But my cup of tea

Excerpt from Marcel Proust's In Search of Lost Time: Many years had elapsed during which nothing of Combray, save what was comprised in the theatre and the drama of my going to bed there, had any existence for me, when one day in winter, on my return home, my mother, seeing that I was cold, offered me some tea, a thing I did not ordinarily take. I declined at first, and then, for no particular reason, changed my mind. She sent for one of those squat, plump little cakes called "petites madeleines," which look as though they had been moulded in the fluted valve of a scallop shell. And soon, mechanically, dispirited after a dreary day with the prospect of a depressing morrow, I raised to my lips a spoonful of the tea in which I had soaked a morsel of the cake. No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, something isolated, detached, with no suggestion of its origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory - this new sensation having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence was not in me it was me. I had ceased now to feel mediocre, contingent, mortal. Whence could it have come to me, this all-powerful joy? I sensed that it was connected with the taste of the tea and the cake, but that it infinitely transcended those savours, could, no, indeed, be of the same nature. Whence did it come? What did it mean? How could I seize and apprehend it?...And suddenly the memory revealed itself. The taste was that of the little piece of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray (because on those mornings I did not go out before mass), when I went to say good morning to her in her bedroom , my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of tea or tisane. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it. And all from my cup of tea.

Proust's cookie was not really a cookie, it was a cake. But to this measure i here provide no astute revelation, for what would it matter if it had been a cookie, a cake, a pot of kraut, or the dried-out back end of the prior nights dinner loaf. The cookie matters not; the chicken or the egg right, what matters is the expedited fashion in which the cookie propelled him down memory's wistful garden lane. Now reader, special brownies aside, is it possible for the average Joe, comme toi et moi, to achieve such prompt from a taste--from any taste? Perhaps it is not sweet little old mum who brings you a dainty cake to jog your romantic existential query into your past self, but perhaps for you it is your cousin Leon whose generous offerings of overcooked blood sausage on your tuesday evening visits that bring you back to that street corner at age twelve accepting from that vendor what you thought to be a neuveau bratwurst "stick style" but in fact, and to your hearts horror, produced for you a mouthful of iron. Proust didn't give a shit about the cookie or the tea; though many a food writer and culinary historian have spun the reference to spur their own crusade to create the bonafide proustian madelein--what the asthmatic mama's boy wanted us to focus on was the concept of involuntary memory triggers. Side note: did you know that Freud was a coke user? When we examine food as a memory trigger in allusion or comparison to Proust, we miss the point. Food as a stimulus for memory should not be an involuntary sub-conscious exercise. no no no. Where is any humanistic purpose in that? Perform it as an exercise.

Memory, memory, i'll tell you a bit about memory. Proust....mumble mumble...Proust....mumble mumble...n'est ce pas? Rang the droning comentary of Monsieur Quoi during our stimulating literature course at le Catho--me, averting my gaze from the window framed roof-tops: hmm? ah oui oui, n'est pas, oui oui Proust, quel(le) homme bien sur...attendez--on parle de quoi? Here is what i tread on Proust: (note-i do not imply that i have stomped his marble at Lachaise ) I envy the man and I want a cookie equivalent. I want to twine together a taste with a remembrance so strong that my body physically aches under its pressure. I echo the sentiment of acting mechanically, dispirited after a dreary day with the prospect of a depressing morrow. But then i look down and see my tea. No sight to behold, my tea is always there, my constant companion, the warriors sword, the journalist's pen, Linus's blanket. I want to create a memory with this tea, i muse, though perhaps it would be wise to cease musing out loud. What will i remember it as?

I will remember it as yesterday, as tomorrow, and as today. I will remember it as morning, as midday, and as sundown. As a tireless companion to late night essays on Roman conquest, as a comfort to both soul and soles after early morning runs. No discrimination of weather; will take pleasantly in positive as well as negative mercury. Sometimes with dinner, sometimes as dinner. You cannot hide from me--i'll search and consume you in Dublin, in Paris, in Rome. The kitchens of every hostel, you they proudly boast: in Krakow, in Lisbon, in Lille you succumb to my will. At home, the round crystal jar forever bursting with your geminates. Half full, and sometimes half empty you are left on counters and chairs in the dash to the door. In the car you've been many a time, sloshing against the plastic cylinder contracted for your containment. I have sipped you with sugar, and gulped you bitterly without. Always with milk, though sometimes with soy (for here when i say "tea" i am referring solely to the milky English style. all others need not apply.) Too often you are mixed with tears, the salty reminder that more often than not life is not perfect. But more is the reprise--and not to mention sweeter and less diluted--when mixed with cheer. But I don't need to create a memory with this tea, it creates one every moment. It's a memory of everyday this tea, a memory everyday of--me.That being said, perhaps i have an unhealthy relationship with this tea bag?

Well we know Proust liked Madeleines, but what about Montaigne? Perhaps a rum cake, maybe. And Voltaire, Rousseau? Rousseau would prefer something a bit hereby; of potpourri in the feeling of having just ingested perfume thus triggering the gagging reflex, not unlike moonlit river boat cruising. But i can see Baudelaire with a nice plump poppy seed cake. What would dead French literary figures favorite food stuff be. Who cares? Exactly. But you know, someone must.

So reader this is now where i ask you for your pity and good wishes--a good luck, a bonne chance, a boa sorte, a shot of tequila, whatever--for this monday i am to take my oral comprehensive exam on French literature (in French) and am one step short of nervously breaking down (ahhh, you sigh, now it all makes sense.) But what do i know about French literature? Let us put it simply as minds are not meant to stay as tabula rasa. Pass the exam and receive a bachelors degree in the French language. Fail, and well...i'm down to one degree. What does a BA in the French language do anyways? Dunno. What do i need a "degree" for to tell me that i can speak French--i think it is evident whether i can or not just by opening my mouth non? But for some reason i want it. And the only thing separating us is a one hour conversation on the dead. Will it get me any nearer to ceasing to feel mediocre, contingent, and mortal--well the tea and cookie did it for Proust. So perhaps the panel members will allow me their audience with teacup in hand.

à bientôt

updated photography portfolio of--oh, me!The staff here at the Salty Cod is quite diverse. We have many positions filled by people who are all very qualified, in their heads. Our staff positions include writers, bakers, chefs, researchers, editors, photographers, regional marketing agents, international marketing agents, traveling correspondents, and dancers. As the greedy cod-monger that I am, I take part in all jobs listed above. But only part mind you, for the rest we hire only the best, meaning the ones who don't cost us any money. Our marketing agents are superb--bellowing uncles and fellow cuisine and travel bloggers. Our editor is a non-native speaker, and our traveling correspondents are everyone whose ideas i steal. The bakers and chefs who i hire to feed me at restaurants are also only the best, or worse depending on how the review went. But I will not share the writing though, and while yes I will do the dancing, I hope that there is one gracious enough out there to put me out of my misery and help me out on that one.

Alright, I am announcing a new version of our head photographer's (moi) portfolio--after countless horas of anger lost on that headache known as PDF, she has updated to the internet. While the majority of her work is done for the Salty Cod and for selfish reasons, she does in fact work as paid staff in her University's publication department--the newspaper, yearbook, and website. Well, money is money.

Please do me the honor of inflating my ego and visit the new portfolio, c'est tres chouette.

Mallory Elise Photography

Americas greatest defense against itself No one likes the airport. Why is it that unanimously in travel it is always transportation that presents itself the greatest bane in the entire process. For Americans it isn't dealing with foreign languages and unfamiliar customs around the globe that is the greatest hurdle on a voyage; no that one would go to traveling through and getting out of their own country.

In this months National Geographics Traveler magazine columnist John Rosenthal dives into the pol-it-i-cal big brotherhood of yet more airport security programs by the US homeland security department. In short, get ready for yet even more difficulty at the airport. The TSA have found a second passion aside from protecting transportation against the irksome pests known as travelers and commuters--cattle ranching. Since January of 2007 Americans have been required to carry passports to the previous safe-spots, ok happy neighbors of Canada, Mexico, and the Caribbean. The next airport security jumble appears now to be the mandatory holding of a REAL ID card to travel in and outside of the counrty. Have you heard of Real ID? I hadn't. Why? Perhaps it is because our states are finally starting to fight back.

A Vagabond. A Salty Cod.

Spokane [spo · can] is in the very most eastern region of the state of Washington, not the capital Washington, the real Washington--the state. It lies 32 kilometers from the border of Idaho; yes yet another forgotten among the nifty fifty. And though it does reside in the same state, it is no where near Seattle. Eastern Washington is a night and day variant from western Washington. The two are geographically separated by the Cascade mountain range, which keeps Seattles lush temperate climate all to itself.

Central and eastern Washington are dry, flat, and hot. It is a region of extremes; desert heat in the summer months, and an artic chill of severely low temperatures that bring thick blankets of snow in the winter. Extreme seasons have both the ups and downs, but then, what is out there that doesn't.

Between Seattle and Spokane lies about 500 kilometers of fields known as the Columbia Plateau, full of visually stimulating wheat, wheat, corn, wheat, some green herbish-crops, potatos, and more wheat. Humans are found inhabiting small boondock patches here and there, but city cannot begin until tree line and river line appear, and that is Spokane, lying in the shadow of the Rocky Mountain foothills. After mindless hours of driving, tumbleweeds and dirt devil storms as the only breaks inthe scenery, Spokane emerges seemingly out of no where. This city, known more collectively among the locals as Spokompton, is our next city. Bienvenue.

Second largest city in the state; home to many beautiful mansions atop the South Hill, though home to the many more who find themselves under or stradling the poverty line. To the north the main drags are lined by strip malls, fast food joints, and every style super-store imaginable under the sun. Gonzaga University (of which I attend) sits bordered on one side by the poorest neighborhood in the city, and on the otherside by the river and metropolitan downtown of designer retail and upscale dining and lodging.

We, the outsiders who move in periodically refer in snobbery to the locals as "Spokeys." Spokane is no Gotham, but it is no stranger to drugs and potentially high crime rate. The sense of security felt in some cities such as hmm Paris has no place here. Though no where near the mauvais reputation of say Atlanta, Chicago, LA, Detroit; no this is city meets small town topped off by a rotating population of rich alcohol-abusing college brats blasting teeth-grinding rap (music?) late into the night (can you tell where I am at this moment? yes). No I am not 43 years old, but my vision of college and ideas of pleasing ways to pass my life away have never seemed to mesh with the norm. Oh well.

There is another side of the coin however. It can be, if we look, a beautiful city. In the trees, the lilacs, the river and its many cascading falls. In the changing of seasons; pillowy piles of leaves in the fall, fresh whiteness in the winter, and tulips towering over dewey grass in the spring. Mt. Spokane is but a quick drive north, a day trip skiiers paradise. And for the runners, bikers, and walkers of the city, the Louis and Clark Centennial trail runs along the river, through the campus, and into the sparkling metropolitan downtown giving quite the vehicle-less route full of scenery and seemingly clean air.

For every negative, there is most likely a positive. Spokane is not Paris. Spokane is not Seattle. Spokane is Spokane. And We're here for a while. In my final year as a resident in this city, I invite you to accompany me in finally opening my mind to the good things here. Welcome to Gonzaga University, welcome to my house, welcome to Spokane. We're settling here, for now. Afterwards, only Cod knows. So, grab the blue bag and on y va.

* most photos are older than one year

à bientôt

the whole world can dance
He's been doing his dance now for a while , 6 years to be exact, but i've only now just come across it . We here at The Salty Cod are probably the last travel-ish blog to post his story and praise his efforts. And though we're not based in the mid-west, we do seem to have a knack for being a few moments behind everyone else. But we seem to somehow find the important things, in the end.


Where the Hell is Matt? (2008) from Matthew Harding on Vimeo.

Matt Harding, a SEATTLE resident (no way!) travels around the world to dance with anyone willing to accompany him. What all started as a silly memento during a tour of Asia has become for Matt, and the millions of viewers around the world, a symbol of-- yes though dramatic--a symbol of hope that what we can all share in this world regardless of whatever language, weather, or color--is a silly dance. Yes, that's it. A dance. There is no profit involved, no side quest for information, money, reports, research, food, tv stations--nothing; just going there. He goes there just to go there, and his there is everywhere. Tokyo, Paris, Togo, Yemen, Mexico City, Dallas, Amsterdam, Sao Paulo, Singapore, Sydney, Madagascar, Mumbai, Madrid, Buenos Aires, Zambia, Mali, Warsaw, Vancouver, Seattle--everywhere there is a there.

As many of you have likely heard of Matt and his dance prior to this post, this is for the rest who by the off-chance (like me) had missed the boat. And for those who have seen it, I invite you to delight in a second viewing. I can not explain why this video makes me so damn happy--I have watched it now plus que 5 times, and each time my face beams an arc greater than the one above Noah's. Without explanation, Matt's dance is an emotional idea--the places he's gone, the people he has seen; I personally know when watching his dance that I myself will never stop traveling. The idea of connection between cultures has always made me teary (what can i say im a sap, I cried in Harry Potter) so, Bravo Matt! i see the happiness that I feel when I travel in your dance--and it reminds me yet again about the things that really are important.

And traveling; the act of seeing that there is more in this world than what is familiar, and that there is more than just your flag, your language, your taste, your views--more than the you at the center of the word is, without any agenda, one of the important things.

à bientôt

Biking Europe--A bit of Vélib'
Yeah yeah I'm not in Paris any longer. So what. I had long intended to attempt a piece about the bicycle culture in Paris, or rather Europe in general for that matter, and was just recently returned to the subject by an article in the New York Times describing the system. So, on y va.

The bicycle is an image synonymous of all that which is "quint-essential European", the pinging little bell in the distance, the Parisian women clad in flowing summer dresses peddling home as the designer bag and evening groceries bob to and fro in the small panier stylishly affixed to the front, baguette pinched in alongside the flowers and brie. Ah yes mes amis, the bicycle has been a Parisian fashion statement a la mode since the eve of the Second World War. Chic, beneficial to the health, and visually pleasing above the ground, the bike is the way to commute, the way to shop, the way to see, and the way to be in Paris.

The city of Paris--the darling gem of a city that it already is, instituted nearly a year ago, in July 2007, a system to bring affordable and convenient bike rental to the many wishing for an alternative to the dark underground, head pounding traffic jams, and tedious bus waits. It is called vélib; (velo + liberté) an arsenal of bicycles that can, for a mere 1.50euro a day, provide the European bank-card holder unlimited bicycle use for a day. And I--I have had many a go on velib. Yet just another thing America needs to catch up on.

Good for you and your shiny memory is what i say now to you long time readers who are thinking, wait a minute cod-girl, don't you have a bike? Why yes I do, Emile. And I did use Emile on a regular basis, however, without a basket, shopping was a bit difficult, and forget about consecutive days of long rides, for Emile's rock-hard seat meant sore ass-bones that were indeed relieved by the more forgiving cushions of the velib. But Emile, the lovely Emile served us well. Especially during those times when the bank account ran below the 150euro mark; the minimum in-account-specie required in order to check out a velib.

The velib system in Paris consists of 20,000 bicycles available throughout the city at some 1,500 checkpoint stations, all an average 300 meters distance from one to the other. A day pass costs the cyclist a scanty 1.50euro, however if the bike is used for more than 30 minutes without being checked into a station, it begins to automatically deduct fees from the credit card used to rent the bike, and as time begins to stack, the charges become quite steep. So, to avoid charges--just check in the bike every 30 minutes! Ce n'est pas difficile! On the contrary, it becomes quite the adventure: with the clock ticking down...3 minutes to go...look there's a station! Vite vite! Allez! Ah Merde! There are no empty slots to check the bike in! Encroyable! Vite on cherche un autre! 1 minute to go...30 seconds...STOP on the right! Allez! 3,2,1...click! Red light: blink green. Woohoo! Made it! Pull it right back out, and here we go again for the next 30 minutes. And we can pull this loop for a full 24 hours! Chouette!

The velib, however, is slightly limited to non-european tourists; a european bank card with an electronic chip is required to rent. So, no card?--make friends with some Frenchies fast and get 'em to take you out on the town. That's my advice to you. Otherwise, tant pis pour toi, you're a fish out of water.

As much as i would like to say that the French, with their superior intellect and all-around reputation for grand reform and incredible discovery, were the first to come up with the idea of a bike rental system in the big city--I can not. Many other European cities have run similar programs, and that having been said for years. My first realization came at first hand experience: in Barcelona. Hey, i shouted to my friend living in Barcelona at the time, those our ours, you copied us! But on further inspection, it became clear that the bike rental system in Barcelona was a bit older than that in Paris.

The Bicing bicycle rental facility first appeared in Barcelona in March of 2007. My second sighting of a velib-style system outside of Paris was in Rome with Roma Bike, inaugurated the 13 June 2008, just 2 days before I arrived. Other European cities maintaining such systems include Lyon, Nantes, Toulouse, myriad cities in Germany, Oslo, Stockholm, Vienna, Seville, Brussels, and Sandnes (Norway). The first, however, the very first civilian bicycle transportation system ever put into action was in Copenhagen, which has been providing free bicycle rentals to the public as well as tourists since 1995. Chouette! I mean, in Danish rather then, ugle!

Though quint-essentially Parisian, the bicycle is a thing shared amongst nearly all societies in Europe. The French bike, the Irish bike, the Spanish bike, the Polish bike, the German bike--the Portuguese, well not so much in the cities; too many hills. All of Europe bikes. Good for the health, good for the myriad transportation strikes that leave you contemplating, do I walk or call in sick? Good for plaisir, good for the environment, good all around (except maybe for the car and bus drivers, bicyclists oftentimes appear as pills in their repertoire). Bicycling is the perfect mode of city viewing--when acting the "Parisian tour guide" the stories that come back to me the most from my visitors, is always those of the bikes. Biking to Sacre Coeur in the Rain, around the arc de Triomphe at dusk, along the Seine at dawn, and under the sparkling Tour Eiffel at night.

Going to Europ--get on a bike. If not, you will miss exactly what ought not be missed.

Biking is a lifestyle, a way of life; one a bit more European than American. Can America bike? It's getting there. Slowly catching on. One pedaler at a time. Though city bike systems like those in Europe--I am pessimistically, though practically of the opinion that they will never be a reality in America. The bicycles will be kept to the private sector, like most institutions in Uncle Sams Land. And the bicycles role in the rest of the world? In Asia? in Africa? in South America? I have no authority--yet. But you will be the first, well probably the second to know.

So this silly cod-girl will privately bike to school, though Emile was left behind in Paris, the wheel still turns, and the gears still shift. Je vais bike to class, to work, to here, to there--and to you. Let's go biking.

à bientôt

Well, they actually just say, ROLAND-GARROS We're reverting back to Bourdain jumping off a cliff again, where's the food? T'ais tois, i'll find something to eat. Find something to eat where? The Stade Roland Garros on the opening day of the 2008 French Open that's where. On y va?

Yes it did start with just a jog past many months ago. Roland Garros; why does that sound familiar? Peddle up to the gate, 6h00 in the morning so no sane gate would be found open, read: Tennis. Ah! This is where the French Open is held, chouette! It's just down the street from me, my pretty little southern 16th at Auteuil has everything, horse tracks, Parc des Princes, and the Roland Garros, I must come back for a little grounds tour.


A few months later, after finally convincing a hesitant inmate to accompany me on one of my "I love my quartier" evening stoles, I take her past the Garros, "and this is the Roland Garros where the..." STOP. No. Shut Up. It's this close? I'm going to cry. Why didn't you tell me earlier! S, who in turn is one of the most fanatical professional tennis fans i've ever met (Katie and Petra excluding you) spent her summer in London at Wimbledon, and has made it her life goal to get to all 4 of the grand slams. We're getting ground passes, she says, period. And I want a grounds tour. Mallory, call, get it done. Yes master? Am I a secretary? Oh bother. hehe.

The month of May rolls into our court, still have not toured the grounds. Mallory, we are running out of time! S lectures, once Play starts at the end of the month there will be no time for grounds tours, what are you on about, get us there! I am starting to feel like one of those personal secretaries who cadies after someone and picks up the dry cleaning and calls to cancel nail appointments. Do it yourself, I'm not a slave. Maaaaallllooorrryyy I need you! Oh bother. Ring. Ring. Ring. Damn museum, why wont anyone answer the phone. Twice, a thrice, I'll send an email. Hmm, no response, let us walk down and see if we can schedule a tour in person.

M & S are along, S shreeks, oh my god that was Richard Gasquet who rust roller bladded by us! who? We arrive at the gate, pardon me, mr. gatekeeper, where can I go to find out about tours? (innadable French mumblings behind glass) he pops out to escort us about a kilometer. But 1 kilometer is never too short for me to ramble Mallory style, especially when faced by my most detested of all questions; are you on vacation? No. We're not on vacation, we live here, down the road actually, we've been here since September, we speak French, not tourists, did I say we speak French? We do, we just wanted to see the place before play starts. I am very, very sensitive to remarks of that sort.

Enter museum office. Bonjour! We want to go on the guided tour. Its done for today, but you can come back tomorrow for the English at 11h00 or the French at 14h00. Perfect, put my name down for 14h00. No. What was that? I turn and S is on the grumpy face, I don't want it in French. But we are in France, and why not, you speak French? No. I turn to the man as the look of murder on the face of S tells me I have lost. 11h00 monsieur.