also a non-issue. In light of Horner's victory we think the press should take a fresh look at a sport which is breathtaking on TV and exciting to the max.

*There are 3 big competitive races: Italy in May, France in July, Spain in September. Americans who are less interested in competitive cycling than Europeans, mostly only pay attention to the Tour de France. Maybe that should change. Ol’ JJ had a hard time finding any reporting on the daily progress of the Spanish race, but finally found Vuelta A España 2013. 

"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.