Un musée, un jardin et un opéra sans un fantôme

The difference was, instead of mariachi music he played an accordion. The sound immediately Parisian, reminding me of Woody Allan's soundtrack to Midnight in Paris. Somehow, even though it was a morning commute, the sound of the accordion was less irritating than the sound of the mariachi music I so often encounter on the subway in New York City. Of course, observing the faces of the locals, I might conclude that the sound of an accordion in Paris is viewed much the same as the mariachi band that interrupts what might otherwise be a quiet commute in NYC. 

After yesterday's lovely, wandering, stroll of an experience, today begged for a visit to the Louvre. Two days was long enough to wait to say hello to Mona and the Venus de Milo.

The line was long to buy tickets but seemed to move quickly. I'm a New Yorker. I hate waiting in line, but I'm used to it. Today's fun fact about lines is: know what line you're waiting in. I thought I was in the line to buy tickets. I didn't ask anyone, but observed those waiting in the line and made the decision that I had made the correct choice. When I finally got to the stanchions I began to second guess myself. Turns out, I was in the right line. But having abandoned my position to ask if I was in the right line, I had to find myself back at the end of a line that had tripled in length since I first joined it. The lesson here is: either ask first or trust yourself. 

Before actually buying my ticket and entering the famous Musée du Louvre, I had to have coffee. My head was already beginning to pound. I knew I wouldn't enjoy my first time with Mona if I didn't have the coffee to ward off the caffeine headache. Damn caffeine! Throwing all dietary and personal training restrictions aside I had another Pain au chocolat. Remember yesterday? I'm in Paris. I might as well indulge. My trainer wants me too. Of course, he knows he's going to get paid to help me work it off when I get back to the States. Then the Pain won't be chocolat as much as just "pain."

The hum of the milling crowd filled the cavernous space like the sound of worker bees in their hive. All the different languages rising together to blend into one human-made vibration. 

Let me talk about that word cavernous. Has there ever been a truer truth spoken? Especially when referring to the Louvre? I was lost, wandering around in the wrong direction, looping back on myself for the first 15 minutes. If I'd been dropping bread crumbs I would have been seeing them over and over, albeit trampled to flatness by the throng of people wandering about just like I. 

Finally I did what I had to do: ask. I was in the wrong wing of the Musée...completely. I was never going to find Mona in that wing no matter how much I stared at my map and tried to figure out where she was compared to where I was. We would have been two ships that never passed in the night. Once I was in the correct wing it wasn't difficult to find her. There were signs posted with arrows pointing me in her direction. She is pretty popular for a relatively plain girl. I saw the crowds before I actually saw her. I walked past them then turned to join them in their direction of vision. You can't really get close to her. And admiring up close is not really an option. I'll admire my photographs up close. I had been told she would be smaller than I thought. Honestly, she was bigger than I had imagined her smallness to be. She probably would have been exactly the size I imagined if I hadn't expected a tiny portrait that made one question the hype. All of that said, no matter her size, her beauty or plainness, there's something exhilarating about seeing her in person. She doesn't quite breathe, but you get the sense that she was once alive, captured in a moment that countless people, for nearly five centuries have admired. I have always questioned why this piece is so renowned, but really the why doesn't matter. She is and now I've seen her smile. 

Venus de Milo was a little easier to find after I'd gotten acquainted with the signs that pointed attendees in the direction of the most popular pieces of art in the Musée. She was a little more breathtaking. On par with the Eiffel Tower. I turned the corner and there she was. Yes, I gasped! The crowds formed a semi-circle in front of her, but I had no trouble seeing Aphrodite -- who she is believed to be -- in her statuesque, armless beauty. I found myself much more interested in the sculptures than the paintings. Perfect specimen's captured forever in marble. The male statutes were so chiseled: perfect pecs, flat stomach's (some with abs), bubble butts. If there was a Grindr in Ancient Greece, some of these men would have been the belle's of the ball. Seriously. And beautiful, to get back on track. 

Just when I thought I'd actually figured it out, I actually had. I navigated myself straight to the wing that held the Egyptian sarcophagi. With a little patience and little bit a putting myself inside the map (à la Joey on Friends in London) I found what I was looking for all by myself.  

Continuing to walk forward I stumbled upon a treasure trove of histoire magnifique. The objets d'art De Louis XIV à Louis XVI. The furniture, the tapestries, the chandeliers, the harpsichord, the harp, the porcelain, the silver service. The colors and designs opulent and grand. These objets also included pieces of porcelain service, as well as personal effects (like the travel kit), belonging to Queen Marie Antoinette. Marie figgin' Antoinette. Her actual stuff. What? Yo!

My stroll through Le jardin des Tuileries reminded me of strolling the Mall in Central Park: the water sellers were there, the sellers of art (Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe drawings anyone) and selfie sticks. One could even buy a miniature of the Eiffel Tower. There was no tree canopy like the Mall, though. The sun shown down from the blue, nearly cloudless, sky as I walked down the, what shall I call it, pedestrian thoroughfare?, gritty with pummeled rocks and finely milled dirt(?) and sand(?) that left my shoes covered in a layer of dust. It was flanked on either side by lush green lawns and trees with topiary and flowers thrown in the design for color, artistry, and beauty. One could see the tops of what I assume were immeubles d'appartements on either side much like in Central Park. It's that reminder that you're in a large city even though you're surrounded by nature. There was a fountain in the center surrounded by those seeking a respite to enjoy the sunshine. I myself took a small respite after walking around the Louvre for three hours and sat down on an empty chair in the shade of a tree and read about half a chapter in The Phantom Of the Opera. Seems apropos doesn't it? I mean I am in Paris. Oddly enough, I started reading the novel before I even booked my trip; before the trip was even a thought. I've had it since 1993 so I figured it was about time I read the real story instead of allowing Andrew Lloyd Webber's version be the only version I know.   

My visit to Musée de l'Orangerie was a non entry. It seems that the rooms housing Monet's Water Lilies is closed from 31 August through 12 September. I leave on the 13th. Ah well. I guess I'll just have to return to Paris for a peek at the Water Lilies that Monet captured at various times of day and remain his most well known artistic creations. 

Remember the musical Urinetown? The song "It's a Privilege to Pee"? Art imitates life imitates art. At the end of Le jardin des Tuileries there was a toilette. I hadn't had more than my coffee from my pre Louvre entry, but I did need to pee. That'll be ,70€ and the first time I've ever paid for the privilege. It was totally worth it. 

Picture it. Paris. 2015. I'm sitting on the steps of the Palaise Garnier (AKA the Paris Opera House that is the setting for The Phantom of the Opera), reading The Phantom of the Opera. I finished that chapter I started back in the Tuileries. Then...I went inside. That was an unqualified surreal moment. How do I even begin to describe the splendid grandeur? I was speechless. It was C'est magnifique! Regardless of the fictional Phantom of Gaston Leroux's story, one knows that all theatres have their ghosts and I can imagine the Palaise Garnier is no different. If only these walls could talk imagine the stories they could tell. 

I took a 7pm stroll to the Seine. I just sat, observed, and absorbed. There's beauty all around. Of course, I wonder if you live here if you still see it. I find myself, after 18 years, still discovering beauty amidst the mundane in New York City. It's around every corner you don't visit every day. The trick is finding it around those corners too.

Mona wanted to say hi, but all she could do was smile from behind the glass. Aphrodite desperately wanted to wave, but, well, you know how that goes when you have no arms. The walls couldn't talk but thankfully I can type so you get to hear my story. 

Le voyage se poursuit!

Les virages et Stepping l'intérieur

I turned the corner and gasped. She loomed in front of me. I was caught unawares and, frankly, was not prepared for the rush of emotion. I couldn't keep myself from smiling. I was seeing her in person for the first time. This mythic creature from photographs and films. This erection of iron from 1889. The epitome of the "art of the modern engineer, but also the century of Industry and Science in which we are living," so said Monsieur Eiffel back in 1885. Today it stands as major a tourist destination in Paris as the Empire State Building is in New York City. Of course I'm referring to the Eiffel Tower. 

Rife with pigeons and tourists alike, it was not that different from the melting pot of colors and languages that one would find near, I'm assuming, any major city's major attraction. I stared. It was okay to stare. She likes it. I looked up from directly underneath and marveled. I was the tourist with his chic touristy-ness on display. I ordered a café crème and Pain au chocolat and made my way to a park bench to sip, eat, and ponder the beauty in front of me. 

I could have been in any park anywhere. I could have been in New York City. There were certainly enough pecking pigeons hovering around waiting for that one crumb I didn't drop. There were certainly enough pedi-cabs cycling by. There were certainly enough people sitting on benches, going about their day. I wasn't anywhere else though. I was in a park in Paris. Sipping coffee on a park bench with the Eiffel Tower majestically, proudly standing in front of me. If you think I cried you're almost right. The tears welled up but I wouldn't let them fall. 

The sights (kids hanging out on the sidewalk in clusters before heading home from wherever they've been, people walking into and out of the Metro, jaywalking) and sounds (traffic, horns, jackhammers) were much like those in New York City. I don't know what I was expecting, but we're all the same, we humans. We interact the same. We laugh the same. We beg on the Metro the same. We may speak different languages, but the results are translatable. You don't even need an app. Just use use your eyes and ears. 

Visiting the Arc de Triomphe was, for me, much more on par with seeing, say, the Bethesda Fountain in Central Park. I love the fountain. It's one of my favorite spots in the park, but it's just something beautiful to see. The Arc de Triomphe was a monument on my Must See list, but it wasn't as breathtaking as the Eiffel Tower. I didn't gasp when it came into view as I exited the Metro. I smiled. I mean, let me be honest, I was actually in its presence so that was pretty cool. But it wasn't the same experience, for me, as turning that corner and the Eiffel Tower standing in front of me. I did love the rotary surrounding the Arc de Triomphe and how one doesn't have to cross the traffic to get to it. I seriously stood there wondering how I was going to get across. I couldn't find a pattern for the traffic that didn't always have cars moving in that circle. The Parisians were smart enough to construct an underground walkway. Clever. Not saying we Americans wouldn't do that, just wondering if it might be an afterthought instead of a forethought. I'm just saying the concept was pretty brilliant. Traffic continues to flow and pedestrians don't have to be "en garde" for their lives. 

My stroll down the Champs-Élysées (a little Fifth/Madison Avenues with a little bit of 42nd Street thrown in to give everyone a chance) was the kind of stroll that raises the heart rate even though it's merely a stroll. When you stumble upon Louis Vuitton and Ladurée even though you can visit them anytime in their locations in New York City on Fifth Avenue or Madison Avenue respectively, it's somehow different to see them in their country of origin. One must participate in the joy this brings either by taking photos, window shopping, stepping inside to experience the atmosphere, or buying the set of six macarons, which include The Marie Antoinette flavor, which I've not seen available in New York City. Although, it could be available at this moment as these are the Les macarons--Septembre.

When I arrived at what appeared to be the end of the Champs-Élysées I was a little puzzled. I hadn't seen Chanel or Dior yet. I was sure they each had a boutique located on the Champs-Élysées. Then I turned the corner (I seem to be turning a lot of corners today) onto Avenue Montaigne. It was a cloudy day in Paris, but the fashion gods shined their sun rays down on me because there they were, illuminated and lining the Avenue Montaigne: boutiques for Dolce & Gabbana, Saint Laurent, Fendi, Marni, Celine, Chanel, Givenchy, Dior, Valentino. It was the avenue of gay-man-fashionista dreams. Hell, even Marlene Dietrich used to live on Avenue Montaigne.

After wandering down the Avenue for minutes, hours(?), just taking it all in, I went back to Saint Laurent. I wanted to go inside, but started to walk past. Then I remembered that I wanted to participate. I wanted to be me in Paris. I wanted to go inside the store. So, I stopped myself. I stepped inside the door. I asked the portier, "May I," and he preceded, in English, to point me in the direction of accessories and ready-to-wear for women and the collection for men, which was upstairs. It was while perusing the accessories for women that I not only recognized the pink of my Chuck Taylor's (I was wearing them) in the leather bags and wallets on display in front of me, but I recognized former French Vogue editor, and founder of CR Fashion Book, Carine Roitfeld shopping in the store. That was a surreal moment. She's a beautiful older woman whose face looks the same in the magazines as it does in person. I wanted a selfie with her but maintained restraint and decorum. I was in the flagship store of Yves Saint Laurent, ok. No need to go off the rails. 

Upstairs I encountered the lovely Anna. She accepted my French, but recognized me as American. She spoke just enough English for us to communicate almost effortlessly. While discussing with me a particular wallet that I took a liking to but did not need (I have a recently purchase Louis Vuitton so this would have been wallet excess just for the excess), she offered me a glass of champagne. Who was I to say no. I mean, I recently made myself say yes in Tiffany & Co in New York City. I wasn't about to give pause to saying yes in Saint Laurent in Paris. I drank a glass of Champagne rosé while shopping in Saint Laurent. You bet your ass I did! After I admired the clothes, the wallets, and the sunglasses I decided that I couldn't walk out of the boutique without a pair of love-at-first-sight the sunglasses. They're part of the fall collection and they fit my face beautifully. That was the moment that I nearly cried. I love Yves Saint Laurent. To purchase a YSL accessory from the flagship Paris boutique was almost to much joy to contain. I'm certain that being in the boutique...in Paris...allowed me to throw all caution (and thought of price) to the wind. But I don't care. The price was actually not an issue. The moment, however, was spectacular and can never be recaptured. The memory of the purchase of my first piece of YSL with forever be a cherished memory. 

Running on adrenaline, excitement, and the fumes of that Pain au chocolat consumed earlier in the day, I took myself toward "home" and the necessity of food and desire for wine. Côtes du Rhône, anyone? Oui!

Participer à La Royale

It was basically a diner, La Royale. The sign said café, but it reminded me of a diner in NYC. The menu layout, the offerings, the tables. One difference was the active bar. That’s not necessarily like an NYC diner. Basically…well, you get the picture. My first meal in Paris was in a diner that offered entrée and dessert specials and called itself a café. I think it was the comfort of familiarity in an unfamiliar place.

There were a few things that troubled me as I prepared for this trip: 1) Would my debit card work to withdraw Euro’s from an ATM? (It did). 2) Would I be able to navigate myself from my hotel to where ever “there” was during the day then back to the hotel again? (so far so good, but the Metro will be the real test). 3) Would I have any problems dining? 

I know that may sound silly -- maybe even absurd -- but as I wandered around my temporary neighborhood, The Marais, today, salivating at times at the thought of bellying up to a bar to enjoy a glass of vin rouge or sitting outside in the crisp, jacket-wearing-weather air at a café table and enjoying a café crème, I passed them all and walked my timid, lily-livered self around and around the winding blocks of a small vicinity in Paris. Looking. Observing. Breathing. Smiling. Finally with hunger and thirst gnawing at my stomach and throat I made the decision to take myself inside La Royale and sit down. I'm trying to speak the language, what little of it I possess (Bonjour, Merci, Oui, S'il vous plaît, Au revior, etc.) — pleasantries — but I have yet to relax and proceed with speaking the French niceties without fear of ridicule or mockery. I mean really, I'm not French so why am I so worried. The point is I find it exciting to speak pleasantries in French. There's no reason I should let my own insecurities stand in my way of meeting new people...or eating. 

I observed myself as I ate. Almost like I had moments of out-of-body-ness where I actually saw myself. Timid, reserved, not wanting to draw attention to myself. I was a far cry from the girl sitting outside with her boyfriend laughing, drinking red wine, smoking a cigarette, and checking herself out in her reflection every chance she got. She was a French speaking Parisian girl without the appearance of care or concern and she was putting me to shame with her abundance of pleasure while I sat my reserved ass in a café chair and tried to remember how I was supposed to eat according to the guidebooks instead of just relaxing and being me…in Paris.

This is the only picture I've taken so far in Paris, but it looks like quintessential Paris to me. 

I’m telling you, people, I have a long way to go to get to the place of not appropriating the ideals that I think others want me to appropriate and of not caring what other people think. As long as I’m kind and courteous, I should just be me. I should demand it of myself. This is my trip to Paris and being afraid of a language barrier (that I’ve yet to encounter) or of looking like a tourist (I AM ONE) is not going to cut it. 

I can’t be anyone else but me and the sooner I realize that the better this trip will be.

BTW, I recommend the white fish in tomato sauce at La Royale. Also, the Chardonnay. It was dry and worked beautifully with the fish. Upon leaving the café I said "Bon soir" (good evening). A French customer of saying goodbye when you leave the business much like saying Bonjour or Bon soir (depending on time of day) when you enter. Participation can be fun.

Voler à Paris

There was no more leg room on this flight than on a typical domestic flight. There was, however, a television on the seat back in front of me. Bonus. Movies! I've only experienced that one time before. When I flew JetBlue to Nashville, Tennessee one Thanksgiving to surprise my family before their feast of turkey and dressing. I watched the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade then entire flight.

The aisles on this massive plane weren't wide. The seats weren't any wider than any other flight I've been on before either. I wasn't exactly cramped in my seat, but I want exactly spreading out either. The man next to me in his Seersucker suit, although not a fat man, and actually very kind, could be considered "spreading out" as he took up both arm rests at various times during the flight. But I digress.

The airplane, a Boeing 777-200ER operated by Air France, was the largest plane I've ever been on. I know from domestic-sized planes, and I know from small planes — those 25-32 seat puddle jumpers connecting from Memphis (formerly) or Chicago to Paducah. It's quite a different experience to be on a plane that seats more than 300 people. A small city soaring through the air, across an ocean. In my section of Economy there were three seats then four seats then three more seats dissected by a couple of aisles. A, B, C (aisle) E, F, G, H (aisle) J, K, L. I've never had that many letters across. 

The announcements were made in French then English with flight attendants representing Dutch, French, and Italian descents. If there was an American he/she was well hidden. 

The people around me all spoke French. Even the small child two seats away. Are they returning home from holiday in America? Are they going on holiday to visit family in the France? Maybe they're just bilingual and choosing to practice the language for a holiday, like mine, in Paris. I'm in the minority here. 

The lights dim in the cabin. It's slow like the romantic dimming of a chandelier but not nearly as sexy sitting in a plane full of people. 

I want to watch a movie. Cinderella to be exact. Or maybe Insurgent. Two movies I never saw when they were playing in the movie theatre. I also want to fall asleep or order a glass of wine. As we taxi I want us to be in the air already. I want us to be halfway there by now. We're not. The wheels have yet to lift off and I still lack patience after all these years. 

It's about the journey: the take off, the flight, the landing, the arrival, the breathing and existing in the French air. These are all things that are part of the journey. The journey is to be savored; enjoyed. Not rushed. I've read about the Parisians. They don't rush. They savor. They sip. They sit. They enjoy. 

With wheels in the air I sat back to enjoy the flight and anticipate the fragrance of the Parisian air.

I chose Cinderella. "Have courage and be kind," Cinderella's mother said to her. Courage and a bit of friendly persuasion is what it took for me to make this journey. Now to find the patience to savor and courage to enjoy my brief respite in France before if becomes a memory.

Départ pour Paris

It still feels unreal. Even as I sit in terminal 1 in JFK airport at gate 3 amidst all the people who will be on my flight. I am flying to Paris. It's already Monday there. But for me Sunday night will give way to Monday morning in a matter of hours and I will be on the ground in France before 1pm (CEST).

This trip has been a long time in the dreaming and wishing but a short time in the reality of its actualization. Almost two weeks ago to the hour of departure I booked the trip. And now the time is here. That didn't give me too much time to anticipate, but enough time for the emotions of fear and excitement to duke it out for the top spot in my chest and in the pit of my stomach. 

I still can't believe this is happening. I can't believe I booked the trip. I can't believe I'm going to Paris. I can't believe I'm going to Paris...alone. These are the thoughts that run through my head as the Air France attendant begins pre-boarding my flight with infants and the rest who get to pre-board. 

A sense of peace washes over me...occasionally. This is happening. When the sun rises in America tomorrow I will be in France, probably in a car on my way to my hotel. 

Bonjour!

The Republican Presidential Pageant...er...Debate

As I waited for the pageant to begin I couldn't help but be surprised by how many people were in attendance. The Quicken Loans Arena in Cleveland, Ohio was packed with a cheering crowd that became even more rapturous in their applause and vocalizing as the contestants finally made their way to the stage. Ten men ranging in age from 44 - 69. Wait? What kind of pageant is this? Then I remembered what I was actually watching was the Republican Presidential debate on Fox News Channel and the only beautifully coiffed female on screen was Megyn Kelly. 

As the contestants started to answer questions posed by the moderators I quickly felt I was watching a debate between junior high schoolers who happened to be using big words to rile the crowd. However, these school boys didn't always answer the questions posed to them. Like beauty queens vying for the top prize, these male counterparts had their agendas and their talking points. And they tried to work them in in a roundabout way, pushing that square peg answer into that round hole question, all the while continuing to smile at the moderators and in some cases wink at the crowd.

Below are some things I took away from the torturous two hours that I didn’t want but knew I had to sit through:

Donald Trump thinks we're too politically correct in this country. I'm not sure I disagree with him. But he's cocky; an instigator. He seems to take pleasure in being politically incorrect and by the sounds of the cheering crowd he had them eating out of the palm of his hand. Sadly, I was afraid he was feeding them his own special brand of candy and that led me to wonder: With him in charge might the inmates truly be running the asylum. As the debate wore on, the cheering in respect to his comments and outbursts diminished giving me hope that many fingers had been put down many throats and that small piles of candy-colored vomit were beginning to soak into the carpet.

Scott Walker often looked like he was deigning to be a contestant. One had to get past his condescending facial expressions before his answers and comments could even begin to be heard. 

He said that God hasn’t given him a list, a 10 Commandments if you will, to enact on his first day should he be elected President, but he says that God wants us to follow his will and that’s what he’s going to try to do. That separation of Church and State line continues to get thinner and thinner with this Party.

Mike Huckabee erased the line between Church and State by calling for our country to recognize that the Supreme Court is NOT the Supreme Being and that the 5th and 14th Amendments should be used effectively to protect a child at the moment of conception. He's pro-life, and that's his prerogative, but his beliefs should not be thrust upon the women of this country who do not believe as he does.  It’s their bodies after all, should’t it be their choice?

When asked how he would handle transgender people serving openly in the military he responded, “The military is not a social experiment. The purpose of the military is to kill people and break things.” (The crowd cheers) “It’s not to transform the culture by trying out some ideas that some people think would make us a different country and more diverse. The purpose is to protect America.” So, Mr. Huckabee, are you saying that transgendered people can’t kill people, break things, and protect America like any other person serving in the military? He then spoke of how the military has been reduced under President Obama and how we should be able to help where ever the help is needed and then talked about the age of and number of B-52’s we currently have that are combat ready. Because that’s on trans topic.

I’m pretty sure he didn’t answer the question of what he would do as Commander-in-Chief re transgender military personnel, but from his body language and the light-in-the-loafers tone he took when talking about ‘transforming the culture’ and ‘making us more diverse’ one could tell he is adamantly opposed to transgender people serving in the military.

Ben Carson thinks that we should change our taxation plan in this country by using the biblical blueprint of tithing. Each person pays 10% of their earnings no matter what those earning are. 

He’s no fan of Hillary. 

He made a smart point of saying as a neurosurgeon he operates on the thing that makes people who they are—their brain. He went on to say it’s not their skin color or their hair that makes them who they are and, “It’s time for us to move beyond that because our strength as a nation comes in our unity. We are the United States of America not the Divided States of America.” Smart point, but not going to be President.

Jeb Bush, as much as I hate to say it, gave some pretty decent answers. Of course, I don’t want another Bush in office even if he does look more like Barbara than George H. W.  

I’m unsure why he thinks President Obama doesn’t give people hope.

Ted Cruz is a President Obama hater and thinks new leadership is needed. He is especially disappointed in the Obama Administration’s Foreign Policy. 

He is for religious liberty and against Planned Parenthood. There goes the gay and female vote. Not that he was every going to get either anyway.

His final statement began like this, “If I am elected President lemme tell ya about my first day in office. The first thing I intend to do is to rescind every illegal and unconstitutional executive action taken by Barack Obama.” (The crowd cheers) 

Marco Rubio says God has blessed the Republican Party with some very good candidates and that the Democratic Party can’t even find one. (The crowd cheers). 

Wow. I’m pretty sure I saw President Obama singing Amazing Grace at a funeral recently. We may have different ideas about how God works. I mean, just because he doesn’t do it like you think it will be done doesn’t mean he hasn’t blessed us.

Chris Christie thinks we need to start working on rebuilding our military immediately sending a clear message to the world that we’re a strong country. 

Rand Paul doesn’t want his guns or his marriage registered in Washington. He said, “When the government tries to invade the church to enforce its own opinion on marriage, that’s when it’s time to resist.” Yet I’m left to wonder why so many of these would be leaders so quickly bring God’s word or God into the conversation, when God’s word and God should have nothing to do with government. 

If the government should stay out of the church, as Mr. Paul suggests, then the church, religion, God should stay out of government. You can’t have it both ways.

John Kasich was a misappropriation of a podium. He’s a nice man who’s done a lot for the state of Ohio. He believes in traditional marriage. He says he’s old fashioned. But he also believes the simple fact of the matter is to give everyone a chance. If one of his daughters happened to be a lesbian he would love her and support her. He believe’s the Lord wants America to lead and to succeed. Nothing’s more important to him than his family, his faith, and his friends. Chris Christie or Rand Paul would get the nomination before this kind, grandfatherly type man.

Many of these contestants mentioned President Ronald Reagan in their answers, comments, or rebuttals. I was 17 when Ronald Reagan left office. I wasn’t very politically inclined back then. What I do know about him as a gay man doesn’t make me look at him as such a wonderful leader or political role model.

When the contestants began to talk directly to each other the claws came out. I half expected someone to throw off his heels, ask his trying-to-stay-poised neighbor to hold his earrings, and take out his bumpit. 

I can’t imagine what it must be like to be the President of the United States. I can’t imagine the pressure and stress of leading a country. I think it’s easy to stand behind a podium and point out what one thinks is wrong with the Obama Administration or what’s wrong with Hillary Clinton. But until any of these men happen to have the title of POTUS, no one, including themselves, knows what they will do or be able to accomplish with that power. Personally, I can’t imagine any of them being my President.

Root & Bone NYC

In the summertime the kitchen is the last place you want to be, right? It's hot in there. And that heat can be oppressive. Your hair sticks to the back of your neck. Sweat trickles down the center of your back. You need a separate dish towel just to wipe your forehead and the back of your neck...over and over. You can fan yourself but all that does is circulate the warm air.

Now pretend that kitchen is grandma's. Same summertime heat. It's steamy; made even more humid by the mixing of vapor rising from the pots on the stove and the heated oven where biscuits are baking at 350°. Lawdy mercy it's hot in there. But the swelter that comes from that kitchen is somehow comforting.

The kitchen is the center of the house; the hub. There's a flurry of activity--from checking the pans on the stove, to cutting up the garden fresh vegetables, to gossiping about the latest goings on about town. There's a sense of being part of something and you never know what stories you might hear. And then there're the smells. They make your mouth water in anticipation. As for the heat, well it's nothing a glass of ice cold lavender lemonade can't squelch. Or if you're feeling more spiritedly adventurous, try a Sweet Grass Gin with honey green grape & field greens. Ice cold of course.

That's just what my companion, Mandy, and I did on a recent evening. Mandy and I have dinner together every week. We both write and we use these weekly get togethers to read whatever's new that the other is working on or to catch up on the week. We often like to get out of our neighborhood rut and try something new. Twice a year over 300 restaurants participate in what is known as Restaurant Week. It's an affordable way to eat at what might otherwise be an unaffordable restaurant. Us taking advantage of our desire to find a new neighborhood and experience a new restaurant is what led us to pay our first visit to Root & Bone on Avenue B and 3rd Street in NYC's Alphabet City.

The place is small; the heat and the kitchen equally felt and on display. Don't let any of these things deter you. When you're sitting at your table, or at one of the bars, you might feel like you're at a family reunion. Everyone is sitting closely next to everyone else and all the conversations are happening at once creating a sound that, while less pleasant than a cicada symphony, is much more harmonious than traffic sounds and car horns.

Root & Bone has a menu of easygoing southern food dressed up with city personality. It knows where it comes from but it fits right in with the tastemakers and foodies of NYC.

In the south the evening meal of the day is called supper and that's exactly what Root & Bone calls what many New Yorker's call dinner.

1st course
From the Restaurant Week prefix menu I chose for my first course: Grandma Daisy's Angel Biscuits. Two small homemade biscuits served on a small wooden cutting board with a bowl of honey roasted chicken jus. Jus is just a fancy way of saying juice or gravy. There was a sprig of thyme and small mound of benne seeds and sea salt. For full effect the biscuit should be dipped in the jus then dipped in the sea salt and seeds then savored for all the unadulterated flavor that floods your taste buds.

Main course - Supper
Braised Short Rib Meat Loaf. This is not your grandma's meat loaf. In fact this meat loaf was like no other meat loaf I've ever eaten. For one thing it was texturally not what one would expect of meat loaf.  Meat loaf that is made from ground beef, ground turkey, ground pork, etc., all kind of looks the same. Like it's made from ground meat. This meat loaf had the structure of rib meat that you would eat off the rib. It wasn't ground. The tomato jam and mashed roots that decorated and paired with this meat loaf by design accentuated the flavor. The accompanying green beans and broccoli were seasoned to southern perfection.

Dessert
This is where I wanted to lose all my manners and decorum and lick the tin pan. I ordered strawberry shortcake. I was hoping that it would be made with a biscuit instead of the sponge cake I grew up calling strawberry shortcake. I was not disappointed. The biscuit was similar in size to one of Grandma Daisy's Angel Biscuits. This biscuit however was so much more. The bottom half was sitting in strawberry juice and topped with whipped cream and fresh strawberries. The top of the biscuit crowned the berries and cream. The 'so much more' of this biscuit was the sea salt that topped it. Salty and sweet like I'd never tasted it before. I'm aware of the chocolate and popcorn type of salty sweet, but this was so much unexpected goodness that I seriously was sad to take the last bite and made myself put my napkin in the tin pan to prevent myself from lapping the juice up like a dog.

At the end of supper I met chef Jeff McInnes. I'd had the pleasure of watching him work all evening--standing on the sidelines calling out orders, making sure things moved along. He mopped his brow in the heat. I told you that separate dish towel would come in handy. I watched as he mingled with his patrons--inquiring about their meals, making sure they knew exactly how to eat Grandma Daisy's Angel Biscuits. He seemed to have grace under pressure (some people thrive on that pressure) and was kind on top of that. In my observation, he genuinely wanted his guests to enjoy their experience. 

"How was everything?" he asked me.

He's a creative artist, after all, and like other creative artists who infuse there work with a part of their soul--a painter in his brush strokes, a writer in his narrative, a dancer in his dance--there's a part of a his soul in his recipes. Don’t we all want our supporters to enjoy our art?

My response, "So good. Oh my God!"

I know that’s true of everything I write. I want each piece to find its audience: those people who identify with, or laugh at, or cry over the tale. But even when I prepare a dish of food that might be new to its consumer, I desire to please them. I hope they love it as much as I do. There’s a sense of pride in blending the spices and marrying the flavors. From discerning palettes to non, one wants to thrill the tastebuds and excite the senses.

"I'll take that 'Oh my God,'" he smiled.

As we continued to chat beyond my exaltations of the meal, I learned that Jeff is from Alabama. I told him I'm from Kentucky. He was very personable. I told him that I'd been in the City for 18 years and that it's always nice to find a restaurant that offers southern cooking with a twist.

The oh-my-God summed it all up. The food was amazing. The atmosphere may have been hot, the ambient noise more foreground that back, but none of that mattered. The experience at Root & Bone is one that I would gladly repeat. As for the heat, maybe the air conditioner was out. Or maybe it's all just part of the experience. Regardless, I would go back in a heartbeat. Only next time I would hope to greet Jeff as less of a stranger and more of an acquaintance after all I've met him now and as Will Rogers said, "A stranger is just a friend I haven't met yet."