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Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Bonjour!!
Bonjour, Gentle Readers!
Peg and I returned from France last night, and what a vacation it was. We spent a week in southern France and a second week in Paris, neither of which did much for my conditioning for the row. Actually, I lost a pound, which I attribute to both the healthy food one eats in France, as well as to Peg's penchant for delightful, energetic marches through the city. She thinks nothing of walking six to seven hours a day and, truth be told, six hours is five minutes in Paris. It is a city that incites sensory overload and a provokes a sense of history like nothing else I have experienced. Doesn't hurt the waistline, either.
Other highlights:
1. The World Cup soccer final. We joined 10,000 + others around an enormous outdoor screen in the town square of Albi, in southwestern France, screaming in a language we didn't know and sharing their incredulity at Zidane's now world-famous (except in the U.S.) head-butt of an Italian defender in the final minutes of regulation time. The partisan crowd was stunned, and so was I. They were stunned at what was on the screen: a seemingly unprovoked vilolent act by their national icon in his announced Final Game...his immediate ejection from the game...the suddenly diminished prospects of France's success because of his departure. I, on the other hand, was captivated by their reaction: no chest-thumping, no NBA/NFL home-town testosterone-driven attaboys or high-fives...just palpable confusion and disappointment at an act that tarnished the game and a legend's sterling reputation.
These are classy people. It made me proud, at that moment, to be a Frenchman.
After the loss, they went about consoling themselves largely through the copious consumption of the grape juice for which their country is justifiably famous, as well as by igniting the fireworks they had brought along to celebrate the anticipated victory. I'll just say that a bottle rocket, when lit on the ground in a horizontal position, incites the best (and worst) of disco moves from the 70's.
All in all, a great night.
2. Pasta on the Seine. When, on the way home, I asked Peg what her favorite meal might have been, she won my heart (sigh, yet again) when she said, "Pasta on the Seine." Yes, in a country revered for its cusine, I won her Best-of-Show with a tupperware melange of my very own "secret sauce" over pasta, taken with a mellow Burgundy on the banks of the Seine watching a late sunset framing Notre Dame.
Sigh. I'll remember it well.
3. The People. Sounds corny, but the people we met couldn't have been nicer. Neither Peg nor I speak the language (she knows enough to at least keep entrails off the dinner plate), but the fact is that if you just try the language, however ham-handedly, the French are delighted that you are making the effort, and they get you through. They like Americans; they just aren't too keen on our present leadership or certain foreign policies.
Show of hands, anyone?
"This is all very interesting, Al...so riviting, in fact, that we'd like to hear about your last trip to Cleveland when you have a chance, but isn't this blog site supposed to be about your "big row?"
You're right, Gentle Reader. My apologies. But look, when you're fresh off the plane from the land of wine, bread, cheese, and Jerry Lewis, it's impossible to just let it go. While I perhaps looked odd this morning at the 7-11 in my beret, scarf, and pointy shoes, I'll be back to my old self soon enough. Let's keep the glow alive just a little linger, nes pah?
I'll be training on the water starting a week from today, and rowing hard every day until my departure on August 5, giving me exactly 14 days to get my hands, wrists, and buns conditioned to the rigors of the voyage. Bean and Bob Tarrant, sages of rowing and trainers/coaches extraordinairre, have counseled me that I can lift, run, and stretch, but the only thing that truly prepares one for rowing is rowing...so the meat of my physical preparation will take place starting next Saturday. I'll be at Lake George, a pristine and protected body of water which will hardly replicate the kinds of conditions I am likely to experience and one which affords a rower, when he is thirsty, the luxury of just plunging his head into the water for a hearty drink of the best water on this planet, or any other- hardly an act I'll contemplate under the Tappan Zee.
So, gentle reader, please expect future blog entries from my Training Site next week. And, to those of you who have grabbed on to the 'ole Pledge paddle since my last enrty, Thank You! We're only a short stroke or two from $10 grand, and pushing off from the dock with a $10k objective would sure be sweet. To those of you who have pledged, please pass the word along. And to those of you who continue to steal the services of this tome without even the most modest of pledges - and you know who you are, Bob - let me just say that I hope that's a steady hand on that razor each morning.
Talk to you soon!
Bon Voyage!
Mr. Frei
Peg and I returned from France last night, and what a vacation it was. We spent a week in southern France and a second week in Paris, neither of which did much for my conditioning for the row. Actually, I lost a pound, which I attribute to both the healthy food one eats in France, as well as to Peg's penchant for delightful, energetic marches through the city. She thinks nothing of walking six to seven hours a day and, truth be told, six hours is five minutes in Paris. It is a city that incites sensory overload and a provokes a sense of history like nothing else I have experienced. Doesn't hurt the waistline, either.
Other highlights:
1. The World Cup soccer final. We joined 10,000 + others around an enormous outdoor screen in the town square of Albi, in southwestern France, screaming in a language we didn't know and sharing their incredulity at Zidane's now world-famous (except in the U.S.) head-butt of an Italian defender in the final minutes of regulation time. The partisan crowd was stunned, and so was I. They were stunned at what was on the screen: a seemingly unprovoked vilolent act by their national icon in his announced Final Game...his immediate ejection from the game...the suddenly diminished prospects of France's success because of his departure. I, on the other hand, was captivated by their reaction: no chest-thumping, no NBA/NFL home-town testosterone-driven attaboys or high-fives...just palpable confusion and disappointment at an act that tarnished the game and a legend's sterling reputation.
These are classy people. It made me proud, at that moment, to be a Frenchman.
After the loss, they went about consoling themselves largely through the copious consumption of the grape juice for which their country is justifiably famous, as well as by igniting the fireworks they had brought along to celebrate the anticipated victory. I'll just say that a bottle rocket, when lit on the ground in a horizontal position, incites the best (and worst) of disco moves from the 70's.
All in all, a great night.
2. Pasta on the Seine. When, on the way home, I asked Peg what her favorite meal might have been, she won my heart (sigh, yet again) when she said, "Pasta on the Seine." Yes, in a country revered for its cusine, I won her Best-of-Show with a tupperware melange of my very own "secret sauce" over pasta, taken with a mellow Burgundy on the banks of the Seine watching a late sunset framing Notre Dame.
Sigh. I'll remember it well.
3. The People. Sounds corny, but the people we met couldn't have been nicer. Neither Peg nor I speak the language (she knows enough to at least keep entrails off the dinner plate), but the fact is that if you just try the language, however ham-handedly, the French are delighted that you are making the effort, and they get you through. They like Americans; they just aren't too keen on our present leadership or certain foreign policies.
Show of hands, anyone?
"This is all very interesting, Al...so riviting, in fact, that we'd like to hear about your last trip to Cleveland when you have a chance, but isn't this blog site supposed to be about your "big row?"
You're right, Gentle Reader. My apologies. But look, when you're fresh off the plane from the land of wine, bread, cheese, and Jerry Lewis, it's impossible to just let it go. While I perhaps looked odd this morning at the 7-11 in my beret, scarf, and pointy shoes, I'll be back to my old self soon enough. Let's keep the glow alive just a little linger, nes pah?
I'll be training on the water starting a week from today, and rowing hard every day until my departure on August 5, giving me exactly 14 days to get my hands, wrists, and buns conditioned to the rigors of the voyage. Bean and Bob Tarrant, sages of rowing and trainers/coaches extraordinairre, have counseled me that I can lift, run, and stretch, but the only thing that truly prepares one for rowing is rowing...so the meat of my physical preparation will take place starting next Saturday. I'll be at Lake George, a pristine and protected body of water which will hardly replicate the kinds of conditions I am likely to experience and one which affords a rower, when he is thirsty, the luxury of just plunging his head into the water for a hearty drink of the best water on this planet, or any other- hardly an act I'll contemplate under the Tappan Zee.
So, gentle reader, please expect future blog entries from my Training Site next week. And, to those of you who have grabbed on to the 'ole Pledge paddle since my last enrty, Thank You! We're only a short stroke or two from $10 grand, and pushing off from the dock with a $10k objective would sure be sweet. To those of you who have pledged, please pass the word along. And to those of you who continue to steal the services of this tome without even the most modest of pledges - and you know who you are, Bob - let me just say that I hope that's a steady hand on that razor each morning.
Talk to you soon!
Bon Voyage!
Mr. Frei
