Exiled In Paris

Enjoy the City Deal of the Day | Groupon Washington DC

2011-05-07T13:23:00.000-07:00

Enjoy the City Deal of the Day | Groupon Washington DC

Gary Williams to retire as Maryland Terrapins basketball coach - ESPN

2011-05-05T17:18:00.000-07:00

Gary Williams to retire as Maryland Terrapins basketball coach - ESPN

Cutest Baby on Earth

2011-05-05T09:17:00.001-07:00

2010-01-30T23:32:00.001-08:00

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Sites

2009-09-03T11:44:00.000-07:00

http://solartweets.blogspot.com/

http://socialmoolah.blogspot.com

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http://ftap-info.blogspot.com

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http://www.solarkoala.com/solarkoala/Solar_Power_Directory.html

http://www.solarkoala.com/solarkoala/Solar_Marketplace.html

http://www.solarkoala.com/solarkoala/Solar_Blog.html

http://www.solarkoala.com/solarkoala/Solar_Forum.html

http://www.thekindlebazaar.com

http://kelleyandrob.blogspot.com

http://www.christmaskindles.info

http://www.holidaykindles.info

http://www.kindle-for-christmas.info

http://www.koalatweets.com

http://www.solarkoala.com

http://www.thekindlebazaar.info

http://www.thekindlestop.info

China Solar Industry: Aug. 25 | Solar Feeds News and Commentary Blog Network

2009-08-25T02:27:00.001-07:00

China Solar Industry: Aug. 25 | Solar Feeds News and Commentary Blog Network

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China Outdoes U.S. in Making Solar Products - NYTimes.com

2009-08-24T19:23:00.001-07:00

China Outdoes U.S. in Making Solar Products - NYTimes.com

Posted using ShareThis

The Fall of the Everyman, or why we used to like Brett Favre

2009-08-21T17:32:00.001-07:00

Let me tell the Brett Favre story from the point of view of a Packers fan...that is, a somewhat removed Packers fan. You see, I’ve rooted for the Packers all my life because I was born into it, but it’s been 22 years since I’ve lived in Wisconsin (I moved away when I was 6), and I can count the weeks I’ve spent in Wisconsin since then on one hand. I’ve never been to a Packers game (ok, I went to a preseason game when Don Majkowski was QB) and I don’t make an effort to listen to Packers radio, read their website or catch the weekly news conferences. I watch every game I can, but unless they play in prime time or have their game picked up by the Baltimore stations, I’m not likely to watch. I’m a fan, but not a fanatic.

Brett Favre first started wearing a Packers uniform at about the same time that I began to develop into a real human being. Thus, my own personal growth into adulthood has largely coincided with the Brett Favre era in Green Bay...he was all I really knew at QB for the Packers, and for a while, he was all I wanted to know. We watched in awe as the kid from Southern Mississippi, missing several feet of small intestine removed after a car accident, produced a wild comeback victory in relief for the aforementioned Don Majkowski. We chuckled at his southern drawl, that would eventually develop into that “aw shucks” persona that we came to love so much. We cheered when he threw bullets to Sterling Sharpe, Robert Brooks and Antonio Freeman, and cringed when he threw one of his patented “what were you thinking?” interceptions. We shed tears when he admitted to the national media that he had a substance abuse problem, and then again when MVP Favre and Reggie White led the Lombardi Trophy back to Titletown. We watched in agony as his come-from-behind attempt came up short the next year as the Packers lost their first Super Bowl ever to the Denver Broncos. The destruction of his family property and the complete quagmire that was Hurricane Katrina affected him badly, and we watched in horror lest something happen to the family we loved so much. We held on dearly to those memories as the Packer faded from elites to contenders, and from contenders to also-rans. We watched the interception totals rise, hoping for a return to the glory that once was.

When the first of the retirement fiascos began (and I’m talking about 2005 or 20006 here) we could scarcely believe that our Brett Favre era was going to end at 8-8, or at 4-12. Even the most stalwart of fans began thinking about life after Brett Favre. As a Cal alumn, I cheered the draft of Aaron Rodgers, a man I knew to be a capable quarterback whose legacy would in no way tarnish or challenge Favres. Packers fans got what we hoped for, as Favre and the Packers surged to 13-3 and into the NFC Championships, only to be heartbroken as our man threw that game away...again. Favres first retirement was welcome news to some (like me), and unwelcome news to many in a Packer nation that associated its best memories with one man. His retirement was agonizing, but the “He said/He said” battle for reinstatement between Favre and Ted Thompson was worse, a situation in which nobody is right and everyone is wrong. Many resented Thompson’s treating of the Packers’ living legend, while others resented Favre’s seeming about-face. His move to the Jets was probably in everyone’s best interest, and I was left satisfied seeing Aaron Rodgers ably take over Favre’s helm. His early success in New York surprised me, but his precipitous fall was predictable. Brett Favre, seemingly with nothing left, retired without pomp.

News of his renewed interest in football should have surprised nobody. After another off-season of Favre stories, we find peace and quiet during the first 3 weeks of training camp only to be suddenly awakened with the news that Favre had signed with the hated Minnesota Vikings. To Packers fans everywhere, even the most ardent of Favre supporters, this move appeared to be selfish, egoistic and treasonous to a nation that had lived and breathed with him for 17 years.

The moral of this story, at long last, is that there is a reason why the Packers nation loved Brett Favre the way we did. Although I heard from many a friend-supporter of a different NFL team that Favre was overrated, in the back of mind, I had to agree. But that didn’t matter. We literally associated football happiness for 17 years with the rise and fall of Brett Favre, who is a man as strong and as vulnerable to poor judgment as any one of us, if not more so. He was a larger than life hero precisely because he did the things he did while beset with the same set of problems that so many of people across the country and across the world deal with on a daily basis. Finally, it seems, Favre has succumbed to another dreaded human foible: the middle age crisis. Only this time, we can’t love him for it.

Cap and Trade

2009-08-21T14:42:00.001-07:00

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Paris Plage

2009-08-20T14:10:00.000-07:00

Paris does an interesting thing in late summer. It empties out.

You might be wondering how a city of two million inhabitants, a metro area of ten million more, and a region that attracts more than twenty million tourists per year could possibly empty itself out. So let me rephrase: all the locals who don’t have to work (children, stay-at-home parents, seasonal employees, or anyone who has six weeks of vacation, here taken to mean everyone) leave Paris and head to their chosen destinations giving the residential sections of Paris an almost eerie, ghost-town feel. Those of us left behind have our run of the city. It sounds nice, but to a Parisian, it might be a nightmare. After all, the French equivalent of the American Dreams revolves around the ability to leave the city and spend six weeks doing nothing in the “provinces” (anywhere but Paris). Seaside tourism might have been invented by the English, but the French gave it a certain “I don’t know what.” :)

So, for the working stiffs left behind in Paris, there is Paris plages. Once a year, for four weeks in July and August, the city of Paris transforms the erstwhile highways and underused riverwalks areas into a series of beachside resorts. I must admit that I had my reservations about this program, having heard my friends and acquaintances transform the idea into a running joke; Paris, the one time intellectual capital of the world now only innovates by dumping sand near a river. No matter! Kelley and I decided to give it a shot because we too were left behind without a beach vacation this year.

Much to our surprise, it was actually pretty cool. The program first began in 2007 with one beach area, extending on the right bank from the Pont de Sully to the Pont des Arts (a distance of maybe a mile) which is where we decided to go. The palm-tree-lined “beach” was broken into segments, each with its own unique theme. Some segments were simple: a sandbox with chairs, or hammocks by the water. Others were a little more glamorous: a traditional creperie with a modern design, where one could enjoy the traditional Breton crêpe with a cold glass of cider. The brasseries and cafés transported to dockside ranged from grungy and ordinary to new and glitzy, and I was shocked at how modestly priced the adult beverages seemed to be. Were you to leave the beach and wander a block down the road, you would pay 75% more. For the kids, there were plenty of water-themed stations offering dousings by shower and mist, a clown show, and fun modern looking playgrounds (for the inner child in us all, there was an outdoor fitness center that looked like a playground).

While the amenities were nice, the ambiance was stellar. Paris is a constant battle between visitors and locals, the latter going about their daily business and the former usually somehow in the way. On the beach, however, it was more relaxed than I every would have imagined. Visitors and locals both seemed to enjoy the atmosphere of the admittedly bizarre Mediterranean resort plopped down on the banks of the Seine. Perhaps this is the solution to Paris’ surly image (a recent publicity campaign urged Parisians to smile more); a permanent beach in the heart of the city. Unfortunately, it gets cold in the winter.

Iceland Part 3

2009-08-20T13:41:00.000-07:00

The next day we drove north to Húsavík, a fishing village and popular whale-watching destination on the eastern shore of the bay of Skálfandi. In town, we opted to visit the whale museum instead of the phallological museum (world's largest collect of penises, over 200 species!), which was an incredibly informative tour, housed in an old slaughterhose and containing the complete skeletons of eight or so different species of whales suspended from the rafters.

Continuing north on the Tjörnes peninsula, low-lying clouds sometimes thinned enough for us to glimpse the mountains on the opposite shore, a dark ridge draped with snowdrifts rising steeply out of the Arctic. On our side of the bay, however, was low farmland on bluffs overlooking the sea. Ahead of us, we spotted a waterfall cascading onto the beach, and so begins our first adventure of the day.

We parked by the side of the road at the presumed creek, hopped a low fence, and attempted to hike down to the afore-mentioned waterfall. We didn't make it, due to the incorrect assumption that we were crossing just another sheep pasture. Instead, a curious black stallion was alerted by two mares in the neighboring enclosure, suddenly appeared at the top of the hill and unhesitatingly galloped down to us. Now, Iceland horse are quite small, but not being associated with their habits (or any other horse's habits, for that matter), we quickly retreated, hoping he wouldn't react to the certain smell of fear surrounding us and vowing to learn a little bit about common farm animals.

Back in the Land Rover, we headed to the crumbling brown cliffs on the peninsula's northern tip in search of a much different animal -- puffins! We spotted their unmistakeable orange beaks and black and white bodies from above, as they clumsily flew, low over the water, to their nests in the cliff walls. Not having binonculars and desiring a closer view, we drove a few miles east where the road descends to the beach for adventure #2 of the day: Puffin Quest. For nearly an hour we picked our way over rocks like dinosaur eggs piled at the base of the cliffs. But alas, it was too far, and we were late for dinner at Ingibjorg's house back in Akureyri. At least I got to touch the Arctic Ocean for the first time -- cold, clear and a deep blue-gray, gently lapping at the shores of the black sand beaches.

We had a couple more days, more delicious and relaxing family meals in Akureyri and on our way back in Reykjavik, but I will leave off with this last bit. That night, we drove the seasonal road over the top of the mountain between Akureyri and the summer house. It was 12:30, and in the north the sun was setting, skimming slowly over the sea between mountains in the narrow entrance to the fjord. No sound carried up from the city west across the water; there was hardly a breeze, but the air was cool and pure. No other cars were on the old gravel road, only an old ewe and two lambs grazing nearby. The mountains and the sky had faded to dusty pink, lavender, blue and gray. I've never believed the artists who painted landscapes in such colors, but, I guess so far north on such a drawn-out sunset, things become softer -- a film covering the world to blur the distinction between sky, mountain, city, sea.

Iceland Part 2

2009-08-20T13:40:00.000-07:00

Flying into Akureyri was definitely the coolest flight I've experienced. After flying over inland mountains and glaciers for half an hour, we gradually descended into Eyjafjörður, the longest fjord in Iceland. For 15 minutes we flew between the barren, snow-covered highland plateaus, as the grassy green valley floor, dotted with red-roofed farm buildings, opened up beneath us. At eye level, sheep grazed on the steep mountainsides and countless early summer streams cascaded into the valley. Flying north, farms gave way to Akureyri and the waters of the fjord, and we circled around to land.

Akureyri is Iceland's second largest city, population 17,000, and home to most of Rob's Icelandic relatives. We were immediately welcomed by uncle Addu and girlfriend Ästa, both sunburned from a recent mountain climbing trip, and convivial (though mourning her English skills) great-aunt Helga-Maggy. As I donned my new windbreaker and considered putting my boots on, the others, outside in short-sleeves and eating ice cream, commented on the warmth of the weather. (Side note, I think I ate more ice cream in Iceland than I have in the past three months.)

That evening, everyone (Ingibjorg, Guðmunder and four kids included) drove over the mountain range to have a barbeque at the summer house, built by Rob’s grandparents, in the next valley. It’s a comfortable, modern pine cabin secluded from the road by young trees, the fringe of the country’s second largest forest -- which is not very big, since from settlement in the 9th century until recently, trees have been practically unheard in Iceland, although today everyone is planting them. Water is piped in directly from the creek running alongside, which is bordered in summer by indigo and white Artic lupine, and runs into a river just downstream. On the opposite bank, a grazing field ascends a steep hill between the creek and the river, and there are popular campsites a mile upriver.

Rob’s four young cousins played around the cabin while the adults prepared dinner - salmon on the grill - and Rob and I (adults, yes?) did a little of each and joined in on the English conversation. Evenings are long and relaxed in an Icelandic summer, and we ate until the food was gone, or nearly so, sitting and talking until we had room for seconds or thirds of both dinner and dessert. (All our hosts reminded me of my grandmother -- never so happy as when you manage a third helping.)

The next day, sunny and warm, Rob and I set out in Addu’s Land Rover to visit the sights eastward. Driving out of the forest, we passed through farmland, around lakes, crossed glacial rivers, into the volcanic landscape of Lake Mývatn. South of the lake is green, with a clear salmon river meandering through bright green grasses dotted with yellow flowers; to the west is marshland, off-limits during nesting season, and when the wind blew in the right direction we could hear the cacophony of bird cries while we hiked up the 1500 foot barren conical peak of Vindbelgjarfjall. North of the lake are a small town and 18th century lava fields, as well as the volcanic craters and fissures, where the last minor eruption was only 25 years ago. The lake, however, contains evidence of pre-settlement eruptions in the mound-to-hill-size pseudo craters and tall rock columns, bizarre shapes created when lava flowed into and then out of the lake over a thousand years ago.

At Leirhnjúkur, next to Krafla volcano, where there is another geothermal plant, we walked along the dangerous steaming vents and sulphurous, bubbling mud pots. It’s great, scary fun, although they are building a raised boardwalk over the trail in an attempt to prevent wayward tourists from burning their feet on thin ground. I suppose the sheep will still walk where they choose!

Further east, we drove 20 miles on a gravel road through windy, dusty, gray lands to Dettifoss, the highest waterfall in Europe. This is one of the driest parts of Iceland, and if there was a river on the moon, I think it would look like this. The canyon was impressive, great blocks of rock stacked upon end or tumbled down into the river, and the power of the 45 meter waterfall, which we approached at the top (there are no railings) was amazing.

The aunts had told us that only the week before the temperatures had dipped below freezing in northern Iceland. So on the way back to the summer house I marveled at the variations in the terrain, imagined the harshness of winter in this volcanic and glacier-formed landscape, northern winds bitterly sweeping across the land, and fully appreciated just how nice it was to get a sunburn on a summer day with a southern breeze.

Paris shows off its lights

2009-08-20T13:36:00.000-07:00

Last night we braved the hordes of Parisians and tourists alike to witness the Fête National (Bastille Day) concert and fireworks display on the packed Champ de Mars. The main lawn approaching the Eiffel Tower was much too crowded for us late-comers, so with some friends we spread our picnic blanket behind some trees on the right corridor of the park. Although we couldn't see the stage, and only parts of the Tower through the tree, the Johnny Halliday (France's Mick Jagger) concert music was blasted throughout and enjoyed by all. Over the next few hours we comfortably enjoyed our wine and thrown-together picnic spread until the sun began to set and the Tower, with lights turned off, was a dark shadow in the twilit sky.

At the sound and tree-obscured sight of the first fireworks, we quickly packed up our picnic remains and moved up to join the standing crowds with a better view, and although some tree limbs blocked the very top of the tower, I was no less amazed at the spectacle.

A light show was projected onto the Tower, depicting in turn the blue, white and red celebrating its creation 120 years ago, a pulsing radio signal, toy soldiers falling to make a skeletal effect remembering the "dark times," and rainbow-colored Flower Power blooms rotating like dancing clockwork. Edith Piaf on the speakers, white, graceful fireworks and the Eiffel Tower's glittering lights (which sparkle hourly on normal evenings) made such a romantic setting for the pre-war years; red lights above and fire-like blasts surrounding the base of the Tower, combined with an intense orchestral piece, evoked both an awe-inspiring and a truly scary World War II scene in front of us. My favorite part was the countdown before the grand finale, when only the light projections were used to make the Tower dance, and then jump, like a gigantic Eiffel Tower robot pounding away in the darkness. And on zero, you guessed it, fireworks lit up the whole sky! Shot out from the top and all sides in a spectacular two-minute finale.

See it for yourself here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lUNFxTaCI2c or the whole thing on www.paris.fr, but as it really doesn't do justice to the show, I recommend coming to Paris for the Eiffel Tower's 125th birthday in five years. Joyeux anniversaire, Tour Eiffel!

Iceland Part 1

2009-08-20T13:35:00.000-07:00

We arrived in Iceland on a cool and rainy Thursday afternoon, just after the longest day of the year. We took the airport bus inland along the lava fields of the Reykjanes Peninsula, stopping at the Blue Lagoon with the other tourists. I can't imagine the cold shock you would feel in dead winter in the five steps from the locker rooms to the outdoor pool, but man even on an Icelandic summer day it felt good to step down into the steaming lagoon. You can see the steam from miles away in fact, outlines by the dark rock of the volcanic ridge behind it. It looks like a small factory, but is the storage and pumping mechanisms for the near-boiling geothermally-heated water that they cool just enough for us to stand. We soaked in the white, steamy, sulphur-smelling pool for an hour before returning to the bus, feeling warm and jello-like despite the cool and uninhabitable surroundings.

Rob's aunt Gudda and uncle Guðmunder picked us up from the bus station. They welcomed us with cold beer, Domino's Pizza and a cozy basement guest room (an ideal place to sleep on a sunny Icelandic summer night, when it gets dim for a few hours but never gets fully dark), and, along with 13-year-old Þorunn, showed us pictures and videos of the many places we were to visit. Icelanders are clearly proud of the amazing geography their country holds, embracing the digital camera as well as the paintbrush to display some of their most striking scenery.

The next day, with me fully prepared wearing sweater, jacket and boots, we toured Reykjavik on what turned out to be a sunny 70° day. It was beautiful to sit by the downtown lake, sparkling in the bright sun, and filled with ducks, geese and their newly hatched offspring. We walked the three miles from the downtown ports back to Gudda's house, through the main shopping/nightlife streets, quiet neighborhoods (mostly smallish concrete houses with green yards and colorful gardens - pansies, peonies), past geometrically-creative Lutheran churches and the new (and only?) mall in the city. Nothing is showy or spectacular, but sitting by the bay in a green valley surrounded by low mountains topped with nearly-melted snow, the city seemed simply quiet, friendly and liveable.

On Saturday we woke up early to a huge breakfast spread of toast, smoked meats, raw veggies, cheese, coffee and donuts, as well as a complete picnic lunch packed for us by our wonderful hostess, to take the popular Golden Circle bus tour around inland southwest Iceland. Our first stop was, unadvertised, at the new geothermal power and water plant, which provides all of Reykjavik's electricity and most of its hot water. (Geothermally-heated water is used, by the way, both to melt snow on city streets and to heat the floor in Gudda's sunroom by running pipes underneath. So crafty these Icelanders are!)

Next we headed to Gullfoss, an impressive waterfall on a river running from the Langjökull glacier, which we could just see to the north, with the higher mountain peaks shrouded in clouds. Then we backtracked ten minutes to the boiling hot springs and geysers at Geysir National Park. Rob and I enjoyed our picnic on a hill above the hot spots, watching Strokkur explode every ten minutes. We didn't witness the other, larger geyser, which doesn't go off regularly, but being named Geysir it is the geyser after which all other exploding hot springs are named.

As the afternoon temperature neared 80° and I stripped off layers of clothing down to my tank top, we sweated and dozed on the bus traveling back west to Þingvellir. Þingvellir is the site of Iceland's largest lake, the world's oldest parliament, and it lies along the North American-Eurasian continental rift, so you can see the canyon proving that Iceland is slowly growing larger. There are also deep fissures filled with crystal-clear lake water, where silver coins sparkle in the sun at the bottom. Pictures cannot show the crispness of colors in the pure northern air. The water was so clean, with islets of bright green grasses dotting the edges. Walking through the black-rock walls of the canyon, I saw clumps of the yellowest buttercups and dandelions, contrasting perfectly with the purplest of violets.

And at that, we returned on the bus to cloudier and cooler Reykjavik, where the bus driver sceptically dropped us off in the residential district while all the other tourists waited to be taken to their hotels. Lucky us!

That night we enjoyed excellent Icelandic salmon and homemade wine at dinner with Rob's (sort of) uncle Bjossi. Afterwards, we walked through Reykjavik's pretty botanical gardens with Bjossi's daughters Hrönn and Linda. We finished our Reykjavik experience that night, when Hronn and another cousin Lena decided to give us a midnight driving tour of Reykjavik's beaches. So, between midnight and 1am, we listened to nesting birds and watched the sun set behind the clouds on the horizon, as Rob played by the freezing water, I blew dandelion seeds and Hronn bathed her feet in a warm-water bath in a hollowed-out rock by the bay, which is apparently a popular place to be on a night such as that one. And we drove over to Reyjavik's heated beach, which is in fact not heated on a Saturday night in summer, probably to prevent drunken (or in our case, non-drunken but equally ridiculous) late-night outings. They then wanted to take us downtown to the all-night bars, but exhausted and knowing we had an early flight to meet more family in Akureyri the next morning, we (being decidedly lame!) declined. And so ended our visit to southern Iceland.

Now to the north!