Summer in the City

I’d have been even more disappointed to leave Southern California if I hadn’t known my adventure wasn’t over. I had more cousins to meet. But before that, it was time for a weekend in Chicago, a place I had always had a special relationship with -- more than a visitor but never quite a resident.

Several of my father’s relatives had lived in or near Chicago. My parents had worked there when they were first married. But, for me, Chicago always meant summer. I had spent part of many summer vacations there visiting relatives. I especially remember 1966 when I spent time with my grown cousin who had an apartment overlooking The Lake. (Chicagoans seldom say Lake Michigan or the Chicago River, just The Lake and The River) A city with beaches! Cool!

I had to be re-convinced of that in 1968. I’d just finished my first year of college in Ohio. My father’s company had transferred him from Jamaica to Chicago. I had to face the fact that the Island in the Sun was now part of my past. I’d be spending all my vacations in Chicago for the foreseeable future. By the end of August, after weeks of roaming the City, I’d rediscovered the fun. It’s possible that, just about then, my parents wondered whether they’d made the right decision. For that was the August of the “Democratic Nightmare Convention” The day before it started, Mummy and I went down to see the candidates.

In those more innocent times, we were a little surprised to see so many of Chicago’s Finest as well.

For the rest of the week we stayed in our new home in a nearby suburb and saw more of them on TV. But that was long ago and many happier summer memories have overlaid that one. This summer, after a fifteen year absence, I was looking forward to making new ones.

 Chicago has always done summer well. Let me show you. But click here first. Let’s begin with a parade. The city has eight of them throughout the year. June is the colorful Gay Pride Parade.
 

We can’t miss seeing the Water Tower and the nearby Pumping Station, two of only a few buildings to have survived the Great Fire of 1871.

My aunt used to have a chest. She said her grandfather had carried it to the river that night. That chest and the Water Tower made a huge impression on me as a child.

 Wrigley Field always brings back memories of Cubs games with my Dad.

And we have to take a boat ride on The River.

There have always been parks for all to enjoy.

It’s fun to see the revitalized Navy Pier from the top of the ferris wheel.

My friends were pleased to show me Millennium Park, the newest addition to summertime fun.

Soon it was time for dinner in one of the bustling restaurants.

They all seemed so noisy! I realized I’d been in Paris too long where restaurants are quiet and one speaks in hushed tones. Chicago still remembers its speakeasy days. How can you have fun in a whisper? After dinner there’s time for one last look at Buckingham Fountain.

We can relax on a bench in Grant Park

and admire the city.

It’s true that we haven’t gone shopping. We haven’t visited the Lincoln Park Zoo, the Planetarium, the Field Museum or the Art Institute. We haven’t been to a jazz club, the theater or an outdoor concert. But we’ve had a pretty good day. And there’s always another day. Or another summer.

California Dreamin'

California. For 38 million people it’s home – a place to love or hate, to be proud of or frustrated by. But thanks to Al Jolson ,Hollywood, television and dozens of pop songs, it’s an almost mythical place for hundreds of millions more. California’s the place where you go to make your fortune, to become famous, to start a new life; the place where the sun always shines, the palm trees sway in the warm breeze, all the girls are beautiful, all the men are handsome and parties are never-ending. A child of the 60’s, I’d been one of those hundreds of millions, spending hours listening to the Beach Boys and Joni Mitchell and dreaming of peace, love, beaches, surfing and sunshine. (This seems ironic since I spent my teenage years in Jamaica. But Hollywood’s influence is strong so, like many, I longed for the wonderland I’d never seen and took for granted the paradise I knew.)
 The dream held firm throughout all the news stories of smog, earthquakes and freeway gridlock as well as my later amused understanding, after I moved to France, that living in a place is different from imagining it or even visiting it. Many of my friends pictured my life in Paris as 365 days a year of romance, gourmet food and museums, totally dismissing from their minds any idea of such mundane things as work, chores and other aspects of daily life.
 Finding a new cousin under such unusual circumstances was exciting. I’d have gone to visit her no matter where she lived. But there was an added thrill in knowing I would be visiting her and her family in CALIFORNIA.

Sometimes reality disappoints. But, in this case, it actually exceeded my expectations. I was met at the airport by two smiling people in bright LA Angels shirts and taken to a comfortable, spacious home that reminded me of a combination of all the homes I’d seen on TV shows plus our home in Jamaica. The next day, I met three generations of smiling, healthily tanned cousins – just the way California cousins should look – for a combination Father’s Day celebration and early birthday party for me. My cousin Morgan was working that day so couldn’t come to the party. But since she has a cake-making business, she sent along a sample of her work for us all to enjoy. My memories of that day are somewhat fuzzy, due to jet-lag, but I have photographic proof that I enjoyed myself.

During the next few days, I met the various members of the family on their home ground. I was able to thank Morgan in person for the delicious cake as well as admire the view from her parents’ home.

I enjoyed her aunt's view, too.

Her uncle was working but that gave me an opportunity few people can boast of. (And, since, fortunately,there were no fires at the time of our visit, it was relaxed and pleasant .)

For a whole week, skies were blue and temperatures were balmy. I enjoyed the company, feasted my eyes and found everything both familiar and hard to believe. California itself seemed determined to show me that all those movies and TV shows and songs had not lied. Don’t believe me? See for yourself.

Uncle George's Legacy

I always knew I had an Uncle George. Or, rather, that Daddy and Aunt Pauline had one. As a child, I heard about long ago Christmases with Uncle George as Santa. When I was a teenager, Aunt Pauline told me, in reverend tones “Uncle George and Uncle Ben” – his older brother – “were very prominent in the Swedish community in Chicago.” Since all the stories were old ones and there were no Christmas or birthday cards, presents or invitations, I naturally assumed that, like my grandfather, Uncle George had passed away years before. Imagine my surprise at the end of Christmas vacation my Junior Year of college when I learned that he had just died and we were going to his Visitation. So I did see him once, laid out, according to his instructions, in the flamboyant red robes he wore as “Sir Bacchus” -- chairman of the Wine and Food Society he had, apparently, loved. The only picture I have of him is much less colorful, I’m afraid.

After the funeral, things really got interesting. Uncle George, a lawyer, childless and, as far as I know never married, had left a detailed will. As a fan of Agatha Christie, it seemed quite normal to me but caused great discussion among the older members of the family. After leaving sums of money to various people who took care of him, he put the bulk of his estate into trust for three generations of nieces and nephews. His surviving niece and two nephews (aged between 55 and 68 at the time of his death) were to receive a sum of money annually until their death – not enough money to retire on, certainly, but enough to add small luxuries to each year. My two oldest first cousins received a smaller amount of money, to be paid annually until their deaths. Uncle George had seemingly not taken into consideration that an amount that seemed generous at the time of his will might not buy as many luxuries twenty years later. Daddy was annoyed, too, because he felt I had been slighted. I was his daughter just as the other two were his sister’s daughters. Why was I left out? My pragmatic mother remarked that since Daddy hadn’t seen his uncle for years, he should be glad Uncle George remembered our part of the family at all. For I was included in the final step of the trust. After the death of all the previously named beneficiaries, the money left was to be divided among the other great and great-great nieces and nephews Uncle George had been aware of. Two years ago it was time for this final step – and for the biggest surprise. One of the beneficiaries was a person we had never known. I vaguely remembered hearing about her and knew she was the daughter of my Uncle Bill. But I had never met him, let alone her. Thanks to modern data banks and technology, within a few months our “lost cousin” had been located. She was even more surprised than we had been. Her parents had been divorced when she was a baby and she was brought up in an entirely different family unit. Talk about Agatha Christie! And so, more than 42 years after Uncle George’s death, I flew from Paris to California to meet my cousin and her family. Very pleased we are with our legacy.

Posies and Politics

May 1st is one of my favorite French holidays. It’s the first of the spring holidays -- bringing hope (not always realized) for warmer weather and sun we have missed for months. As I have mentioned previously it is also a quirky blend of several different commemorations and traditions. All French people can unite behind the giving of sprigs of lily of the valley(“muguet”)to friends and family members for good luck today. This, after all, has been going on since the Middle Ages.

But May 1st is also Labor Day in France, as it is in many other countries.(It was a great shock to me when I first came here to discover that the choice of this date commemorated an American strike. It was a great shock to my French friends that I didn’t know this.) On May 1st 1886, in Chicago, four hundred thousand workers marched in favor of the 8 hour work week. Several days later the protest turned violent and police and strikers were killed. Three years after that, the International Socialists, holding their meeting in Paris that year in honor of the Centenary of the French Revolution, declared May 1st a “day of struggle” for the 8 hour work week. In 1941 the Vichy Government declared it a public holiday called Labor Day in an attempt to gain the support of union leaders. After the war, the holiday was confirmed. No one ever refuses a day off but only the Unions maintained their tradition of marching for Social Justice on this day. In Paris, they march from the Latin Quarter to the Bastille -- as befits idealists who want to change the world. For nearly 25 years, the far right, not to be outdone, has had their march on May 1st in Paris -- to celebrate Joan of Arc. Their route is shorter – from the Place de l’Opéra to her golden statue on rue de Rivoli near the Tuilleries Gardens. The reasons and choice of date are convoluted. Joan of Arc was first celebrated by the left – as a girl of the people “betrayed by her king and burned by her church” They lost interest in her when she was made a Saint by the same Church in 1920. After this, the Royalists adopted her ( since she had been a faithful servant of the King). The far right adopted her, too, as a symbol of French nationalism against the foreign (read European) enemy. For years, they commemorated their different visions of the young peasant girl together on the second Sunday of May. But in 1988, the second Sunday of May was the Second Round of the Presidential election. Jean Marie Le Pen, leader of the Far Right political party decided Joan of Arc should be commemorated on May 1st instead so as not to interfere with the election. His party has continued to do so ever since. Would I be cynical in thinking that this ensures that the unions and the leftist political leaders don’t get all the media coverage that evening? Nicolas Sarkozy may have thought so. Those who support him and his party have never had anything special to do on May 1st -- except giving muguet to their friends and families. At the end of April this year, M. Sarkozy declared he was calling the “real workers” to assemble at the Place de Trocadéro He later apologized for his “unfortunate phrase” but maintained his meeting. In a spirit of political ecumenism, I attended all these events for you. Each had numerous enthusiastic supporters and each had its own flavor. If you have read my text carefully, you’ll know which pictures came from which event, I’m sure.

Habemus President

On May 6th 2012, François Hollande’s election as President of France was announced, as most of you know.

How many different systems people have created in an attempt to organize free, open and honest elections! Experience in different countries has taught me that, as in most human endeavors, none is perfect – and yet all the variations work. Here’s the route that François Hollande took. First, of course, he had to become one of the candidates. Any French citizen over the age of 18 is theoretically qualified to run for President. Candidates do not need to belong to a recognized political party. Some found a party or movement just so they can run. But they must prove national support. All must turn in to the Conseil Consitutionel, at least six weeks before the election, 500 signatures from elected officials from at least 30 départements (counties) and with no more than 10% from any single département.This year, because of this last condition, only ten of the 29 people who had announced their candidacy, were able to run. François Hollande had another hurdle. In October 2011, the Socialists held their first-ever open primary with six candidates. It was preceded by three televised debates. To vote in the primary, you did not have to be a Socialist, just a registered voter willing to sign a paper saying that you agreed with the “values of the Left and of the Republic” (such as, liberty, equality, fraternity, secularism, justice and social progress) and pay 1 euro towards the cost of organizing the primary. After winning and becoming the official candidate of the Socialist Party, M. Hollande entered the campaign phase. As well as appearing at numerous “meetings” large and small, he and the other 9 presidential candidates were given free air time on the public television and radio stations during the six weeks before the first round of the election – an equal amount of time for each. Television newscasts were required to give each candidate equal time and each candidate was invited to speak at each of the political talk shows. At last April 22nd arrived -- the first round of the election. French elections always have two rounds. As the French saying goes “The first round is to choose and the second to eliminate.” Candidates from the major parties beg for people to “vote usefully” (that is for them). But a large percentage of the votes in the first round go the more radical "smaller candidates" – in this election 44% distributed among eight candidates and the rest for either M Hollande or M Sarkozy. The two weeks between the rounds is the most exciting part of the campaign for many. Candidates who came third or fourth call press conferences to tell people who they intend to support in the second round and sometimes urge their supporters to do the same. Journalists try to discover if any backroom deals are being stuck -- “Support me and I’ll name you to my Cabinet if I win.” -- while the major candidates deny any such thing is happening. And there is the debate – a face to face confrontation of the second round candidates. Two journalists are present as timekeepers. They try to ask questions and control answer times but usually fail miserably. The candidates are professionals. They have been debating for years and don’t need journalists to tell them how. The debate is announced for two hours and this year ran for nearly three. The campaign ended Friday at midnight as it must by law. No politics was discussed – on television at least – on Saturday, the “day of reflection.” No polls were published. On Sunday, the vote took place.

80% of eligible voters went to the polls (about average) and François Hollande was elected with 51.63% of their votes.

On May 15th, he will drive himself to the Elysées Palace. M Sarkozy will greet him and take him inside. An hour or so later, he will accompany M Sarkozy back out and shake hands with him. And France will have a new President.

Let's Dance

Like all university towns, Oxford is a lively place. I made my way through the streets before my friends’ party, mingling with swarms of tourists. I came upon the Town Crier in full regalia

and a group of earnest protesters.

Another treat was in store for me. I discoved this was the weekend of the Oxford Folk Festival with groups of dancers at every turn.

I love dancing, though I’ve never been much good at those that require actual sequences of steps. It’s not for lack of trying. A few years ago, inspired by a friend, I took up belly dancing– more elegantly called « oriental dancing ». My teacher said, encouragingly, after my 5th lesson, that I was beginning to get the hang of things. I made her laugh when I replied I had surprised several of my muscles which had been having a free ride for over 50 years and were shocked at the idea they were being requested to DO something! I was probably one of the few spectators that appreciated the effort of these young ladies.

Most of the dancers were Morris Dancers. Morris dancing is an old English tradition that had nearly died out until, in the early twentieth century, it was revived as a folk activity. My personal contact with Morris dancing occurred two years ago. Our English choir director that year had chosen Charles Stanford’s "The Morris Dance" for us to learn. It was not a huge success at first. The English member of our choir and I found it rather dull -- unlike any Morris dance music we had ever heard. The French majority were just puzzled by the words. I'm sure you can see why. “Come, lasses, come, come quickly! See, how trim they dance and trickly, Hey, there again! ho, there again! How the bells they shake it… Now for our town there take it… Soft awhile, not away so fast They melt them, Piper… be hanged awhile, Knave, the dancers swelt them, Out there, out awhile! you come too far… Give the hobby horse more room to play in.” A small group of us decided it was time everyone saw what we were singing about. Thanks to tips from Charlottesville’s own Albemarle Morris Men whose rehearsal I was able to attend earlier that spring,

videos and music from the internet and several evening rehearsals at the home of one of our choir members, our merry band of improvised Morris Dancers brought Stanford’s song to life at our final weekend rehearsal.

I watched the sides perform in Oxford that weekend

with my secret knowledge -- though they would never know it, I was one of them.