An ugly elevator

Posted by Karen Koehler on May 28, 2011

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Hyatt at the Capital.  Waiting for the elevator in running gear.  Sunglasses on.  Earbuds in but not turned on.  There are four people standing waiting as well.  Two besuited, Caucasian gray haired men and two coiffed women.  

The elevator opens with one passenger, a dignified African American man already inside.  In we go. Notice everyone is wearing badges that say: Family Research Council circled with the slogan Watchmen on the Wall.    Have seen many people in the hotel with these badges. Some with pastors collars on.  There are signs for the group everywhere.

One of the gray haired men just next to but slightly behind me says to the other who is on the other side  - heard your speech today.  His tone is ascerbic.

Number two says - oh, yes in a soft voice.

The elevator stops and the African American gentleman exits.

#1 says in a loud, challenging voice.  Yeah, I heard what you said about X.   Do you know how long he's been in office.

#2: Well a couple of terms I think, I'm not...

 #1: 16 years.  How dare you talk about someone like that when you don't know your facts.  

#2: murmers quietly. 

Man #1:  What you said was STUPID.  (Shouting now) What were you thinking to make those STUPID comments in front of all those black people in the audience.  What were you thinking to say something STUPID like that. 

The STUPID comments are disrespectful sure.  But it is the way he says - all those black people in the audience - that squeezes my breath out.  The tone, the us versus them, all of it. Have very good racist radar.  

I can feel the bristling animosity, the rigid anger that is spewing out of every pore of #1's body.  If we weren't on an elevator, am pretty sure he would be punching #2 right now as he berates him. 

The elevator opens and stops on another floor. Silence.  Four more people get in.

A woman says to #2 - Oh hi, here is something for you and hands him a book.  He murmers an awkward thanks.  You can feel his relief, embarassment, fear.

#1 doesn't say anything else.  The elevator is back at the lobby and we all depart.

I push the ipod.  The music comes on.  But it is not loud enough to drown out the ugliness of what went on in the elevator.

Paris day 7: au revoir

Posted by Karen Koehler on October 02, 2010

This is our last day in Paris which means: must get every second we can out of it.  Start off by running down to the Tour d’Eiffel then across the Seine .  Run back and get lost again because I’m looking for Notre Dame on my left but it is/was on my right.  It is only fitting that I should get lost yet again.  I’ve never made it back perfectly from any run this entire trip.

Head out for the last museum.  On the way search for the perfect patisserie.  They have to be just right because they are the last ones!  Walk in and out of four shops until voila.  Locate most delicious morsels.  Chocolate amande croissant and since it is after all lunch time, a sandwich of raisin bagette avec abricots et chevre.  I am tres eloquent.  I am astonishing all of the merchants with my tres bien French.  Merci au revoir.

Reach our destination perfectly because Ed always stops to look at the map.  Map?  He insists.  I like finding things more organically.  But it is handy to every once in a while get to where we are supposed to get.  We are at the Pompidou which houses the modern art collection.  It is my favorite museum.  I love some of the pieces especially from the 50s and earlier.  Tres jolie!  We go downstairs and look at an interesting  feminist exhibit.  Very  interesting.   There is one giant brown knitted creation that, well, I can’t describe it.  You would have to see it.

From there we head back and I walk in and out of virtually every shop.  Just looking.  Ed hangs for a good while before he retreats back to l’hotel.  I keep walking.  Up and down, not paying attention, not getting lost because I generally know where I am.  Find my favorite patisserie – by accident!  Of course!  Which means I have to request a café meringue in my most charmant francaise.    Merci beaucoup!  Yum.

Eventually I have to concede that this is all the Paris I can do.   On my way back to the hotel, I go into the St. Sulpice Cathedral.  The footprint of this church is exactly the same as Notre Dame, but doesn’t have all the high spires and gargoyles.  As I walk through and look at the different alcoves, I decide to buy a candle for deux euros.  I dump all the change I have into the offering box – all the clinks reverberate loudly.  I get the longest candle and walk around looking for the right Saint.  I find St. Joseph who is cradling a young child in his arms lovingly.  He’s the right one.   I light the candle, put it on the spindle that keeps it upright and watch it burn.  The candle is for Cam.  He converted to Catholicism in the 1980s and died in 1996 for reasons I’ll never know.  Cam’s birthday is Monday. Happy anniversaire mon amie.

Paris Day 6: cough cough gag gag

Posted by Karen Koehler on October 01, 2010

Have now figured out why the French are so slim.  While I have a croissant, macaroon, or other delicacy in my mouth, they have cigarettes shoved in theirs. 

When I walk it is bad enough.  But running - it's worse than having to deal with all the car exhaust.  Go two steps.  Try to hold breath.  Release breath.  Need to take new breath.  Another smoker.  Try not to inhale, but running and eventually will pass out unless I take a breath.  They walk out the buildings with cigarettes already in hand, light immediately and puff.  There are so many darling little cafe tables everywhere -  even when it is raining they are sitting outside so they can puff.  As they walk, they puff.  As they talk, they puff.   The air is filled with the putrid smell which to me equals cancer. 

In years past, they could smoke inside.  We would be in the restaurant and ask to sit on the non-fumiers side which would be on the other side of an invisible line from the fumiers side.  Of course the smoke billowed over to us anyway.  Now, there is generally no smoking inside so they hold it as along as they can bear.  There is essentially no clear air in the heart of this city.  I' m thankful that we have made such great strides in changing the culture of smoking in America.

Paris day 5 L'Gustation

Posted by Karen Koehler on September 30, 2010

We rush to make it on time to our last class, cut through the Luxembourg Jardin, exit and realize we shouldn’t have.  We are off course, back track and eventually arrive a bit late.  Hear the first speaker on Qui Tam – a subject that I don’t think I have any interest in but which is absolutely fascinating.  I want to do a Qui Tam.  Hear tummy rumbling.  Take a quick break.  Run to patisserie down the street, pick up a small (it is small – it is it is – well, ok maybe just not gigantic) almond croissant and because it IS  kind of small, also get a pain d’raison just in case.  Rush back to class and mange both.  Much better.

At noon our group meets for a trip to the Mouffetarde Marche.  We looked it up last night on the French Wikipedia translated into English and it was called the “fat vein of womanhood” or something like that which caused us to crack up and was probably not exactly correct.  But funny.  Anyway it is one of the older streets in Paris and filled with food shops.  We are each given an assignment in French to go pick up a certain food item then we are going to meet at a restaurant and have a picnic.  We’re not exactly sure what all that means, but we wander through the shops.  Ed gets the country terrine since I won’t walk into the boucherie (those places are scary).  And I find a place that makes me a lovely falafel sandwich since I have a feeling there won’t be much for me to eat at our repast.  There are cute fruit displays and I get (and eat) a half pint of blueberries and a teeny pint of raspberries.

We walk into the restaurant at 25 Mouffetard.  I forget the name.  It is 1:30 and we are hit with an overwhelming  pungent smell – it is a cheese restaurant.  Head to the rear, put all the food we’ve collected on a side table and sit down at our seats.  We are each brought a platter of cheese and big bowls of salad to share.  Then we go and add the food stuff we’ve collected to our platters.    It is a great meal – very fun.  We get to try all sorts of things.  And I devour my falafel.  We are the only ones there so late, so we laugh and play our way through a two hour lunch.  Say au revoir and waddle the twenty minutes back to our hotel with our new friends David and Simone.

Fall asleep due to stuffness.   Wake up to skype with Cristina who takes me on a tour of her house at college this year.  Go for run.  Return in time to get ready for dinner.  Meet David and Simone in foyer.  Walk down street, meet up with Don and Cindy and get to our next destination La Maison Du Jardin.  Look at menu.  Not hungry.  Stuffed.  Don’t want more food.  Order tomato gazpacho which I say to myself, is light as water and doesn’t count as food.  Don’t see anything vegetarian on the menu so think I will end up with a salad.  Instead the chef makes me a lovely dish of his own creation which I devour.  Very thankful I have an expandable waist band on pants.  Order the pomme tarte for dessert and eat it all up.  Sit there laughing and talking for almost three hours.  Heave body out of chair.  Walk back to hotel with David and Simone.  Somehow make it up the stairs despite gigantic tummy.

Low Brow

Posted by Karen Koehler on September 29, 2010

After another morning of class and petit dejeuner at the same café with Vicky, we  get on a bus and drive to the Jacquemart Andre Paris Art Museum.  This is a mansion in the area of the Arc D’Triomphe that has been fully restored, furnished in part and upstairs houses an art collection.  Today the special exhibit features Rubens and Poussin.  There is a tour guide with us.  She is in fact an art history professor.  Tres knowledgeable and in her heavy but charming accented English begins telling us – even in the bus – of the history of all that we see.

We arrive at the mansion.  We enter thru the typical non descript façade and step into a scene of beauty.  A large circular courtyard frames the mansion.  As we are looking around, our guide explains the history of construction and much of the family genealogy.  We step into the first room which is covered floor to ceiling with pictures.  This style, this painter, this era, the milk white skin, no detail is left untold.  We are in the room for about ten minutes and then proceed to the next room.  The process is repeated.  We move into the next room.  Half an hour has passed and I realize that we are not quite two thirds of the way done with just the bottom floor.  Our guide is so knowledgeable and pleasant and interesting.  But my skin is starting to crawl at the thought of being in this building for the next three hours.  Am I so terribly impatient that I cannot even appreciate the beauty and history of this place.

I get a second opinion from Ed.  He doesn’t mind departing early.  One of our companions confirms I am not out of my mind, but she is going to stay.  I’m a bit torn.  I don’t want to be rude.  I don’t want to be disrespectful.   But staying is going to make me go nuts.  So we tell our hosts that we are going to go our separate ways…and escape.  We walk through the remaining downstairs rooms, go upstairs to the pictures – enjoy them without knowing anything about them and skip out of the place.

What should we do now, what famous site should we see?  Why of course since we are so close, we go to the Louis Vitton store on the Champs Elysees.

Paris day 3 - le supper et la chanteuse

Posted by Karen Koehler on September 27, 2010

We meet at a bistro type of restaurant.  Our group fills the entire place.  Tres impressive.  Suddenly, we hear the sound of - could it be - an alto saxophone.  Mai oui!  There is a bright red headed very slim French woman dressed in a black dress and bomber jacket who has come to entertain us.  She waltzes around our tables (I'm not sure how since the sax is as big as she is and there's little navigable room but she is a determined femme).  Voila - she is done.  We clap. 

We start talking again, but on comes some music and she now begins to sing a rousing French song.  We are in the mood and clap and smile.  She tells us we must sing with her.  A song in French that some of us have never heard before.  We are game!  We are trial lawyers!!  There is a lot of humming going on.  Wait - she is next to Kevin - she is shoving the microphone in his face.  He must sing along (what a good sport).  She is done.  The waiter comes to take our order.  Ooh lal a! The music comes on again - she is singing and (she likes our table) grabs Jack  to come and dance with her (this is what he gets for making eye contact).  She is quite the theatrical one and sweeps him around the space between the tables.   Jack is flushed but makes it back.  The dinner has arrived!  We begin to talk but wait!  She is tapping her glass and asking us to be quiet so she can tell the history of the next song in French of course.  By now, our table is looking at each other with "that look" .  You know - the one that says - um, is this for real.  And she breaks out into another song.  She is a siren, a theatrical spectacle, a show woman, oui oui oui.

It is almost 11:00.  We've been here almost three hours now.  A few of us are yawning.  But not our delightful entertainer.  The karaoke machine (she would probably slit my throat if she heard me call it that) is still going and she tells us yet more of her life history followed by a song. 

I gotta hand it to her.  The woman has stamina!  Zoot alors!

Paris day 3: Going to class

Posted by Karen Koehler on September 27, 2010

Can I ever be on time for anything?  Well, we could have if we’d ignored the delightful petite dejeuner awaiting us downstairs in the breakfast nook.  But we don’t.  Then we underestimate the walking time and thus arrive at the seminar midway through Jack Sheridan’s speech.   We would have been even later if we had stopped at all of the patisseries and boulangeries along the way.  He does employment cases and I haven’t heard him speak before.  He’s talking about a method to demonstrate emotional damages in whistleblower cases.  I like the way he does it with a rating scale.  The problem I would have doing this in a PI case, is jury bias.  In his cases, the client is seen as the hero taking on the big corporation.  In PI cases, the plaintiff starts off being viewed as the threat to community by even bringing a lawsuit.  Any questions?  No one raises their hand.  I ask one.  Almost get an answer  but not really.

Paul Luvera goes next.  He refers us to book after book – I like his continual quest for the holy grail of how to try the best case.  He is just as good as always on the topic of jury communication and voir dire.  Lots of thoughts.  Lots of powerpoint slides.  I don’t wait until the end before asking questions. I am a pest.  I wanna know what he has to say.  He doesn’t mind my interruptions and answers most of them.  And then during break Lita answers the one he didn’t really address in depth.  She is quite inspiring and scary knowledgeable on jury issues. 

Jan Eric Peterson and his wife Margie Peterson do a joint presentation on generational issues.  An interesting topic which raises more questions than solutions.   I make it about half way through before I have to get up and walk around. In looking at the generalized traits of all the groups, I appear to be more Millennial than Boomer.  My minimal attention span of course tops the list.  I ask a question near the end.  It isn’t answered.  Which is so apparent that someone else says it isn’t answered.    This is most likely now going to become a game with me so be forwarned.  I’m going to ask a question and keep track of who answers and who doesn’t.  So far Luvera is in the lead for answering most of them.

Vicky Vreeland is next on changing faces in jury pools.  I can’t be fair and neutral when I evaluate Vicky because I adore her too much.  But she’s fun and good and then we end.  Time for mange (eat in French).  I am tres eloquent!

Vicky takes Ed and I to a little bistro down the street and near her hotel.  We are in a little corner nook.   I get a nice salad, Ed gets cassoulet and Vicky gets a quiche and salad.  I’m a bit jealous of the quiche.  I should have ordered that.    We have a delightful time.  At one point, Vicky says that I seem a little vague.  I explain that it’s just that I’m not only listening to her, but behind her I’m watching the goings on within the restaurant.  For example – they have served about a dozen napoleons to various tables – must be one of the specialties.  Plus the coffee process, the various food platters, and all the hustle and bustle – I can’t miss a single detail. 

We say au revoir to Vicky and head back to the hotel – but not before we go into a patisserie.  I get a palmier (looks like a palm leaf), Ed gets an almond croissant.  He is oohing and aahing and says it’s the best thing he’s ever eaten in his entire life.

Paris day 1: staying awake

Posted by Karen Koehler on September 25, 2010

The guy sitting across the aisle from me puts his blindfold on, slumps over his blanket and doesn’t move until we touch down about 10 hours later.   I have no idea how he does this as we get on the plane at 1:30 in the afternoon.  Maybe he’s taken a sleeping pill.  Whatever he’s done, it is impressive.

Ed sleeps for good chunks of time equaling the vast majority of the flight.  I start off pretty good, maybe an hour and a half, and then that’s it.  Everyone around me is snoozing.  I’m reading the sequel to the “Waiting to Exhale” book written by Toni Morrison.  Take a break to work on a powerpoint presentation.  Go back to the book.  Walk back to drop off some garbage.  Sit down again, pull up foot rest, push down foot rest, stick legs out in aisle, wiggle toes, get up, come back.  Dig in purse.  Adjust headphones that are digging into my earrings.  Fold ears over trying to get earrings to fit inside of head phones.  Repeat this multiple times without success.  Eat food I’ve brought which is a good thing.  I like the fruit and cucumber cups at Dish D’Lish since they are hermetically sealed and won’t leak.  Back to book – quite a lovely soap opera.  Look at movies on the back of someone else’s chair further up and try to read George Clooney’s lips.  Wiggle toes.  Stretch calves.  Try to close eyes.  Give up.

This means by the time we land, I’m so alert that as we’re waiting for the Taxi, Ed notices I’ve forgotten to pick up one of my bags on the luggage carrousel.  He has to go find it.  Get in taxi, driver doesn’t speak a lick of English but knows where our little hotel is. Drops us off.  Room isn’t ready.

It is a whimsical little boutique hotel called the Recamier located just off St. Sulpice in the 6th.  We are in time for a late brunch, eat an embarrassing amount of food (we had already eaten the hard roll and fruit cup allotted by Air France).  Go for a walk.  Freeze due to wind.  Return.  Wait for room.  Am fighting the urge to close my eyes when voila – room is ready.

It is small but perfect.  Fall asleep with the promise it will only be for an hour.  Ed keeps the promise.  I don’t.  He is valiant and unwavering and it only takes half an hour of effort to get me up.  We go back out, the weather is a little better.  Still freezing.  People smoke everywhere.  I hold my breath each time I pass someone who’s smoking.  I feel like when I was a kid practicing to see how long I could hold my breath under water.  

The rest of the day is spent being tired, being ok, being tired, being ok.  We get dinner at the Brasserrie Vaganese which is lovely.  Except midway through, Ed’s eyes begin glazing over and I think his head is going to drop onto the table.  Survive that.  Find a late night bakery.  Get sugar.  Which means right now it’s 12:00 am in Paris, 3 pm in Seattle, Ed’s asleep and I’m still awake .

Blogging genetics

Posted by Karen Koehler on September 09, 2010

My daughters rarely read my blogs.  At least not voluntarily.  I say - you need to read my blog it's a good one.  And they moan - mommmmmm we don't need to read your blog.  We live your blog.  I can't really argue with that.

Go back three summers ago.  We are in Paris and do our own website so family and friends can follow along on our travels.  Each day I  blog, they sigh, and we upload the most recent pictures.  The night before we leave, Cristina is sick and waiting for us in the apartment (we're staying in a darling walk up in the 7th).  The other girls and I have been shopping.  We split up about two blocks before we reach home.  I go to get them jambon sandwiches, they go to get crepes one last time.  I leave the bakery, go up to the apartment and everyone is screaming and crying.  Alysha is lying on the bed.  Turns out she's been hit by a car.  She is shaken, bruised, but can move everything around.  I pack her in frozen vegetables (great doctoring I know - you are probably horrified - but we are in France for heaven's sake and I don't speak but a lick of parlez vous Francais, so we are hoping she can wait and see an American doctor). Noelle is being her little comforter.   Cristina is (sorry but no way to put this nicely - vomitting constantly and really ill).  Running back and forth between the two of them all night I can't imagine how we are going to get on a plane the next morning. 

This of course, presents a great blogging opportunity - not for me, but for Noelle who is 13 at the time.  Noelle writes just about the cutest, scariest, funniest, blog of the whole trip and ends with:  "I'm never blogging again in my whole entire life the end."  I'd re-post the piece if I could, but we did it on an Apple computer and after we didn't pay the fee for a year , the internet ate it up. (postscript: other than whopping bruises Alysha got a clean bill of health from her doctor thank goodness).

So you can imagine my surprise, when last night sometime around 1 am (we are a nocturnal family what I can say), I get an email from Noelle with a link to her new blog.  I about fall over.   http://noellegreig.blogspot.com/

How cool is that!

After this blog was posted, my second daughter Alysha returned from a three week seminar trekking adventure in Nepal through the U of W.  She brought along a journal and pen.  Her journal is enchanting, intelligent and lively.  She's typed it out along with her photos and created her own blog.  I think you will enjoy this as much as I did.  http://alyshagreig.blog.com/

This now means that only Cristina the eldest does not have a blog.  I'm going to have to go to work on her so we can be the MotherDaughterBloggingFamily!

WSAJ Convention day 4 bye bye

Posted by Karen Koehler on August 08, 2010

Yawwwwwwwwn.    As I'm getting ready to fly out the door I notice a not-too-terrible scratch on the front of my right leg surrounded by the beginnings of a puffy bruise.   Thinking back I realize it's from when I hit the corner of the DJ platform last night when Gerhard and I were jumping up and down (to the beat) during a Black Eyed Peas song.   

Rush over to The Homestead.  Grab fruit and a biscuit and make it to the 8:00 am ethics/diversity seminar only a little late.   The room is about half full.   Some lawyers have had to head home.  Some don't think they need to go to a diversity seminar.    I guess one day when our profession is just as diverse as the population we represent, perhaps we can do away with such seminars.  But that appears to be quite a long way off.   I mean come on.  How can we hope for a diverse bar when last year the U of W law school had one (1) single solitary African American student in its first year class (how awful is that).  Despite the seeming futility of achieving the goal of true diversity, WSAJ has made it a top priority (complete with diversity plan) unlike AAJ and almost all other trial lawyer associations around the country.  Snaps for WSAJ!  And for everyone who shows up this morning!

Sitting next to me is Jane Morrow's darling daughter.   She is writing/coloring in her work book  and drawing pictures in all the blank spaces.  She is quiet but eventually wants to do something else.  Not many options.  Time to lie across her mother's lap.  Wiggle wiggle wiggle.   I remember the days with my kids.  Um actually, I'm still like that!

We enjoy a little more of the sunshine before heading back to the airport where we hang out with the Kamitomos and Judge Grant.  Our plane is delayed  but that is a good thing.  Because we get to spend time talking with each other which is the whole point, after all, of getting together at a convention.

airport doldrums

Posted by Karen Koehler on July 25, 2010

I'm a big whiner about each precious summer day that I am yanked out of Seattle. It's a Sunday, spectacular, the middle of the afternoon and I'm at the airport headed to Twin Falls. Except there's no direct flight so I'm headed to Salt Lake City. The layover is too long. I'm still hungry from my late lunch that is an early dinner. Find some bad mushy frozen yogurt and look for a seat in the holding pit they herd us into for our "regional" (i.e. tiny plane) flights. I find an empty spot next to an innocuous (hopefully quiet) couple and pick up the old Danielle Steel novel I'm reading because that's the way I roll sometimes.

 

Another couple hollers greetings to the one next to me. Apparently both the husbands are doctors - or else they just like calling each other doctor so and so. They are yacking and I'm not trying to pay attention to them, but the book isn't good and so I'm listening as I'm reading. One of them isn't able to get their flight exactly and they will need to drive several hours to get home. They are both going to Montana. They start talking about their other travels and apparently they have homes in other states too. A bit braggy. They start talking about the heat and there's a lot of talk about which place they live or have recently visited is the most unbearable. Doctor 2's wife gets on the topic of Houston and then pow. Doctor 1 says: "White people aren't meant to live in heat like that." It isn't said with particular emphasis or with levity and the conversation flows into and around it as naturally as air.

My mind snaps. Did he just say that yes he did am I being overly sensitive no I don't think so no that was absolutely gross they are saying white people can't live in heat but what "other" people can or should or what. I feel like I am in an invisible shell, walled off from them, not in communion with them, completely alienated.