I come out of a deep, deep sleep to the melodious tolling of bells. I am immediately alert as they ring deep and fast and hard and spring out of bed and into running pants and shoes in one motion. I grab my raincoat and lock my door and run down the curving staircase of my tiny 11 room hotel into the morning, still pitch black. I run up the block to mass at St-Nicolas-du-Chardonnet. I arrive as the priest begins the greeting, said in Latin as is the entire mass. I pull my coat close around me as I sink to my knees in morning prayer and later go to the rail and kneel to receive the eucharist in my mouth, as was the Pre-Vatican II custom. Not only that, the rail is covered so that no part of my body touches the line of demarcation that separates the laity from the high altar. Later, the acolyte uncovers the rail and his eyes narrow as he watches me follow his post-Eucharist motions.

I wander outside into the street, now fully awake, and lose myself into the softening darkness and sweet air. Its raining lightly this morning and I walk with the mothers who hold their children's hands, hurrying them to school. I walk up the Rue des Escoles and past the Sorbonne. It's much too early for these students and the shops in this neighborhood and I lose myself in the windows of the comic book and tattoo shops. This, by far, is some of the best shopping in all of Paris.

As traffic picks up, I turn back on Boulevard St-Michel and walk St-Germain on the other side. Regretfully, I realize I've turned too soon to window shop the Polish bookstore, the place where you can get phenomenal foil nativity scenes as big as your finger or as big as a microwave oven, made out of folded colored tin foil. Now people hustle past me on their way to work. The mood of the morning has completely changed and it has stopped raining and the air is marvelously sweet.

I am back at my tiny hotel and I fit my key into the red door and go down to the basement, once the wine cellar of this old, old house. I arrive just in time for the red haired lady to serve me breakfast: a croissant, butter and jam, ham and cheese, and beautiful pink grapefruit. And of course, thick black coffee with hot cream. She is twenty years older than me and has some difficulty getting around but serves me with great pride and dignity and is eager and pleased to please me.

I climb the stairs to the third floor where my room has already been refreshed with clean sheets and fresh flowers. I brush my teeth and take off again, this time for a nice run up the river.
As I warm up from a trot, I run past the tables and stalls where the dealers sell the marvelous old prints, this morning featuring speckled hens and studies of pale colored eggs. The air falls fresh, clean, soft and distinct. The boats chug up and down the river, some getting ready for the lunch cruises, others hauling goods and supplies in commercial ventures. I now am running full out and the Louvre and Notre Dame flash in and fade out of my vision as I head full steam past des Tuileries toward the Tour Eiffel. It is a phenomenal morning and being out for a run is sublime serendipity.

I stop short of the Tour Eiffel and turn towards Rodins Garden. It's quiet there today, in this distinguished, old Paris neighborhood. As Musee de'Orsay comes into sight, I begin to slow up and ponder my options for lunch. I stop at the old print shop and try to see the old maps and engravings through the window; this is the place that has really old travel posters, too, but I won't be seeing them today. I am not dressed and would not dream of showing disrespect to the proprietor of the shop by entering sweaty, in "gym" clothes. Around the corner is the 19th century taxidermy shop and I visually feast at the window, oogling the polar bear, the wild boars, the lion and yes, the stuffed cocker spaniel. I am completely at rest now and the euphoria of the after run has set in. I see one of my favorite cafes up ahead and the maitre d' motions me in. Bon Chance!

I order an omelet with sliced tomatoes and completely remember how I completely forget how good eggs cooked in real butter taste. As the coffee is poured, I hear some music, faintly, from down the street. The people walk by, laughing and talking. They wear clothes that are stunning and simple. The women wear good jewelery along with costume jewelry. I catch the eye of a retired man who winks at me as he takes his table. Two old friends laugh and talk a few tables away, fully, utterly, completely present in the moment.

As am I.


JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

This mention of Paris and being in Paris is troublesome because it is I who should be in Paris, having dinner in St Germaine at this very moment. Instead, I am at home, consulting with the Chow Nation over the details of Easter, which they are furiously planning. They say they didn't enjoy being home alone last year for Easter and this year they are really going to live it up.

But if I were in Paris, here's what I would do tomorrow:

I would stay in St Germaine and stroll down the Boulevard St-Germaine to the Institut de Monde Arabe to wander the exhibition, rendering me open mouthed and amazed every time.

I would cross the bridge into Ile de la Cite to the little yarn shop and see how they are getting along there, the proprietress and her cat. I'd check out the new luggage at Mandarina Duck a few doors down and then turn and keep going until I hit the Marais. I'd stop for a wonderful lunch, anywhere, with anyone. I would have a tomato and cheese sandwich on white bread and frothy light beer. I'd eavesdrop on the conversations around me, fast and furious French and wonder if I got all the details just right. I'd hit the African Art Gallery then, the linen shop, the bead place and go over to Rue des Francs-Bourgeois, to brontibay. I'd pick out one, only one, handbag and have it wrapped to take with. I would get over to the Hotel et Musee Carnavalet in time to have a decent browse before it closes. I would argue it's the best museum in Paris.

I'd then walk back up towards La Madeleine on the Rue de Rivoli, pausing to gape again at the Hotel de Ville; I'd cut over to St-Honore to stroll past the Palais de Elysee, the American Embassy and the hotel where the Arabs and their harems and children stay. I hope for a glimpse of the royal family on the sidewalk and a whiff of their wives as they slipped into the string of limos waiting at the curb-- heavenly perfumed and coiffed women with silent big-eyed children.

I'd get to Laduree in time for an early dinner, although not completely hungry. I would have what else? roast chicken, sauted mushrooms and spinach, and whatever the recommendation was for dessert. a wonderful crisp chardonnary and delicious dark cofffee afterward. I would take a small box of macroons to go and slip into the night, and the stars, and walk toward Pont Neuf, and pause at the bridge. Although the wind picks up on the river, I would decide to walk it all the way home, crossing and following the river all the way back to the little street where my key fits into the little red door.

My fresh bed would be ready and the hot shower would take me to sleep, sleep, sleep until the church bells rang....


JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

Sylvie Ruth texted me yesterday that there is a lot of talk all over the internet about my art collection. She says people just can't get enough information and are starved for further details about the latest acquistions. And Sylvie, being as persistent as she is, staunchly maintains that her weekend is going to be much smoother if I just put out the following information:

our latest acquistion here at the downtown gallery of the Collection at Bellemaison is ' Herself ' .

damn. Is she not fine?

JBelle

Bellemaison

The 'Kan EWA

Red or Yellow?

JBelle

Bellemaison

The 'Kan EWA

One thing I dearly love is botanical prints. I have really old ones, most from the 18th and 19th centuries. I don't know why I like them but I do; I love them. By and large, the pieces that remain today are remnants of scientific, medical, or technical instructional books of sorts. One of the most famous sets of prints was commissioned by the Empress Josephine, who summoned Redoute to Malmaison to draw her roses. Those pieces now are invaluable, as this collection was extensive, definitive, and mastered stippling, an engraving technique that was to engraving as pointillism is to painting and pixels are to digital photography: little teeny dots. Kabillions of 'em.

Engraving prints was actually the manner in which images were captured back in the day, much as photography is used today. I bought several prints this weekend that were commissioned by the United States Pacific Railroad as they were completing the survey of California and Oregon in the 1850's. This was drawn between the 38th and 41st parallels. Subsequently, it was engraved as Plate XXXV and was catalogued as part of the USPRR Exp & Surveys Bird collection. Soon it will hang in my house at Bellemaison in a place of honor: it's the Mountain Bluebird.

I bought some very good and some fine prints this weekend, but bought what I loved. I left some rare, exceptional pieces behind, a dodo bird, but I will and do love the pieces I bought. I want to hang them as soon as possible. And that's the acid test for me: as beautiful as it is, and they all must be beautiful, will I hang it? okay, will I rush to hang it? can I imagine as I stand and try to decide about buying it what it might feel like to see this hang in my house? yes? yes? and yes? okay, you're in. Welcome to Hollywood.

These are going in the powder room and the old maps are coming down and going? in the library?

These two lift my spirit to such a heady place I can't decide exactly where they will hang.

And this guy, this guy here might get a shrine: he's a Grey Baboon, a native of warmer part of Africa. He was done in London on August 1st 1795 by F. P. Nodder of No. 15 Brewer Street.

So it official: we now have one big baboon.

JBelle

Bellemaison

The 'Kan EWA

The day started splendidly in Seattle again with the headline "Big Effort Unrewarded", the Times giving GU their just due where ESPN remained stingy and ungenerous with the effort under duress yesterday. No matter. I'm in Seattle and these people here are my people.

We drive in on Friday afternoon, negotiate I-90 in rush hour traffic, the north/south one ways in downtown during peak travel and check in. No one gives me a second look as a clip though the lobby in workout pants and no make up. Not even a pause do I generate. We settle in and only then consider making a reservation for dinner --in a major American city on a Friday night.

The restaurant next door cheerfully answers the phone and replies, "Is 8 o'clock okay?" It's been said before, but it's worth saying again: this is God's country. We then ask what the dress code is: whatever's comfortable. Whatever's comfortable? Yes, whatever's comfortable. Jeans? fine. Sweats? If you're comfortable. God's country, I tell you.

So taking them at their word, I stroll into Tulio precisely at the stroke of 8 pm in those same work out pants, an oversized Martha's Vineyard sweatshirt from five seasons ago but with make up and nominal hair. And to be fair, I was wearing socks and some lingerie. So they lead us to a lovely table up the winding staircase and that gives us a chance to check out this utterly delightful, really well done restaurant featuring Fine Northwest Italian Cuisine. The restaurant is classic, with lots of mahogany but a really light touch. Lighted expertly, the fixtures were more Craftsman that anything else and put that lovely, lovely low light amber glow on everything. All done to perfection. The people seated around us were wearing everything from jeans to silk and cashmere and even though I realigned the median, no one gave me a second look, particularly not our wait person, trained and experienced to a T. He acted as if I were Christine Gregoire. The Honorable Christine Gregoire.

I spent 6 weeks in Italy in 2006 and must confess to a real boredom with Italian food at the moment. But I also claim a certain expertise as well so was quite interested in the menu featuring Fine Northwest Italian Cuisine in downtown Seattle, Washington. Was that Northwest American Italian Cuisine or Northwest Italian Cuisine?

A little of both as it turns out. The back of the house can execute as expertly as the front of the house can and we had a nice, nice dinner served with a low key graciousness that can only be described as the most elegant of finesses. Here are some of my favorites from the menu:

Antipasti
Burrata, Arugula, Tomato Jam, Basil Salt, Pickled Fennell Trampettoo
Grilled Calamari with Lavendar Sausage and Chickpeas
Sweet Potato Gnocchi with Sage Butter Mascarpone

Primi
Smoked Salmon Ravioli with Asparagus and Lemon Creme
Orecchiette ("little ears"), Spicy Italian Sausage, Rapini, Light Tomato Sauce, Reggiano

Secondi
Roasted Chicken with Carmelized Garlic and Sage and Lemon Risotto
Grilled Spice Rubbed Lamb Sirloin with Artichokes, Green Beans and Mint, Ligurian Olives
Duck Breast and Crispy Confit with Braised Brussel Sprouts, Golden Raisins and Orange Zest
Veal Chop stuffed with Mozzarella, Creamy Spinach and Leeks, Truffle Oil and Crispy Proscuitto

What for dessert, you ask? Why Cherry Gelato, of course. It was a prestigious, ambitious menu, prepared and served for a response that could only be "Brrravo" in a beautiful, drop dead gorgeous setting. Sophstication and elegance of the first order; and there was no mistaking I was in the Pacific Northewest; know why? The Chefs who oversee this culinary ballet are named 'Walter' and 'Bucky'. Only in God's country, folks. Only in God's country.

JBelle
On Location
Seattle, Washington

So it's been just one wonderful day here in Seattle, Washington. It was bright, clear, and sunny and people were out and about in pursuit of all kinds of Saturday adventures. Our day started 9 am at the Hotel Vintage Park. We woke up to the clean, crisp air that you only can get in Seattle. We had slept quite well in our superbly sheeted and pillowed wonderfully comfortable bed that is just one fabulous feature of this lovely, lovely hotel. We rolled over and dialed room service who appeared ten minutes later with a steaming tray of scrambled eggs, toasted bagels, hot coffee and cream. We showered and headed up the street to the Northwest Flower and Garden Show at the Washington State Convention and Trade Center.

There was a red-headed guy giving a drum concert on the street that was particularly cunning. He used upside down empty Costco detergent tubs and sat on a little waste basket as he pounded out a compelling and happy beat. He had three wine bottles poked into the side of an upside down milk crate that he used for melody. Really a good concert! People were out and running here and there, all smiling; my guess is that they were happy to be without umbrellas. Whatever the reason, the infectious mood of the street further inched our well being reading up the scale and left us with great anticipation.

We ducked into the convention center and rode up 4 floors to the cavernous exhibition hall. The show is well organized and was particularly pleasant this year, as there were very few strollers but honestly? just what has gardening become in Seattle? The exhibition gardens were the epitome of more money than sense. This year there were vintage cars in the gardens and people DANCING? Would Vita Sackville-West have settled for this nonsense? I think not.

The garden culture is so hip, so keen and so SO in Seattle that it's become a form over substance exercise with the tekkie billionaires fouling the koi pond, so to speak. With their contrived and gauche interpretations of how really rich people garden, this show gives you the impression that real gardening is about real consumerism. Let's be completely clear: the polished granite chaise lounges just didn't connect with me. Serious. Granite slabs hewn into the shape of chaise lounges and polished. Ah, god. The California people are completely at home with this type of embarrassment. I am praying that no one from Philadelphia or Boston was here to see this.

But the guy selling the lily bulbs was there as was a guy with rain barrels so all was not lost. Had wet burritos at Taco del Mar downstairs. Saw some killer quilts on the wall by the escalator. Saw the orchids. Still smiling from that. And yes, I did get a few, well maybe several, antique botanical prints. When I die there is going to be one hell of an auction.

And so now we'll walk in the soft, slightly bracing evening air and hope for a few stars. Later, we'll have dessert and sip champagne. Is there any other time or any other place other than this night and this place?


JBelle
On Location
Seattle, Washington

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is: Most Noble and Honourable JBelle the Calm of Buzzcock Lepshire Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

JBelle, shouldn't you be curtsying?

Bellemaison

The 'Kan EWA

Hope or Faith?

JBelle

Bellemaison

The 'Kan EWA

So it's been a good month since I made the famous New Year's resolution not to buy any clothes, shoes, handbags or scarves in North American or Europe in 2007.

When I was in London in January, I passed up olive green suede shoes, luscious olive green suede shoes. I've had to stop and drop back a few times since as I want a new black long sleeve cashmere sweater. New black jeans, too. Can't get too many of those. I found a wonderful place out of Dallas that makes gorgeous shoes and handbags. Nice, right? All forbidden under the New Improved Plan for 2007.

It's come to my attention only this morning that my very best friend just bought three, use your fingers, three Chanel handbags. The Chows want to know, rightly so, how am I doing?

Previous to making my resolution, I knew that in my schematic shopping for clothes is a hybrid between a blood sport and an art form. That's why I decided to see how a break, a major intervention would play out. I had absolutely no idea if a shopping embargo would be significant or important in my life but was open to finding out and curious about what I would do if I didn't shop.

Forty days into this discovery I find that overall, I don't have any trouble not buying clothes. I do find that it's the specialty stuff that sorely tempts me, provokes me. I want a new pair of boots to walk in. I want a new pair of boots for the rain. I want a new hat to wear in the rain. I want new work out clothes.

I have enough work out clothes for the Laker Girls and the US Women's National Soccer team to get good and sweaty three times a day for a week. My work out clothes take up a whole bedroom in my house--the one the babies used to sleep in, for God's sakes. I have the lingerie, I have the pants, I have the shirts and socks and windbreakers; I have sweat bands., I have bandanas, I have gloves, gloves, gloves. I have bike shoes, golf shoes, runners, cross trainers, yogas, tennis, basketball and any other sports shoe you might imagine including the iPod shoes; I easily have 40 pairs of work out shoes, most having been worn twice or so. But still...

I'd like some new stuff; I want some more stuff. I want new black work out socks. I just need some more.

So on Valentine's Day 2007, my problem isn't Chanel, Hermes, Prada or Gucci. My problem is Nike, adiddas, and Under Armor.

More as I know it....

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

The robins have been back for about a month. They get up and sing in the dark, happy to be back in my garden, giving the a capella concert that ignites my spirit each morning. I heard the geese this morning, too, as they were flying by; headed north, they certainly know something I don't, as they seemed in a hurry. Sylvie Ruth exfoliated her entire winter coat yesterday, with the help of the wire brush. The sky is still gray and heavy, but soft.

What will this year's Valentine feel like?

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA