Je Suis Charlie

             Early Sunday afternoon I started out for the rassemblement, the rally, in Bordeaux as part of mass demonstrations all over France for, well, unless you've been in a coma for the past week you'll know why. Unfortunately I never made it past the tram station. The Prime Minister here (not Hollande, who is the President) had appealed to every citizen of France (except Marine LePen) to join the rallys this weekend as a means of demonstrating that France wasn't going to be cowed by terrorists. As a result, traffic into the tram station park and ride was backed up halfway to the Medoc, mostly by people who probably never go near public transportation and so couldn't figure out how to work the gate into the parking lot. Many of these same folks were further stymied by the operation of the tramway's ticket dispenser so it was slow going from the beginning. The first tram that came by was already packed as full as any Uptown Manhattan subway at rush hour. As an American and a visiter here I wanted to be with them but it was looking like I might have to find another way to show my support. For the moment, this post is the best I can come up with.

HOW TO BE A TOURIST

            A couple of weeks ago we made our second annual trip to the prefecture to ask Marianne* to let us stay here for another year. Among the paperwork required for our  carte de sejour, Cynthia and I have to sign statements swearing that we will not seek employment in France. This, coupled with my language incompetence has the effect of making us perpetual foreigners and permanent tourists.

            As if to prove it, this year Cynthia set for us a touring schedule at times so hectic that I wondered if her doctor had given her only 6 months to live.  We bought a used car back in May and have already put nearly 15,000 kilometers on it. This might not seem like much to an American, but considering that until two weeks ago we were living in an apartment, using public transit and shoe-leather express most of the time, it's a shitload.

            *Marianne is the symbol of France.

           

Harold Betters

            

            Not only is it about time I wrote something but way past time for another Trombone Hero. I might have mentioned before that Pittsburgh was a great place to grow up for a lot of reasons, not the least of which was that it was such a great place for jazz. Just off the top of my head I can recite the names of Roy Eldridge, Mary Lou Williams, Slide Hampton, George Benson, Stanley Turrentine, Billy Eckstine, Errol Garner, Dodo Marmarosa and Billy Strayhorn as all being from the Pittsburgh. And if you played trombone, Matty Shiner, the low brass teacher at Duquesne University was world famous and a lot of his former students ended up teaching in the area. I was lucky enough to have been taught by one of them, Jack Lapato.  When Maynard Ferguson started touring the States again in the early '70s he came to Pittsburgh a lot, possibly because one of his trombonists was a local, Randy Purcell - a fabulous player who, sadly, died fairly young a couple of years ago. But one of the undisputed kings of the local Pittsburgh jazz scene was a guy named Harold Betters whose trombone could be heard for 17 years at a club in Shadyside called "The Encore." Like most jazz clubs it's long been closed and I read it's now a lingerie shop, which eases the pain somewhat.

Mr. Big Stuff

Today I succumbed to that Facebook Throwback Thursday nonsense and posted the above picture of me the day in 1980 that I graduated from the Phoenix Police Academy. It did remind me of a few things, some I'd rather forget, one of which was an essay I wrote some years back at my wife's instigation. It involves a few "war stories" that I used to tell and was, of course, never published. Rereading it today, I realize why. Originally, I wanted so badly for this to be good but have never been satisfied with the way it turned out. It was rewritten so many times and I tried too hard to be funny that finally I just gave up on it. So here it is anyway, a bit lengthy but I just can't make myself rewrite it anymore. It also occurs to me that this is the first time I've ever shared anything of length on my career, such as it was. I hope you make it to the end.

Hit The Road, Hans

German soldier on the quay in Bordeaux in 1940

             

            August 28 in Bordeaux at exactly 11 a.m., they rang the Grosse Cloche, the Big Bell. This was an experience for us for a couple of reasons. First, it proved that they really can be on time here - the sonnerie was announced for 11 and that huge bell started swinging right on the tick.  And we were proud to be involved, even if only as spectators, in commemorating the day in 1944 that Bordeaux ended four years of German occupation. This is not something Americans know much about.