Everything looks better in pink light, don't you think?

I think I heard somewhere that the Ritz, in Paris, has its dining room illuminated by pink bulbs, with pinkish shades and everyone looks fabulous.  

They have to look good, after all, it is the Ritz.  They don't allow, you see,  unattractive people to be seated …I think the same thing is true for St. Bart's. When the boat comes into port there stands a sentry picking and choosing who can stay and who has to go back from whence they came.

Anyhow, as I was saying, pinkish light makes you look better.

Which is why I am moving to Roussillion.

Yeah, sure, it is a charming medieval village in the South of France. And yes, there are wonderful ancient sundials to see, beautiful bell towers to visit, and everywhere you turn, extraordinary views. 

But I am reasonably certain that the bus loads of tourists, who will start descending en masse in the coming months, arrive there because they know that the snapshots they take of one and other will show a youthful blush with nary an age spot or blemish in sight.

I'm moving to Roussillion.

Samuel Beckett, Andre Derain, Matisse, George Braque and Picasso, to name drop a few, all spent time in Roussillion. If anyone asks, tell them I moved there because I wanted to walk in the footsteps of those creative souls who came before me. 

And the bonus of all of this is knowing that my dewy glow is the result of my settling down here, and is not the result of a hot flash.

And there I was. Sur le Pont.

Neither dancing on, under or near by, I'm way too inhibited. 

Nor would I allow myself to sing any of the verses, had I known any of the verses. So sad, but since I was old enough to be in a chorus I was told to just mouth the words. I think it had something to do with throwing off the rest of the kids.

Talk about the "bridge to nowhere." Does Sarah Palin come to mind?

Anyhow, what really struck me today is that I have been singing, okay mouthing, the words to Sur le Pont..forever.  Never did I  a) know what the words actually were and  b) knew that this was an actual real thing. Saint Benezet's Bridge.  Go know.

And there it was. 

This got me thinking about all the songs that we have sung, particularly rock and roll songs, where we thought we had it right only to find out that the words we were singing were all wrong. 

Except, of course, for MacArthur Park (…took so long to make it and we'll never have the recipe again…) where even if we did have all the correct words it still made absolutely no sense.

Anyway, in case you run into a small child and want to get it right, here is the first verse. You are on your own for the rest.

Sur le pont d’Avignon
L'on y danse, l'on y danse
Sur le pont d’Avignon
L'on y danse tous en rond

Have you been to any of these places? 

Stroll/meander/saunter.

Park yourself at some outdoor cafe, have an aperitif, cafe or some other liquid of your choice and people watch. 

And, more importantly, be confident that it's easy to remember where you've been since you've seen a zillion photos immortalizing the place.

Actually, for me, another reason I'm seen wandering aimlessly up and down these grand streets is it diminishes all fears I have that if I step off to wander around the smaller side streets I will never be seen again. My iphone would be helpful, I suppose, as a navigational device, but giving any appearance of being a tourist quickly negates that activity. 

Unlike My Cousin Vinny, I wish to blend.

So here's the deal. 

I think that I should tell you right now that I had a terrific time; saw everything there was to see; tasted the local fare; stepped inside of each and every church and museum. I will send you photos, postcards and buy local trinkets to give to you.

This is insurance. 

When I can't remember what I saw and where I was you'd have prompts. Alternatively, you could pass these remembrances onto others regaling them with where you've been and what you've seen, just to make them crazy jealous. 

Who's to know?       

Except for this place. My youthful stomping ground. Haven't forgotten a thing.      

There are certain truths I've come to accept while vacationing here in France.

Follow a gaggle of tourists and you are pretty certain to hear conversations that go something along the lines of "it's over there," "no, it's to the left", "you're wrong, it's to the right", "we saw it yesterday", "I can't remember, did we?'

So true. So sad. So reassuring.

Only ask google maps for directions. Locals will be accomodating and gracious, but lie to distance and time.

If you want gelato go to Italy.

Walking up and down hilltowns is not enough to justify eating your body weight in foie gras.

And lastly, when dressing for a days outing remember black knee socks and sandals are a  fashion statement don't.

Interested? 

There are a few pros and cons to consider…

Sadly, for some, it no longer comes with a prince.

It was hard to always keep things neat and tidy, and in tip top shape, as the previous owners had to fight off the Visigoth, Saracen and Frankish assailants from taking their possessions…not all at the same time, mind you, they took turns.

And drafty. 

The views, however, are extraordinary. If you squint you can make out the snow capped Pyrenees way off in the distance.

Last renovation was probably around 1853. While not exactly a fixer upper, you would need to think about some of life's basic necessities, like indoor plumbing and a kitchen.

I, sadly, will have to take a pass. 

 I know that I really want a water view. 

A moat could, I suppose, double as a lap pool but it just doesn't offer the same cachet for me.

The town, if you want to investigate further, is called Carcassonne, in the Languedoc-Roussillion region.

I thought exactly the same thing. 

Lets think about this.

My image is that of a frenchmen, riding a bicycle, a wicker basket perched on the front handlebars, and at least 2 or 3 loaves of hot and crusty pointing the way home.

Bagels in that basket? Quelle horror.

Next, one has to consider what they are going to wash that bagel down with. It appears that the fallen out of favor Bordeaux is no longer a good option.

This concern, however, seems to be targeted to a younger aged population of wine drinkers, so for those of you older imbibers of the wines of Bordeaux, sip away.

I'll let you know, as I meander around the french countryside, if I espy any Zabar's dotting the landscape. I wonder how you say "I'd like a schmeer" en francais?

Imagine a ^ over the i if you are a purist. I haven't the foggiest notion as to how to make that happen. There it sits, hovering over the 6, waiting for someone clever to make use of it. I, si triste, am not one of those clever ones.

Anyhow, there we were, outside of St. Quentin de Baron, our little vil lage, (not a typo, mes amis, but getting you into a mind set ) winding our way to Libourne (think Union Sq. Market on steroids) food market. We are talking serious food market. Huge, big, overwhelming feast for the senses, food market.

Twas Jonathan Swift, I read somewhere, who was reported to have said, "it was a bold man who ate the first oyster." I'd have been more impressed with watching that bold man open said oyster. Can you picture that while this guy was figuring out whether he could eat this thing there was another fellow sharpening a tool, creating mesh gloves, and mixing together a really yummy mignonette concoction?

Anyway, there we were choosing from amongst the zillion varieties displayed. Thinking that no aphrodisiac moment was in my future, I yielded to the choices of my companions. Pearls yes, love potions no.

Witnessed by the visual I have provided for you, they were tres bon.

Bonjour…

Stay tuned for snippets from afar.

Like from France. 

Lots to do.

Dinner with the Sarkozy's, meetings with the EU, collecting volcanic ash…

Will be closely adhering to the Mediterranean Diet and learning how to affect the scarf maneuver without looking like I've had a neck injury.

Avoir for now.

It seems to me that a great deal of "performance art" is much like rubbernecking at a highway mishap.

You aren't sure why you are staring so intently, chastise yourself for the amount of time you are spending staring, yet you can't seem to stop yourself. How come?

I imagine, if I googled, I'd find some research that has explored, examined, dissected, probed and poked the brain to answer that question. 

I do know though, for me, as it relates to performance art, it's my fascination with someone's ability to come up with some left of center idea, explore it down to within an inch of it's life, and then actually do it. It's the doing it part that really fascinates. Most of us mere mortals have these imaginative flights of fancy. You know, what would happen if I did___________fill in your own blank. Then, of course, we fail to execute.

Some can execute. Two current exhibitions are my case in point.

Marina Abramovic The Artist is Present, and Kate Gilmore Walk The Walk.

While I haven't seen the Bryant Park trot-a-thon I have been to MoMa for Abramovic's show. And, like the rubbernecking concept, couldn't take my eyes off of Marina while she sat at a table, not taking her eyes off of the person seated across from her, who was staring back at her. She sits all day. Doesn't get up for anything. Nary a bathroom stop, a drink of water, a hamburger. All day. Like in all day. For the entire time her exhibition is mounted. Week after week.

Did you get that? 

The latest, and without doubt, takes the "you thought this up, really, really" award is called Glassphemy! Something about recycling being boring, this exhibition is making it more exciting. That concept is coupled with a dose of allowable aggressive behavior. Like throwing the soon to be recycled glass against a wall. In the vicinity of others. No casualties have been reported.

I, have to rethink what I consider performance art. Offering my seat, while on the subway to a pregnant woman, I thought wouldn't qualify. Even with my getting up, oh so gracefully and with such flourish.

Then, considering the look of shock and awe from my fellow passengers, once I had executed that maneuver apparently did qualify me as a performance artist. 

For the moment.

Peter, if you remember, doesn't grow up. As in get older. It must be the fairy dust. 

He does return, from time to time,  to the Darling household, in a feeble attempt to reengage the now aging Wendy for a little revisit to Never-never land. Sadly, she must decline. 

Why? 

It seems that she's recently been booked to host the next segment on Saturday Night Live. 

Wendy, clever girl, aware that the viewership, after Betty White's evening as the host, was huge. Armed with this info she demanded compensation way above her usual day rate. And, of course, Lorne agreed. 

After all Lorne, now 65, figures that he, like Peter, has to rethink what he needs to do to motivate anyone to keep coming back to Neverland. 

Tinkerbell has been making infrequent guest appearances. Captain Hook has finally come out and is now encouraging others to follow suit. 

Lorne was last seen imploring those who still believed in SNL to clap their hands. "Tune in next week", he said, "to get there take the second star on the right and head straight on til' morning."

Until then, he sits, patiently waiting for the Lost Boys, or is it the Wild and Crazy Guys, to come and take him out for a spin.

The Brooklyn Ball. 

I actually could have attended this event. 

If I had been on the mailing list. Or, had made a mega donation. Or knew someone who knew someone. Or paid attention to my mail… other than the please remit kind. But, then again, if I had gone, what would I have worn?

Anyway, this serve yourself, pour for yourself, guess what you might be eating and eat it anyway, is clearly setting a pretty high bar for those who cater these fetes. 

After all, how many caterers have you talked to who suggested suspending cheese that melts which then dispenses it's drippings on crackers carefully piled beneath. Really, not your run of the mill cheese whiz on a Ritz.

Performance art eating. I like it. 

One could jump into a pile of peanuts, imbibe by turning the spigots on paintings dispensing a beverage of your choosing, or my very favorite, vats of powdered sugar, accompanied by long yellow gloves so one could root around to dig up buried Viennese walnut cookies. 

Sounds like it was a hoot. If you went, regale me.

Can you imagine the challenge of figuring out how to seduce and beguile tourists/adventurers/those with any disposable income/where do we go next/ to pick your company for their next vacation? 

Wilderness and gourmet cooking?

Why not. 

You might have decided to go camping for the weekend, were kidnapped by a Yeti, managed to escape unscathed, and were hungry. Whip out the Dutch Oven you had conveniently packed in your backpack, caught a salmon, rooted around for some truffles, milked a wild sheep, made some butter and cheese, and since you didn't have enough time to let the unleaved bread rise, understood, first hand, how matzoh was actually made.

Works for me.

Dillydally? 

Isn't that a great word? 

Wonder where it originated. I might look that up. Later, after I put away the dishes. But first I have to write a few emails. Then, after I separate the whites from the darks and I organize what I am taking to the dry cleaners, I'll do it. 

Tomorrow.

Get the point?

But, some psychologists have cut us some slack. "In certain circumstances" says Bryan Gibson, PHd, professor of social psychology at Central Michigan University, "procrastination can, in the right context, be a strength."

Well, okay, that's a relief. 

"It's hard for people to maintain high-level concentration" says Brent Coker, PhD, an on line consumer behavior researcher at the University of Melbourne in Australia. "People", he says, "who check Facebook or their personal e-mail throughout the day are, on average 10 percent more productive." 

Not for me.

High level concentration is hard to maintain, so you check Facebook (or it's evil twin sister, Twitter) and you are more productive? Is it, possibly, the shot of adrenaline that you got by seeing all your very best best friends, all in one place, all clearly not working away at whatever they were supposed to be doing that energized you?? 

I, and people I know, say that avoiding doing something they know they should, must, have to do, involves eating. Not tweeting, checking emails or any human connection of any kind. 

Their idea of procrastination includes standing in front of the open door of the refrigerator, pulling out cabinet drawers where the goodies are kept, rummaging in their pocketbook, or pockets, where they could have sworn they had last seen a slightly linty, but still perfectly good, half eaten Mason Mint. 

These examples of procrastination are to be considered strengths too, don't you think? You demonstrated that you remembered where you put stuff, additionally, you are standing, bending, turning and crouching, all considered excellent exercise maneuvers.

Sadly, the 10% increase you experience might be more along the lines of increased Body Mass Index but, hey, you can't have it all.

And the stuff you seem to have avoided doing… Why, you can take your cue from Scarlett O'Hara and think about it tomorrow. Right after you make breakfast.

We all understand the horrific implications of the catastrophe of the erupting Volcano in Iceland.

So, I was somewhat startled this evening when I saw this advertisement for Icelandair.

I can assume that the person responsible for removing and replacing this ad must have been stranded in Paris or London or Rome and simply couldn't get out to effect this maneuver.

Don't you think?