...Continued from page 1

photo, park vert galant, ile de la cite, pont neuf Paris is seldom this green in August.

This means that the sum total of the entire summer was Grace's vernissage on Abbesses in Montmartre. She had four artists, or five counting Matt Rose, and a photographer, and she had an invite for Wednesday and another for Saturday. All these folks turned up, mostly living here, and they ate the pistachios and drank the wine, and said how many decades they have been living in Paris. They all complained about how warm it was.

Next year, not next week of course, there will be much more everything. There always is, more, better, bigger, hotter, next year.

The Café Metropole Club

Some of the club's totally new members showed up at last week's club meeting, delighting the club's secretary. Next Thursday there will be another one–and–only Café Metropole Club meeting. The secretary is ready to welcome more new members. Members in good standing are equally welcome, as are delinquent members.

photo, pont des arts, institut de france How many picnics here washed out?

The next meeting of the Café Metropole Club will be on 25. August, somewhat towards the end of you–know–what. The Saint of the Day will be Sainte–Rose de Lima. Born in 1586 in Peru, she was the patron saint of folks ridiculed for their piety, and the Peruvian Police Force. After living off gall mixed with bitter herbs she chose to lie down in a bed she fashioned, made of broken glass, stone, potsherds, and thorns. Rose relaxed like this for 14 years until dying aged 31 in 1617 and was famous foreverafter.

Yet again, this is totally unrelated to Paris because it happened in some other places near South America. You can read some interesting stuff about the club and its single factoid on a page inappropriately named the About the Club Webpage. Readers who actually have looked at half of it, and some minority of you might have, will hardly fail to wonder about the other half of it. Should questions arise, check out the club's free but worthless membership card. Shred into a cup of tea and stir.

This Was Metropole Ten Years Ago

Nobody should be surprised that last week ten years ago was a long time ago. This Metropole used to have real new stuff in it, such as The Centre of Midsummer in the Café column, Sharing a Holiday with Cows was the week's feature, along with some posters and a cartoon entitled Hot Dogging. That was all there was in Issue 2.33/4 – 18. August 1997 because I was on holiday.

photo, sign, place du louvre

Café Life Légère 89.2

Nauséabond Farrago

Today's Quote of the Week has no connection to today's date, but what do we care? For today's little flower I offer a quote by Rex Reed, about the movie Amélie. He wrote, "C'est la vie for a race responsible for croque monsieurs, a nauseating farrago of flayed pig muscle and fermented cow extract, imprisoned in a tomb of scorched bread, the whole thing drowned with bechamel sauce." This pithy observation could easily have been made by any of us here, except for the customary lack of bechamel sauce. What it is anyway?

Back To the Wobble–Balkans

There are no more than 133 days left of this year, the same number that 917 had when Tsar Simeon I of Bulgaria invaded Thrace and drove the Byzantines out, for the umpteenth time. The Byzantines, led by Leo Phokas, son of Nikephoros Phokas, stopped to rest near Achelaos and while they were lolling around Simeon attacked, causing the Battle of Anchialus, one of the largest in medieval history, 1090 years ago today. Years later Leo the Deacon wrote that, "Piles of bones can still be seen today at the river Achelaos, where the fleeing army of the Byzantines was then infamously slain." This interesting incident was one of many in a story of byzantine twists, with a lively cast of hundreds of thousands, with Simeon as the Bulgarian hero.

photo, fiat 500 of the week More rare sun of the Fiat 500 of the Week.

Stanley In the Patazone

This is totally unconnected to the fact that this year has used up 232 days, the same number that 1888 had when Emin Pasha, whose real name was Eduard Carl Oscar Theodor Schnitzer, was locked up by mutineers at Dufile, in the Egyptian province of Equatoria on the upper Nile. A relief expedition led by Henry Morton Stanley went to the rescue by way of the Congo – the long, hard way around – losing two–thirds of his band. After Emin decided to be saved, he fell out of a window at Bagamoyo on the coast, thinking it led to a balcony. Stanley, disgusted, had to return without Emin and without total triumph. More details are at Wikipedia.

The Ex–Question of Schleswig–Holstein

A few folks have might have been thinking that it is appropriate to recall the axe murder of Leon Trotsky, whose real name was Lev Davidovich Bronstein, on this date in 1940 in Mexico. In 1908 Trotsky launched the first Pravda in St. Petersburg, and the Bolsheviks launched another in 1912, proving you can't have too much truth. Very annoyed, Trotsky bitterly denounced Lenin and the Bolsheviks. So everybody got angry with him and he moved to France to work as a war correspondent, then he edited an internationalist socialist paper in Paris. In 1916 that got him deported to Spain for his anti–war activities. Spanish authorities then deported him to the United States late in 1916. In New York he wrote articles for the local Russian language newspaper Novy Mir and the Yiddish language daily Der Forverts. He regained Russia in 1917, and after holding many important posts and countless adventures he was booted out of the Party, in 1927. Daladier offered Trotsky asylum in France in 1933, but afterwards he moved to Norway until he became unwelcome there and was shipped to Mexico on a freighter. The rest, as they say, is dismal history.

A bientôt à Paris
signature, regards, ric

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