The Frossieland Diary
Paris, Sunday 10 October 2008

While Paris burns, I hunt for fiddlers in Montemartre .

A balmy, clear Autumn Saturday in Paris is the perfect sedative for nerves, frayed by news that a meteor, roughly the size of Earth was hurtling my way. Even in The City of Light, hardened newspaper journalists called for much needed illumination. Stockbrokers, arguably the most un-evolved of our species (in close competition these days with CEOs of certain financial institutions), were reportedly flooding into churches, in attempts to avoid damnation.

It was initially hard to fathom the composition of such a weapon of mass destruction, hurtling through cyber space towards me. Frantic reports had alluded to a rare alchemy, which included elements such as `CDS`(Credit Default Swaps), `Sub-Primes`, `Golden Parachutes`, `Hedge Funds`, `lack of liquidity`(dehydration?), `over consumption` , `Factor 8 GWB `(otherwise known as the `8 years of George W. Bush` multiplier effect) . Innocuous agents by themselves, made diabolical by the work of those timeless catalysts, known universally, as greed and investment bankers.

Oh yes, somewhere in the mix was another compound named CO2, the over production of which had made our geo system vulnerable, causing unstable weather patterns, increasing food/energy prices, poverty and infertile land equating to the combined mass of China and India. Not a bad plot for a disaster movie, if only Hollywood could be that creative. In my production, Woody Allen would be cast as the local town mayor, who routinely prevents disclosure of an impending threat to the spending public. In a role that would be largely based on that of Lehman Bros CEO, Richard Fuld (prophetically and fatally pronounced `fold`-as in `the company is bankrupt``-I kid thee not!). I can imagine him in that well worn scene, where the mayor finally gets nailed for his relentless greed: ``yes I took home US$500m while the company burned...is anyone hungry? I know a great Chinese place in The Village. The dumplings are low fat``!

Just as farcical was the US Senate Committee (Banking, Housing and Urban Affairs) hearing, featuring the testimony of US Secretary of Treasury and former (let me emphasise this) Chairman and CEO of Goldman Sachs (the world`s biggest investment bank) Henry Paulson. Live on CNN, `Hank` Paulson stated that when he got the job at Treasury in July 2006, he was `shocked` to discover that the US$50 Trillion Credit Default Market was totally unregulated. Un petit instant Henri, you mean that as CEO of Goldman Sachs, you were unaware that an investment market, valued over three times the size of the entire US economy was totally unregulated? Gee how about that! The embarrassment of such implications and the complicity of so many were clearly on show at that hearing. Henry Paulson was in no mood to take the rap for the entire mess; however it is clear that as CEO and Chairman of Goldman Sachs he had contributed to ensuring the conditions that led to the current crisis.

A little further investigation on Wikipedia revealed that in 2004, Paulson and his cohorts at the major investment banks had successfully lobbied the U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission to release these institutions from the `net capital rule`; a requirement that limited their credit leverage and risk exposure. EU regulators had also given in to US pressure and agreed not to review the reserves of foreign firms, if the US SEC took that responsibility. A risk management office that was set up as a consequence, to monitor the situation was reputedly dismantled by the current SEC Chairman, appropriately named Cox, after talks with Paulson. If what Wikipedia reports is correct, pigs can in fact fly, foxes are now guarding henhouses and we have governors with unacceptable conflicts of interests.

The same article quotes an AAP news story (`All business: transparency key to bailout success` by Rachel Beck 23rd Sept ) that ``Section 8 of Paulson’s original plan stated that: `Decisions by the Secretary pursuant to the authority of this Act are non-reviewable and committed to agency discretion, and may not be reviewed by any court of law or any administrative agency.`

To his credit, Presidential hopefully John McCain, in breaking Republican party-lines, had initially raised the issue of accountability, calling for the dismissal of Cox. However, he soon settled for less controversial topics, like the rights of Mid Western plumbers named Joe, whilst trying not to make arm gestures like Robbie the Robot.

Elsewhere in the doomed jungle, a few dinosaurs of the neo liberal, free market age were in frenzy, the pheromones of distressed blue chip corporations, proving too tantalising for their rapacious appetites. With Jurassic like shrieks of `no government intervention, let it all burn down`, they kept feeding as cataclysm approached. Others however, like the legendary currency speculator George Soros, who a decade earlier had been accused by Malaysian President Dr. Mahathir, of being an architect of the Asian Market crash, were attempting evolution and speaking about regulatory frameworks and sustainability. Interviewed on Bloomberg TV, Mr. Soros suggested that `Americans were consuming seven times more than what they were producing`; prophesying that people (those beings other than currency speculators) would have to learn to save more and live realistically.

As the week rolled on, the mantra of the free marketers- that the market fixes all ills- had unravelled, as the US moved closer to nationalising its banking system, putting up US$700B to buy up bad bank debts, for an equity stake. Behind all the pinstripes, glossy jargon, complex probability formulas and trend charts, there was no mistaking the glimpse we had of this beast and the naked jungle it lives in.
There can also be little doubt that this is an important moment in the story of our modern western civilisation; one where the compatibility of neo liberal (capitalist) democracy and ecological, socio-economic sustainability came into great question. It is clear that simplistic, linear economic arguments are no longer plausible within this complex, interdependent financial, ecological and socio-economic system.

The ability of the US to distance itself from accountability has also been remarkable, a point that European leaders could have made stronger had their own banks not been following the US investment model. Suddenly, the complicity was global and power changed hands between companies and geo-political realms like lightening. China has now emerged as the majority financier of US debt and the student could now be the master?

In France, a country noted for its strict regulatory frameworks and lower private debt (there are no credit cards in France, something I still find thrilling), President Sarkosy had suggested that the situation called for a greater push with his reform agenda, one based largely on the US model of liberalisation and privatisation. Nice try Nick! The French however, to their credit as the great `resisters`, have been unimpressed with their President and he will now not have the financial or political will to do anything other than introduce robust financial regulations.

As the weekend approached I sought to escape the fatalistic trajectory of thoughts these findings had fixed in my head. The Fetes des Vendages de Montemartre, a local annual festival in the 18th arrondissement, provided the ideal distraction. Featuring wine grazing in the only remaining vineyard in Montemartre, the event included over eighty exhibitors of regional wines, food and local entertainment. It was an ideal opportunity to meet friends at the highest point of Paris, where thoughts could hopefully rise to less complicated and definitely more pleasurable aspirations concerning life, community and civilisation.

We gathered by the sunbathed and reassuring foot of the Sacre Coeur, a Byzantine inspired Basilica, which stands at the highest point of Paris in Montemartre. Below us, the rooftops and streets of Paris seemed empty, devoid of life. Above the city, a smoke-filled haze produced an eerie, almost post apocalyptic panorama. Around us, thousands munched on regional delicacies and swilled from a selection of hundreds of wines.

Prices seemed reasonable, despite the lure of the gullible tourist, as if the sombre events of the week had instilled a sense of fear or sympathy amongst the traders. This had all the appearances of what a market should contain; happy buyers appreciative of the experience and consequently, ecstatic sellers. It felt satisfying to purchase these products from the local people that had produced them, with much toil I am sure.

I tried hard to find a secondary market anywhere. I checked the alleys and sewers, listening intently for the all familiar touting: ``Psst, hoy there! Buy the stock from tent number 23. Let me give you a tip..buy up big, but don`t drink the stuff, sit on it for a year and you will make a killing. They won`t `Fuld` (fold)...`ere, i`ll even lend you the money, without deposit or security...you can`t lose``! It is hard to imagine that in this local market there might have been still others, betting on whether these buyers would default on their loans, however that seems to be precisely what that other, global and electronic market had been doing. Until of course, one pinstriped ape realised that the banana train would not be coming back and then their whole troupe went berserk.

One of many things I find satisfying about the local markets here is the animation and cheer exchanged between sellers and buyers. This is real interaction, not just transaction! There is an exchange of appreciation for the work of the producers, by our presence and patronage and in countries like France this tradition continues, despite the threats of shopping malls and supermarket chains. It is entertainment, socialisation, commerce and it helps us form a much needed sense of community- who we uniquely respond to and identify with- a greater understanding of our interdependencies. We do not get the same level of deep satisfaction, when dealing with faceless enterprise, where the lines of interdependence are blurred within lines of express checkouts and frequent buyer points programs.

After several glasses of wine the truth began to appear, in the form of a fundamental argument, which I pose rhetorically. When is garden a jungle? The answer to me is that when there is no one to look after it for the good of all, a gardener or keeper, we see chaos. Can any of us reasonably expect that a garden can be sustained without constant care, without stewardship? Without regulations that ensure its survival for the enjoyment of all? Can we really believe that something so complex, so interconnected and so potentially savage as the global financial market can be sustained without the care of good stewards and regulations? Yet this is what the free marketers would have us believe.

And what is the long term vision of their ideology, apart from the mayhem of an unkempt zoo? Will a jungle ultimately be the legacy of the Western Civilisation, like the many that have gone before it? Or, will two thousand years of knowledge and wisdom be cultivated to something that is sustainable? That seems to be the dilemma and question we face.

It also is a matter of ideological perception; whether you believe a keeper to be an interventionist or a steward?

Each morning I walk down to my local park, one of over three hundred uniquely landscaped and well maintained in Paris. Many, like the one in nearby Batignolles have ancient merry-go-rounds and I am constantly reassured by the sight of exuberant, young children on the same rides their grandparents would have taken. All parks have a board with a set of regulations governing behaviour and activities however within those restrictions you are free to enjoy the experience with all those around. There is much to do and enjoy and I cannot think of anything missing. Surely not the ice creams, the cafes, petanque and other games, enjoyed by people of all ages. I am now consequently more appreciative of the keeper I see each day, as he silently goes about his duties.

Most of all to be found in Parisian parks is a sense of cultivation, of civilisation. There appears to be a time tested method behind such artistry and it is very reassuring.

For me, the question remains ultimately one of choice, striving for peace and sustainability or taking your chances in the naked jungle. It is no longer sufficient to frame the debate under outdated ideological platforms of socialism or capitalism, or East versus West. The issue is about sustainability of life/planet, livelihood and specifically about how we can achieve sustainable growth, since growth is an inevitability. It is something we are all interconnected with and bound to address, within our individual and collective capacities.

The French, a nation who have stamped their mark on two thousand years of civilisation, may yet provide us with some ideas.

`FROSSIE LAND` DIARY
-A Wedding in Nantes- Bordeaux reprise
Saturday July 1st 2006

I am always delighted to receive wedding invitations, as these occasions seem to spark the idealist or optimist in me. A wedding in France- that country of love- during a European Summer is a tantalizing prospect for senses dulled by dreary winter. Other events were also aligning themselves to my imagination, like planets in some rare astronomical phenomenon, promising glorious times ahead for weary travellers like me.

In Germany, `La Coupe du Monde` (The World Cup) was already in full swing and the eyes of the world were slowly turning to the aging French team, whose journey through the tournament was taking on mythical proportions. Zidane Zinadine (or `Zizou` as he is affectionately known in France), the captain of `Les Bleus` and demi-god to this nation, was writing his own epic with the expectation of one last miracle before retirement to immortality. `Zizou`s` supernatural skills and saintly heavenward glances had captivated the media, his ethereal visage adorning Paris billboards and magazines like that of Cuba’s revolutionary martyr Che Guerra, in the streets of Havana.

And like a hero in some Greek tragedy, he was to later fall from grace during the penultimate moment of battle, trading `La Coupe du Monde` for a `coupe de tete` (head butt) and `red card` ejection against that colossus of Italy, Mazzarotti. President Jacques Chirac immediately and diplomatically praised his lengthy service record and according to one survey, eighty six percent of the population had forgiven him.

However, such events remained in the realm of wildest speculation, as the excited groom, Renaud, drove me to Nantes in the West and the forthcoming wedding celebrations. It was two years before that I had met him at another wedding in Bordeaux, held in a medieval castle. He had distinguished (and extinguished) himself then by consuming too much of a good thing, which thankfully is never a crime in Bordeaux. However, true to the sagely Shakespearean verse- `wine promotes the desire, but inhibits the performance`- he had tried valiantly and vainly to breach the castle and his lady’s bedchamber, by way of the dry moat. The effort proved no trouble for his enduring heart, but queasy to his stomach, with which contents he then re-decorated her room and slumbering personage.

Forgiveness must be a French virtue as the lady in question, despite banishing him to a bed by the roses, had since agreed to marry him. This act only proves the axiom `to err is human; to forgive, divine`, but wasting of a good Bordeaux, inexcusable,the only proviso I would add. Proof also that she could take the worst he could give; a triumph for the validity of forgiveness, love and draw bridges.

We arrive in the town of Sautron near Nantes, in picturesque juxtaposition to the wonderful villas of footballers, successful businessmen and on this occasion, the family home of the bride, Delphine. As we enter via the gates and circuitous path, I glimpse a mansion nestled between many tall trees of various types, including an Australian eucalyptus. I am later informed that they were all planted some thirty years before, in expectation (and symbolism, I imagine) of a growing family and they now provide a postcard backdrop to the great occasion ahead.

Close friends and relatives arrive from all parts of the country and there is frenetic industriousness in the staging of three events during the course of the weekend. The bride’s parents somehow manage to play perfect hosts to their guests, whilst managing the Herculean organisational tasks. On the Friday we erect three marquees, one of which will host a Middle Eastern banquet that evening.

What might appear incongruous to the idyllic European settings of the manor and gardens is in fact a huge triumph for typically French panache. Perched on Persian cushions and low table, about sixty guests feast on sumptuous `tagine` (a Morrocan stew of chicken, spices with a base of preserved lemons, tomato, garlic, parsley, onions, wine, and olives) and cous cous.

The next day is hectic as the house is full of guests,the bride and groom doing their best not to see each other before the ceremony.

As was the case two years ago in Bordeaux, we arrive at the town hall, which is sweltering beneath the summer sun. The mayor arrives and looks identical to the one that presided over the aforementioned wedding- silver hair flowing on top of a tan that looks very Hollywood (in a George Hamilton kind of way), but was hopefully acquired by working his vineyards?

The bride arrives in the midst of the expectant throng and a paparattzi type photo frenzy ensues when she steps from the car. The vision before us is exquisite against the ancient stone walls around-a custom designed bridal dress that seems to flow with the gentle summer breezes, accentuating her charm and individuality.

What makes Delphine`s arrival and indeed the wider scene so tantalising is the absence of any `Disney` inspired staging or sentimentality. There is the naturally textured beauty of the setting, its history and culture, in contrast to the finer sensibilities of the moment. It is a poignant statement about a high moment of life, but one held in appropriate perspective within the composition of the greater picture.

The bride also exhibits an ease, poise and certainty that perhaps only two thousand years of cultivation can provide? The French do possess that sense of surety that others sometimes take for arrogance; but there is no pretentiousness here and my many accolades are countered by frequent reassurances of ``C`est normale Chris``! Yes, hopefully it is.

The nuptials having been concluded, we drive ten kilometres to the reception, which is held in an astonishing chateau. The buildings are early 18th Century in construction, complete with a huge courtyard, ringed by sculptured landscaping and elaborately presented tables.

Upon the arrival of the delicious canapés and champagne I am introduced to a group of men that call themselves `The Buffet Eagles` (otherwise known to experts as `predatorius gastronomique`). I recognise most of them from the wedding in Bordeaux two years before and am initiated into their coterie, when a mouth watering morsel of foie gras is snatched from beneath my outreaching hand-to the raucous approval of the group. I am later informed that their charter confines their activities to hovering around buffet tables, to enable the frequent swooping upon just arrived delicacies. I congratulate them on their initiative and offer a potential motto- `Je pense, donc je mange`(I think, so I eat).

I am also fascinated by the great cross-section of guests. There are French social workers from far flung places like Ghana and El Salvador sporting tribal motifs, surfers from Bordeaux, businessmen, theatre types and of course one displaced Australian.

At one point friends of the bride and groom perform a play depicting humorous scenes from the couple`s courtship; all very funny with incisive innuendo.

A `boat` of oysters arrives carried by several waiters and as the crowd gasps with the anticipation. I ask myself what the Rococo feasters would have thought of the scene and find myself at the bow of this `crustacean barge` surrounded by `Buffet Eagles` on all sides. They seem to know which oysters to take- the slightly milky ones I am told, which is against conventional wisdom back home and I resist the urge, in case I end up repeating the groom’s feat from two years prior.

After what seems like an eternity of feasting we are invited inside to take our places ahead of the four or more awaiting courses; and I wonder by which disappearing act I will be able to consume the fare. The theme is strangely a Chinese one, which seems to work out. Again I wonder why such incongruous ideas seem to work well in France?

I spy the occasional male guest wandering sheepishly into the kitchen and find that the World Cup semi final match between France and Brazil is in full swing on a small TV set. Once this little conspiracy is discovered, rather than being condemned by the bride, a full scale coupe d`etat is launched and all 150 guests find themselves in the palatial courtyard watching the second half of the game, with the bridal party in full revolutionary support at the front.

The things that we desire to celebrate most in life are the things that unite us.In this case, love and national pride- two essential French qualities- so well presented on this occasion. Women, children and older folk all join in boisterous partisanship, as `Zizou` and his team weave their old magic spell on the reigning world champions and Brazil are knocked out of the tournament, like samba school rejects. The French are into the final! The corresponding scene at the wedding is volcanic in its outpouring of joy and the dance floor erupts for the rest of the evening.

When closing time comes at 3AM, the outnumbered venue management are charged by a group that challenges their unpatriotic action. However, on this occasion there is no Bastille Day triumph for the protesters. Undaunted, they drive back to the bride’s family home through the still countryside, some hanging through the windows of speeding cars whilst singing `Les Marseilles`(French national anthem).

The bride’s father, Daniel, informs me that he must get up in two hours time, to prepare for the luncheon planned on the lawns. But he makes no protest against the revelers who party until dawn and end up in the swimming pool.

Later that day, we enjoy a beautiful, relaxed lunch on the lawns of the manor, with only the occasional murmur emanating from the resting partygoers. This time it’s the turn of the more mature set, when our host ends up in his own swimming pool, courtesy of a neighbour and good friend. Other friends follow the lead amidst much cheering and laughter all around. The younger partiers can only watch in defeat like the Brazilians, upstaged by older and wiser competition who know that in life and sport, timing is everything.

As I organise a ride back to Paris, I see the headline of France’s top sports newspaper `L`Equipe`, which is now covering a sleeping reveler. Poised above the photo of a triumphant Zinadine Zidane, it best encapsulates the euphoria of a wonderful weekend in Nantes, France- `Magique`!

By Christopher Brown


Photos by courtesy of Ivory Motron

`FROSSIE LAND` DIARY
`A Wedding in Bordeaux`
Episode # 2 Saturday 25th July

It was almost twelve months to the day, when my good friend Nancy rang me in LA from Paris, asking me in that a charming mix of cultural confusion, to be her `bridesmaid`. Whilst her fiancé Francois lay laughing in the background, I summoned more practical thoughts relating to the wearing of high heels and taffeta, during the summer heat in Bordeaux.

The phone call had come at a time heightened by stress and loneliness for me, as I labored to launch an ambitious publishing project on foreign soil. I was therefore touched deeply by the sentiment, if not the image of myself in drag and it gave me boost of much needed energy.

Such it is often the case with good friends and I have realized since that despite the vagaries of life, I must be doing something of a sustainable worth to have such people around me. Honored also since I am not French, despite my philosophical and epicurean affinity with that culture.

At the time I had unconditionally agreed to come, without knowing how or indeed where my next breakfast would be served. But I did trust that the Providence that resides over matters of love would indeed decide and I set this event as my main objective for the coming year, as an offering of my intent to be there.

Weddings seldom seem to provide the backdrop to the mosaic of perspectives that each person attending brings to the celebration. Perhaps it’s the production line routine of the formalities that cloak such mystique, or other stresses of organisation?

This certainly was not the case in Bordeaux, where three generations of family members mixed joyfully with a wide variety of surf-loving, party-going Bordelais and their slightly more reserved northern neighbors from Nantes, Paris and internationals such as myself.


The ceremony took place in the medieval town of Bazas, famous the world over for its beef and on this summer day, sizzling in the Spanish looking plaza of its centre. Juxtaposed with this ancient background, the colourful plumes of couture and coiffure were artistically framed, but my lens was not big enough to capture the exquisite moments around me, so I stepped back against the wall with my friend the gecko and observed all. (The lens does reduce the complexity of moments to a fragment and many a wartime photographer has been shot, whilst missing this point.)

The first thing I notice is the simple elegance of those attending. Perhaps it’s the centuries of grooming that provide the confidence, but I failed to see one aged aunt folding her breath against the snapping of the invisible thread that sometimes appears to bind clothes, hair and makeup together. Everyone looked delighted to be there, despite the petty spousal squabbles about social behavior, threats of divorce and resultant road rage that I know accompanies many a wedding guest back home.

The bride arrives in a white convertible and I instantly recognize my beautiful friend, who in typical defiant style has chosen a `bolero`(the best word I can think of to describe the colour, not the style) red dress with a white veil. The effect is stunning against her tanned, olive skin and the Spanish looking background.

The groom is wearing a red tie, which perhaps did not make total sense to him until now and the revelation before his eyes has him in a trance. I ask him to confirm the stunning vision in front of us and he responds with a singular primal syllable of appreciation that has defied wordsmiths since language was devised.

I partner the groom's sister Delphine, who had belatedly told me to match her brown and blue ensemble- a feat I ultimately realised could only be achieved by tattooing my dark complexion, which would have frightened children and doomed me to a life of rock stardom.

We enter the first floor reception area of the `Mairie`(town hall) and so do about half the guest list of 187 people, who cram into a room designed to suit twenty-five large seventeenth century Bazans (I presume that’s what they are called, especially from a distance). The official party sits down at the table set for the occasion and I realize that we are surrounded completely. Perhaps it’s a local tradition to prevent `cold feet`, but I am sure no one is going to get out of there, unless everyone has signed the contract or fires tear gas (note to future shaky Bazan brides and grooms).

The mayor, who looks like a famous French crooner, but is probably in reality the local bull breeder, carries his office with dignity. Mayors are very important people in rural towns and villages, accessible twenty-four hours a day to adjudicate on most local disagreements. (on another occasion,a local mayor I am dining with was interrupted by a farmer who complained to him of a mule that he caught having `relations`, as our grandmothers called it, with his prized mare.)

Our mayor on this occasion wears his official sash with the puff chested pride of a legionnaire and the bride answers an emphatic `yes` to the first question he asks and the room erupts with approval of her unabashed zeal. I am unable to understand the exact wording of the question, but no one behind me moves so I presume all is going to plan.

Papers signed and rings exchanged the bridal party descends down the stony stairs to the plaza below amid raucous applause and snapping lenses. As one of four `Temoir`(witness- the French tradition varies from the Anglo Saxon, as there is no role for a `best man`), my job consists of signing a part of the marriage contract whilst smiling at the camera, much in the same way that world leaders do when consummating peace accords.

The reception is held in Grignols, just a few miles East of Bazas and despite the couple’s assertion that the wedding would be a `casual party between friends`, I am confronted by the vision of a medieval castle, complete with moat. The `Domaine de la Dame Blanche`( www.domaine-de-la-dame-blanche.com), Chateau de Grignols, looks about as romantic a place for a wedding as the mind can imagine.

I expect to see Francois arriving on horseback to claim his trophy bride, but the château’s established authenticity and the cultural acceptance of such sights as normal, prevent thoughts pertaining to what might be otherwise considered kitsch. Each guest is asked to hold a single red or white balloon and when the newlyweds arrive by car across the bridge, they are released in spectacular fashion.

Delicate canapés and champagne having been consumed, the guests move to the lawns that overlook an endless vista of forests and paddocks, for more champagne, oysters (a specialty of the region) and other treats.

We are then led inside to take up our seats, while the bride and groom await their grand entrance. I am unsure as to which member of the bridal party will make a speech, as no one seems to know. I am told that in French tradition, anyone that wants to say something does and I am more than a little concerned when two days prior, a friend of the bride indicated that it would be nice for me to say something, in French!

I did however come prepared with a good deal of Aussie irreverence in the form of an entertainment sketch that I am convinced will either delight the French taste for parody or have me thrown in the moat. Raphaelle, a mutual French friend from Melbourne and I decided to produce a show with film clips that imitates a music award ceremony and which depicts the couples time in Australia. It’s all done to suggest naughty impropriety and innuendo, however the underlying sentiment is about great friendships and love. Whether this will translate to a French audience of unknown make-up remains the source of some anxiety, but I reassure myself that all creative pursuits involve risk.

Masks depicting the faces of Nancy and Francois are distributed to the throng and when the couple finally arrives bopping to the strains of a familiar `house music` track, guests stand on their seats and punch their fists into the air whilst holding up their masks. I have never been to a wedding that explodes the restrictions of formality with such passion and joy. Any concern about the appropriateness of our show vanishes at this moment and I get the `thumbs up` from Raphaelle at the adjoining table.

The groom makes a short speech thanking everyone and we then sit down to a banquet of many courses and wines provided by the vineyard of a family friend in the nearby region of Medoc- home to the likes of Chateaux Rothschild, Margaux and other Grand Crus vineyards.

Apart from the context of a wedding that brings me here, it is also a reunion with other close French friends-ones that I am linked with wide perspectives, despite the separation of years and oceans.

The bride and groom fill two pyramids of champagne glasses, spurred on by the cheering of their guests and the only other formality is the bridal dance with parents. The dance floor is then cleared and what ensues is a freewheeling dance party with DJ that continues until 8 AM for those that can remain upright. Everyone joins the fun including the eighty-one-year-old grandmother of the bride who remains until 6AM.

Our show gets scheduled in a rare lull and is warmly appreciated by all and we are relieved when many thanks are extended to us through misty eyes.

The huge contingent from Bordeaux live up to party reputation of that region and drinks are consumed with gusto. My bravery in presenting the show is rewarded by a continuous stream of arms around my shoulder that seem to always steer me to the bar.

The DJ plays regional songs and one that depicts a bullfight has a finale with the participants forming a conga line whilst seated on the floor. Some sweaty shirts come off and the dance/drink combination shows no sign of slowing down, but the DJ and bar staff do not complain. In fact no one objects, even the older folks that seem to smile in appreciation of youthful vigor around them.

Many characters make their impression on me this night. One that having had his fill decides to take a short cut to his bed via the empty moat, where he ends up getting some much-needed rest. Another that should have gone to the moat but instead redecorates the interior of his medieval bedroom in `Technicolor`- a scheme that also includes an unwitting partner.

We singles are put in the dormitory- a former chapel complete with lead light religious images that watch benevolently over unconscious revelers. As my own good time comes to a halt, I find the solitary figure of a young man slumped outside on the huge stony steps. He was apparently so drunk that he could not even find a wall to lean on and sits there asleep in the middle of the stairs like a gargoyle, preventing guests from accessing the bathroom.

I recognize him to be a cousin of the bride and having had my own share of stony staircases, I take pity on him and carry him to a bed despite the flaying of his arms (note for good Samaritans- in cases such as this, it is always wise to wake the individual first. A good way to do this is to pinch the back of the leg near the hamstring if the object of your compassion is not responding to pleadings or prods- lower hamstring only please! Then try as best to pin the flaying arms, whilst lifting to a safer, more comfortable location).

I find out later the next day that he awoke in what he thought was a Church and not having remembered how he got there, declares it a miracle. I am told on good authority that he has changed his ways and wonder if this might require the more regular use of France’s many churches, especially late on Saturday nights?

The next day, we awake to a late lunch provided on the lawns of the chateau, where a review of the previous nights festivities takes place- a stock take of party tales if you will. Near this tranquil setting one partygoer rests peacefully under a tree and I am unsure if he was there all night or whether anyone can be bothered to find out- this is a very accepting culture when it comes to celebrations.

The conclusion by all is that the night was a total success and I for one as witness can attest to a rare and special experience. As we depart, a sense of satisfaction and remorse imparts a wisdom- that these events happen only too rarely, and that’s what makes them special.

THE `FROSSIE LAND` DIARY
`The Pleasure Pilgrims of Periqeaux`
# 4 Thursday 23rd July, 2004


En-route from Paris to Bordeaux in South West France, lies the region of Perigod and its capital Perigeaux, stronghold of the ancient Celtic Gauls that finally succumbed to the armies of Julius Caesar and `Pax Romana`. This was a colonization that promised the locals a high tide of civilization- roads, laws, taxes and the occasional bath.

However, history shows us that such things were insufficient to satisfy greater human ambition and a new movement of social reform swept the land. -One that espoused virtues of love, charity and its offspring, hospitality. That movement was Christianity and Perieaux, like many rural towns in France, flourished around the needs of the thousands that came along the 740 kilometer pilgrimage of St Jacques de Compostela (St. James)-the saint who walked this road back to Jerusalem only to lose his head at the hands of King Herod.

Now nearly two thousand years after this epoch, tourists have replaced religious pilgrims and relics of this bygone era serve only as backdrops to digital picture albums, which leave a story-telling gap to the incredible history around. Today’s pilgrims are mainly tourists that travel in coach comfort and offer devotional utterances to strange gods like `Visa`, `Amex` in return for food and lodging-things that were provided yesteryear to reward self-sacrifice and devotion.

Despite the loss of old worlds and dimmed ideals, I am curious to scratch the surface to see if some of those ancient jewels may lay hidden.

We go to the local tourist bureau and find an obscure list of outlying farms that provide food and accommodation. After three phone calls we settle for the one that seems to be the most hospitable. `La Ferme Anserine` lies ten kilometers outside of Perigeaux and is owned by Sylvie and Olivier Audran, a couple in their late thirties and their two children. The farm appears to be over two hundred years old and now produces foie gras, truffles and honey.

After a warm welcome, a five-course feast that was prepared with one hour’s notice greets us. It is served in the rustic setting of the large kitchen, complete with a rugged diagonal bench and large pots and pans that hang above it. Through the window an endless vista of green paddocks and vineyards nourishes the eye.

The first course is an appetizer of cured and dried goose fillet slivers, which taste like a richer proscuitto and we wash this down with a wine made from a particular flora grown on the farm. It is sweet like a sauterne and compliments the pumpkin soup, which is infused with la mousse de foie (a mousse containing 70% foie gras and some armangnac- an excellent companion to an aperitif I am told)

Even my friend and gastronome Jean Claude, the hotel manager of the Four Seasons in Paris (voted best hotel in the world by the `Zagat Guide`) is impressed by the quality of the food as the next course arrives- it consists of a terrine made from goose meat, goose skin and foie gras.

Next comes Les Cous Farcis- a roll of gooseneck meat, pork, Armagnac, filled with foie gras and served with pomme frittes. The accompanying Bergerac perfectly compliments the richness of the meats. Desert is a berry tart with rich butter crust.

Through some masterful translation on the part of my friend, I learn that Olivier had worked for fifteen years as a maitre `d in some big name restaurants in Paris and London. He like many stressed Parisians had dreamed of leaving the ` rat race` for the tranquility of the country. One fateful day as he ruminated on this goal, he had spied a personal advertisement in the daily paper. It asked if anyone would be interested to work for two years learning the methods of farming and then take over the property?

Presumably the farmer had no children to bequeath his life` s work to, or as is increasingly the case, his children might have opted for the hustle of city life. Whatever the case, Olivier relished the opportunity and since taking over has extended the works of his mentor by growing truffles, potentially a very lucrative business.

Many things immediately flood the mind with appreciation; the unpretentious and generous presentations of produce in such exquisite food- the simple, but elegant surroundings and genuine conversation at the table.

I am instantly reminded of the true ideal of the Greek, Epicurus who asserted that all pleasure is not based on price, but context of enjoyment. That it is the sentiment of the people that come together and the spirit in which the meal is prepared and served that are the true arbiters of pleasure. This experience only convinces me of the veracity of his argument, as I increasingly shrink away from the converse of that, served regularly in high priced and pretentious eateries around the world.

Can anyone really attest to the satisfaction of a meal that is preceded by the anxiety of a stressful day, dinner reservations, traffic jams, and competition for tables and disinterested waiters? Or discussions about real estate and divorce settlements that seem to be the preferred `social sorbet` of the Western (but not French and especially not rural French) dinner table. This is increasingly the experience in our fast-paced cities and only seems to provide a greater expectation in pleasure and satisfaction that is rarely delivered. That the more we seem to strive for pleasure in the context of the clatter and hustle, the further away we get?

Perhaps it’s the loss of connectivity and knowledge about these things of pleasure that are contributing factors? In Sylvie and Olivier’s kitchen of simple elegance, we experience the connection and effect of nature with their stewardship of such intricate resources. The delicious things we savor are made more delectable by these people’s humble toil, their knowledge and nurturing and consequently, our appreciation. In our competitive, consumption-based cities these various perspectives and arbiters are relinquished for a single unit of measure, because we are convinced that by acquiring more of these units we will experience more pleasure. The evidence of depression and stress related illnesses that are increasing in cities seem to suggest otherwise.

To Olivier this interconnectedness extends to people as well. He is dependant on his neighbour and not in competition with him, because they both know that their sustenance at some point will depend on collaboration or cooperation. The market forces that determine price are out of his hands- all he can do is his best to optimize the yield of his acreage and with some help from his neighbors. His knowledge of this interconnectedness recently extended to the hosting of a Mexican student who provided his labour in exchange for French lessons, lodging and `pretty darn good food`.

The next morning we awake to a breakfast of scrumptious crepes served with various preserves and coffee. After a tour of the farm we depart from our generous hosts and a trifling thirty-nine Euros each for the whole experience. I get the impression that Olivier is either reluctant to take the money or is indifferent, as if our appreciation of his labours is sufficient. For me, the experience is priceless and perhaps that’s the main point.

The couple’s motto best sums up an ethic now lost to us city dwellers, `Work each day as you will not be on the Earth tomorrow. When you work the Earth, do it like you will live for one thousand years`. The fact that such a profound ethic is being lived in such a simple, practical manner is cause enough for much admiration and even hope.

The `FROSSIE LAND` DIARY
`Tu n'es pas moche, j`aime tes dents`!
# 1 Monday 12 July 12, 2004

I feel creaky, `rusty` as I write this from the balcony of an eleventh district apartment overlooking a grey Paris. Actually more like a rusty, twisted barn nail that has taken a hammering, but somehow manages to have carried the burdens required of it. Above me, the sight of swallows playfully dog-fighting offer hope of brighter summer days and I cling to this omen in terms of my own immediate future.

The back injury suffered during an enforced stay in Melbourne continues to remind me of increasing mortality against a growing agenda of projects that must take form. As the days to my departure grew nearer and greater with trepidation, I had focused on the simple tasks at hand, like tying my own shoelaces and so avoided the anxiety of thoughts concerning the gruelling twenty-four hour flight to Paris and life beyond.

Avoided also the thoughts surrounding the events that had `marooned` me in Melbourne, choosing rather to focus on the positive outcomes of this period. Now almost three months to the day of that trauma, I have discerned a more intricate, mosaic pattern of life that imparts a wiser, multi-dimensional perspective.

It perhaps suffices as a conclusion to state my view that the many ills of the world I see as global and removed are in fact the same reflected in the microcosms of our own human relationships and endeavours. To those of us burdened by the knowledge of these inequities at large, Mahatma Gandhi had sagely bequeathed his own epitaph and legacy-` Be the change you want to see in the world`! A simpler and less burdensome standard to carry for those of us that see no other practical solution.

So a new ship carried me away from Melbourne, one largely crewed by dear friends in France that showed up at Charles De Gaulle airport at 6:30 AM to redeem my sorry state. Despite my artificially sedated grin and the two years that separated this reunion, there was the evident and unspoken joy of a loving greeting that forever brands special friendships.

Nancy and Francois are soon to be married in Bordeaux and it will be my honour to be their `temoin' (`best man` if you are not French) during the formal ceremony. I have also been invited to join them during their honeymoon and I naughtily delight with the thought of being a witness at both events, like some tribal elder that has transcended the sensual distractions of such things and now presides over them.

As I wander, or more precisely, limp through Paris, questions about this place and time flood a naturally curious mind that is awakening from its recent Australian hibernation- questions that frame a context for my existence here! These are increasingly of a universal nature that covers the themes of friendships, love, venture and the barriers we all encounter in navigating them.

My initial observation of Paris is that much has changed since my last visit four years ago, tainted as that memory is by visits to various hospitals courtesy of the `gastro` epidemic that abounded then. English is understood and spoken almost everywhere and the global street chic confirms the surrender of the mainstream to the international slipstream. The question is whether `le resistance' will fight back, if it still exists at all? Despite the burning of the first McDonalds store over ten years ago, its place on the Champes de Eylsées in now enshrined, forever juxtaposed with Napoleon’s own earlier triumphant arch- both symbols of imperialist fervour, if not flavour.

It should be noted however that l`Èmperor always preferred chicken and the quickie lunch of fifteen minutes at a time when two hours was the norm. A time frame he is said to have also applied to other practices of sensual delight, much to the chagrin of Josephine, who had a penchant for dining on young lieutenants with more time on their hands.

Gone from main-street view are the boutiques of laudable Parisian individualism. Gone also are the glamorous women that are purged from Paris at this time by tourists in white walking socks that clean up the fashion refuse of the aforementioned in city wide sales- A kind of cultural purgation that benefits both parties. When I last came here in winter, beauty looked bitter and now in summer it had gone south.

Being deprived of such visual sensations, my mind is forced to savour the smells and tastes of culinary delights, a culturally high watermark long-established by the French. The food is great everywhere except the tourist areas where tired looking waiters serve equally fatigued salads that remind some visitors of home. You know who you are!

I decide instead to dig up some local history at the Cimetiere du Pere Lachaise, where the likes of Moliere, Proust and Balzac reside. Despite the Romanesque and Gothic mausoleums that celebrate such illuminated lives, the majority of visitors, including the French, seek out lot 30 in division 6 and I am constantly asked for the whereabouts of `Jeem Morrison`. Perhaps its my seventies leather coat and dark glasses that have me mistaken as a disciple of The Doors and its shaman front man?

Like many misunderstood poets Morrison had lived his life in a vain attempt at explaining his lyrics and while extolling us to `break on through to the other side` had left few clues (apart from extended periods of solitude in the Californian desert- a personal favourite of mine!). He did however perform this ultimate feat into infinity via a short stopover in Paris and like Alexander in Babylon was partied out, spent, young and dead.

The likes of Balzac had answered life-long questions to their satisfaction, if not all of their critics, whilst the latter perhaps has a greater affinity to a current generation unable to answer the many questions asked of modern popular culture?

A realization in the form of a paradox also appears when one considers that despite French opposition to the dominant, pop Western culture of America, it also embraces two of its most notable symbols (McDonalds & Morrison).

That evening friends Jean Claude and Gee purchase tickets to see chanteuse Bebel Gilberto at Le Bataclan and despite my hosts forward planning, the management at the venue make the crowd line up for one hour, before a mad scramble to unreserved seating in a venue sans air-conditioning.

I am bemused to see around me what appears to be a newfound French tolerance. The crowd is clapping excitedly, which I am sure is convincing Gilberto to prolong her absence. I enquire of the charming woman next to me, the whereabouts of the country’s famous protest movement. She smiles like an infatuated schoolgirl and I instantly realize that I am unwittingly engaged in the French art of seduction, despite sweating profusely on the seat and floorboards beneath.

So while Bebel Gilberto seduces her audience by building their anticipation for her, I am sharing my body fluids with those around me and wish only for a cigarette on the cooler balcony outside.

The star attraction finally arrives on stage one hour later and its left to my Thai friend Gee, now living in Paris, to incite about half the room to a round of booing. Despite an ill-conceived attempt at the Bosa Nova in English the audience is easily won over when the switch to Portuguese is finally made.

The next day Jean Claude, now the manager of the prestiges Georges V, invites me to view the Bastille Day parade from the rooftop reception provided by his hotel. His wife Gee and I however negotiate an hour and a half of obstacles in the way of reduced transport services, security barricades and non existent signage that has us spending half this time wandering in the underground Metro for an exit. It is only when my friend charms a soldier with her exotic good looks that he divulges a national secret and we surface to street level.

We finally arrive to a glass of chilled champagne and other delights, whilst below us rows of tanks and other military hardware promenade. It is a scary visual contrast to the sights usually associated with the likes of Vuitton, Dior and Chanel. This is quite clearly a show of military muscle- one that history has provided a few unanswered questions and ironically one that failed on that first July 14 when the Bastille was breached.

Overhead low flying Mirage fighters trail plumes of tri-color red, blue and white, in scenes more reminiscent of Red Square or Tianiman Square. At the best the parade seems dated and insensitive to current global conflicts and most sadly does not celebrate the greater achievement that is France and its culture.

Later that evening we attend a soiree at an apartment with 180-degree views of Paris to watch fireworks that erupt from the top of the Eiffel Tower. The symbolism is not lost on the married women in the room who note that it emulates other acts performed only once a year and without the accompanying skyrockets.

In typical unabashed French fashion the appropriateness of the machismo military parade of the morning is questioned. The consensus around me suggest that President Chirac would have done better by the nation and himself by just opting to buy himself a bigger Cadillac (or Porsche if you happen to find him unattractive as well).

French machismo however, has and does remain in the domain of seduction and boudoir, where La Femme is worshipped and dignified with the most ardent intent. Post-modern feminism subsequently fell by the wayside of a seventies American aberration, like flares and platform shoes- comfortable ones, of course!

The next day in Parc Monceau the worshipping continues in the mutual adoration seen in young lovemaking couples alongside families, all sharing a closeness of proximity both physical and emotional that is not seen elsewhere. I am most touched by the sight of French mothers and the close connection with their young, which can be seen with doting fathers as well. This physical affection is buttressed by expressions such as ``je t'adore`` in response to even the most casual idiosyncrasies of loved ones.

The French also have a delightful way of letting you know they like you, without the fumbling awkwardness that accompanies less subtle cultures. Again, a closeness of physical proximity and an abandonment of self (which can be manifested in a charming absentmindedness) to total attention, informs and reassures the subject of Gallic affection.

Beauty is also defined in a multitude of perspectives including humour, dignity, style, charm, individualism and character, against an increasing global definition that is of singular dimension. As such, I am a devotee to some of this country’s many social graces and institutions, if not it`s somewhat restrictive class structure.

As I approach intriguing streets, cafes, soirees and people of Paris I can only purr in my best `Pepe Le Pew` brand of charm-` Tu n`es pas moche! J`aime tes dents`! (You are not ugly! I like your teeth!)