Paris. December, 2005

When I entered the small but well-stocked Barthélémy cheese shop in Paris’ trendy 7eme arrondissement, two salesladies were chatting, no one else in the store. In my halting French, I asked, “Can you help me, please?” One replied, “Perhaps.” And so began a somewhat rocky exchange. The details, somewhat frosty, are unimportant when set beside the results shown here. I’d explained that I was in a hotel, that I had no kitchen, that I wanted to try some cheeses. And that’s pretty much what happened. Along with some bread I picked up at Poilâine, I was able to sample some Camembert, a Vacherin and some third kind. Chèvre or goat, I think. (Later, a friend explained a possible reason for les madames’ haughtiness: “Catherine Deneuve shops there.” So what?)

Milos, Greece. October, 2011

Big brother is watching. On a lazy Sunday morning hike to a hilltop village here on the small island of Milos, Jay and I encountered a total of perhaps three cars in two hours. Still, drivers, be warned. Translation provided for potential English-speaking scofflaws, as well.

Montreal. October, 2006

I’ve always thought of Montréal as an odd amalgam of Paris and Minnesota. The weather, the clothes and, yes, sometimes even the food. Tourtières (meat pies), Cretons (fatty pork spread)...and don’t get me started on Poutine. Why, I wonder, would people want to take perfectly good crispy French fries and douse them with cheese curds and, worse, gravy? As Robert DeNiro memorably said about overcooking meat in Raging Bull, “Defeats the purpose.”

Montreal. October, 2006

My favorite bread bakery in Montréal is Le Fromentier at 1375 Rue Laurier Est. It’s just enough out of our way that we tend to drive there as we’re headed out of town, often spending the last of our Canadian money on “a few things” to take home. Seen here, just a small sampling of what’s on offer, some baguettes, some Pullman loaves. Elsewhere, in addition to the ovens that you can see in operation, there are shelves of different kinds of fougasses, brioches, sourdough loaves, puff pastries with a range of sweet or savory fillings, breads enhanced with any number of nuts, dried fruits, seeds. Certain items are only available on certain days. The aroma alone makes it worth the trip.

Montreal. October, 2006

A man outstanding in his field. Not exactly. Though the Parc La Fontaine is my chosen spot to run in. Lots of paths, twists and turns past ponds and (of course) fountains. Parents entertaining their children. Public art. Even dogs who speak French. Imagine. We always visit Montréal in the autumn when the leaves are radiant, and then fall to the ground. The leaves, not us.

Havana. February, 2012

The name of the bookstore may be Modern Poetry, but I saw no poems on the sparsely stocked shelves. Mostly picture books for the tourists, a few cookbooks, tracts that align well with the Socialist regime. Still the sign above the front door and this terrazzo sidewalk just below suggest a more prosperous time, maybe 70 years ago, when this was the place for the Habana glitterati to congregate.

Paris. December, 2005

Can you tell a langouste from a langoustine? From a homard? Do you want your lobster to be Breton or not? These French are serious about their food. Local and sustainable are not new concepts for them. They’re not all that interested in fast food, and regularly stage protests when McDonald’s tries to open in their terroir. Here at the Marché Bastille, there were dozens of shellfish vendors, each of whose displays dazzled. Hélas, as so often happens, the enticements of the market are visual only for this “no kitchen privileges” traveler. Still, it’s fun to look. And imagine.