Of late there has been quite a bit of turbulence in the private sector of French enterprise. The populous seems to be chaffing under the economic stress of the nation. This unrest has reached a fever pitch recently with strikes at a Miko ice cream factory (they "kidnapped" their manager) and a Ford plant while L'Oreal workers took to the streets. To top it off there have also been strikes by supermarket cashiers, hairdressers, Taxi drivers, and airline workers over the past month. The reasons brought forth for the unhappiness generally include the high cost of living and the loss of purchasing power. All of this has been compounded by the sinking approval ratings of Sarkozy. The displeasure stems from the failure to enact the campaign assurances of reversing the economic stagnation of France. Many feel that this failure can be directly attributed to the distracting nature of his private life.
This past summer I had noticed that things tended to be more expensive than in the states but regarded it as "normal" and never gave it a second thought. I try to stay abreast of the news and had noticed the strikes. Being a bit cavalier, I dismissed it as the spoiled sense of self that seems to afflict the nation at certain levels. Reality came crashing down today in the form of 21 euros. Within a span of minutes, what I had dismissed as "their" problems became mine.
I wanted some dental floss so I stepped into the pharmacy downstairs. Six euros later I had dental floss. To compound the problem I was informed by Morgane that only "old people" use floss. Apparently nine out of ten dentists here fail to recommend flossing each day.
The entrance to the apartment has the pharmacy on one side and a boucherie (meat market/butcher) on the other. Just outside the entrance to the boucherie there is a rotisserie filled with beautiful chickens that I have to walk past each day. I have a weakness for rotisserie chicken but had somehow made it these past few weeks without ever buying one. Today, however, the poulet was calling my name.
I stepped inside and with the best French I could muster ordered a chicken. 15 euros. This shop is a bit on the fancy side but 15?! In a matter of minutes I dropped 21 euros on dental floss and a chicken.
Which way to the barricades?
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
The Cluny and The Cops
After a long day working in front of the computer Morgane accompanied me on a visit to the Cluny (Musée National du Moyen Age/Medieval Museum). Neither of us would ever claim to be a lover of Medieval art but I was curious to see it and it was free.
The Cluny is on the Left Bank next door to the Sorbonne. It offers three distinct architectural features within the larger framework of the museum. There is the 15th century Gothic mansion that housed the Cluny Abbey seen above), Gallic-Roman baths from the 3rd century, and a medieval style garden that surrounds the outer portions of the building. There were countless items of interest, everything from swords and jewelry to tapestries and religious shrouds. As historically minded as I am I found most of it pretty interesting. Our bus ride back to St. Lazare, however, provided the most entertainment.
I love riding the bus in Paris. This is largely because I am a looker. I love looking out the window at the city. When I've driven in Paris I'm usually too nervous to let my gaze wander like I might in America. On the bus I'm able to see things with the freedom I'm not granted as a driver and at a different angle than when I walk. Rolling through the city streets, I stared out at the city while chatting idly with Morgane.
As we turned right on to Rue Royale I noticed police men gliding by in the opposite lane. Emitting a "what the hell" I jerked my head back and said, "you have Rollerblade cops?" Police men on roller blades! This blew my mind. I of course bombarded Morgane with questions about why, how they were effective, etc. Apparently they aren't the type of cops who arrest people or write tickets. They are community cops out there to strength relations with the people, to help forge a bond with the young people, and to make the neighborhood feel safer. Maybe I'm alone here but having cops on roller blades in my neighborhood wouldn't ease any safety fears I had.
Do we have roller cops in American cities? Did I miss the creation of these tactical units? I have a hard time seeing them as a viable tactical element in most American cities (except maybe New York). Not because they would be made fun of (though I would think that would be an issue) but as a result of grass. It seems like there is a lot more "green space" in most American cities. If you're a crook making a getaway all you have to do is get off pavement and the roller cop is screwed. I've never been much of a skater but it seems like the efficiency they might offer on the sidewalk or street is completely reversed once you find a park. Just make sure you escape before the backup arrives.
The Cluny is on the Left Bank next door to the Sorbonne. It offers three distinct architectural features within the larger framework of the museum. There is the 15th century Gothic mansion that housed the Cluny Abbey seen above), Gallic-Roman baths from the 3rd century, and a medieval style garden that surrounds the outer portions of the building. There were countless items of interest, everything from swords and jewelry to tapestries and religious shrouds. As historically minded as I am I found most of it pretty interesting. Our bus ride back to St. Lazare, however, provided the most entertainment.
I love riding the bus in Paris. This is largely because I am a looker. I love looking out the window at the city. When I've driven in Paris I'm usually too nervous to let my gaze wander like I might in America. On the bus I'm able to see things with the freedom I'm not granted as a driver and at a different angle than when I walk. Rolling through the city streets, I stared out at the city while chatting idly with Morgane.
As we turned right on to Rue Royale I noticed police men gliding by in the opposite lane. Emitting a "what the hell" I jerked my head back and said, "you have Rollerblade cops?" Police men on roller blades! This blew my mind. I of course bombarded Morgane with questions about why, how they were effective, etc. Apparently they aren't the type of cops who arrest people or write tickets. They are community cops out there to strength relations with the people, to help forge a bond with the young people, and to make the neighborhood feel safer. Maybe I'm alone here but having cops on roller blades in my neighborhood wouldn't ease any safety fears I had.
Do we have roller cops in American cities? Did I miss the creation of these tactical units? I have a hard time seeing them as a viable tactical element in most American cities (except maybe New York). Not because they would be made fun of (though I would think that would be an issue) but as a result of grass. It seems like there is a lot more "green space" in most American cities. If you're a crook making a getaway all you have to do is get off pavement and the roller cop is screwed. I've never been much of a skater but it seems like the efficiency they might offer on the sidewalk or street is completely reversed once you find a park. Just make sure you escape before the backup arrives.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Identity and the World
In the hope of continuing the trend of positivity I started out to write a post about my two month anniversary of not watching television. Instead of television I ended up with a long string of thoughts on cultural homogenization. What follows (I hope) is a coherent summation of those thoughts.
Ray McKinnon (O, Brother; Deadwood; Chrystal) wrote, directed, and starred in a film called "The Accountant" that deals with the loss of cultural/regional identity. An Oscar winner for best short film in 2002, it is a powerhouse of humor, rhetoric, and morbidity (I know I'm breaking my own rules of "hyping" a movie and not sticking to the binary scale but it is tough to find. I was able to watch courtesy of Derek T. Miller).
There are countless reasons, causes, and sources for the supposed "death" of the south as a regional identity (McKinnon's title character blamed it on Hollywood) and the homogenization of America. This loss has in turn created a sort of panic within certain southerners, causing them to grasp for an identifier and as a result ape a characturized stereotype of what they're supposed to be instead of what they are: a displaced people. No longer separated from the nation--brought together by the cultural mediums of the nation, most notably television and movies. I'm sure there are countless academics who've tackled the subject a bit more thoroughly, albeit with less aplomb and passion than McKinnon.
It seems to me that this broad homogenization is a world wide phenomenon occurring in stops and starts on a global scale. Unbeknown to me, several events over the past few days have led me to this line of thinking. First is the new found independence of Kosovo and with it the larger situation of eastern Europe in general. A surge towards a more "western" world and the competing pull back by another side. This is readily evident in the divisiveness of Ukraine, split between desires to join the west (NATO and the EU) and retain the traditional eastern allegiances, i.e. Russia.
Next was the 1985 movie, Out of Africa with Robert Redford and Meryl Streep. It's based on the life of Karen Blixen (pen name: Isak Dinensen) in Africa. Blixen (Streep) wants to create a school for her Kikuyu. Finch (Redford) bristles at the notion, "I just don't think they should be turned into little Englishmen." He and the Kikuyu chief both recognized the new knowledge was going to come at a cost to their culture. And now Kenya, long the "model nation" of Africa, is embroiled in political upheaval and violence.
And then yesterday afternoon I came across an article about the Guarani tribe in a remote part of Argentina that has initiated a resistance to the outside world. The tribe instituted a a law to ban its adolescents from leaving the village until they are well into their twenties. This measure was created to put a stop to the destructive effects alcohol was having on the village and to stem the tide of despair many felt about their place in the world.
Perhaps it is ill conceived to string these events together to make a point, even a broad one, but I can't help but see similarities in them all. Violent Serbs rioting at the loss of their supposed heartland to the "West." Kenyans chaffing under the system imposed upon them long ago. Village watchmen prowling the edges of a community with wooden sticks in an attempt to keep youngsters from leaving--to keep the world at bay.
And there was our own great struggle. The rural nature of the south has long separated it from the "north" and the rest of the nation. Unique cultures sprang out of the earth with broad variations of accent, entertainment, and economy. This sense of identity, the sense of separation was heightened through slavery, secession, and war. An "us" verse "them" mentality solidified the mentality of separateness.
We've always been a nation and long thought of ourselves as such but there has also been a connection to the land, the region of our birth, the land of our fathers. This connection was just as much a piece of our identity as was our status as an American. And perhaps our own transformation as a nation can be seen as a homogenization not just of culture (television, movies) but as a collective loss of "roots." The mobility of our world has created a society on the move, striving for the brass ring at the expense of a traditional association with a place.
I know I jumped around a bit and I apologize. I suppose I still haven't sifted these thoughts into something truly cohesive yet. In an attempt to summarize my aims: I wanted to highlight the continual battles between identities on a global and national scale--a silent war of ideologies and economic mobility.
Ray McKinnon (O, Brother; Deadwood; Chrystal) wrote, directed, and starred in a film called "The Accountant" that deals with the loss of cultural/regional identity. An Oscar winner for best short film in 2002, it is a powerhouse of humor, rhetoric, and morbidity (I know I'm breaking my own rules of "hyping" a movie and not sticking to the binary scale but it is tough to find. I was able to watch courtesy of Derek T. Miller).
There are countless reasons, causes, and sources for the supposed "death" of the south as a regional identity (McKinnon's title character blamed it on Hollywood) and the homogenization of America. This loss has in turn created a sort of panic within certain southerners, causing them to grasp for an identifier and as a result ape a characturized stereotype of what they're supposed to be instead of what they are: a displaced people. No longer separated from the nation--brought together by the cultural mediums of the nation, most notably television and movies. I'm sure there are countless academics who've tackled the subject a bit more thoroughly, albeit with less aplomb and passion than McKinnon.
It seems to me that this broad homogenization is a world wide phenomenon occurring in stops and starts on a global scale. Unbeknown to me, several events over the past few days have led me to this line of thinking. First is the new found independence of Kosovo and with it the larger situation of eastern Europe in general. A surge towards a more "western" world and the competing pull back by another side. This is readily evident in the divisiveness of Ukraine, split between desires to join the west (NATO and the EU) and retain the traditional eastern allegiances, i.e. Russia.
Next was the 1985 movie, Out of Africa with Robert Redford and Meryl Streep. It's based on the life of Karen Blixen (pen name: Isak Dinensen) in Africa. Blixen (Streep) wants to create a school for her Kikuyu. Finch (Redford) bristles at the notion, "I just don't think they should be turned into little Englishmen." He and the Kikuyu chief both recognized the new knowledge was going to come at a cost to their culture. And now Kenya, long the "model nation" of Africa, is embroiled in political upheaval and violence.
And then yesterday afternoon I came across an article about the Guarani tribe in a remote part of Argentina that has initiated a resistance to the outside world. The tribe instituted a a law to ban its adolescents from leaving the village until they are well into their twenties. This measure was created to put a stop to the destructive effects alcohol was having on the village and to stem the tide of despair many felt about their place in the world.
Perhaps it is ill conceived to string these events together to make a point, even a broad one, but I can't help but see similarities in them all. Violent Serbs rioting at the loss of their supposed heartland to the "West." Kenyans chaffing under the system imposed upon them long ago. Village watchmen prowling the edges of a community with wooden sticks in an attempt to keep youngsters from leaving--to keep the world at bay.
And there was our own great struggle. The rural nature of the south has long separated it from the "north" and the rest of the nation. Unique cultures sprang out of the earth with broad variations of accent, entertainment, and economy. This sense of identity, the sense of separation was heightened through slavery, secession, and war. An "us" verse "them" mentality solidified the mentality of separateness.
We've always been a nation and long thought of ourselves as such but there has also been a connection to the land, the region of our birth, the land of our fathers. This connection was just as much a piece of our identity as was our status as an American. And perhaps our own transformation as a nation can be seen as a homogenization not just of culture (television, movies) but as a collective loss of "roots." The mobility of our world has created a society on the move, striving for the brass ring at the expense of a traditional association with a place.
I know I jumped around a bit and I apologize. I suppose I still haven't sifted these thoughts into something truly cohesive yet. In an attempt to summarize my aims: I wanted to highlight the continual battles between identities on a global and national scale--a silent war of ideologies and economic mobility.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Noticing the Positive
It's easy to focus on negative aspects of any situation. I think that most of us are more inclined to take notice of things when they don't go our way because we are so used to them going our way. I don't think that is inherently self-centered. A bit spoiled perhaps. Maybe I'm rehashing my sauce verse meat argument but I think it's indicative of the occidental (that's for you, Tank) world.
I'm not trying to point fingers or slander whole nations but think about the things of which we take notice. Think about the things that shake us out of our daily stupor. Tragedies. What's on the news? Wrecks, kidnappings, political fights, etc. Even though it isn't always indicative of the state of the world the aim of the content is grabbing our attention. Negative events accomplish the goal. It seems natural, even logical. Stopping to smell the roses is tough when in comparative terms your entire life is roses. Perhaps the negative events we notice are noticed to inflate our sense of self, to secure our sense of superiority, to mask the void we often feel.
What I found, or rather realized, is that I've had a lot of "complaints" on here and I didn't want to convey an ill defined picture of my life by focusing only on the little aggravations I experience. If anything I find humor in the aggravations and don't look at them in a negative light. In the spirit of optimism, I set out today to write about an inherently positive topic and ended up rambling about the world.
Maybe it is a stretch but my positive topic was bugs. I suppose I should say "lack of bugs" because they don't have them here. I've seen one bug since I got here. It was upon seeing the tiny little mite yesterday that the idea of positivity struck me. I took it as a harbinger of spring. Who needs robins when you have mites? Perhaps not having bugs in the winter isn't a huge deal. After spending a year and a half at the Roost (or the "Group Home" as my father and Nancy call it) waking up to roaches on the counter, I consider no bugs in the winter a significant perk. It's not exactly a life changing miracle but no bugs is a pretty comforting thing.
I'm not trying to point fingers or slander whole nations but think about the things of which we take notice. Think about the things that shake us out of our daily stupor. Tragedies. What's on the news? Wrecks, kidnappings, political fights, etc. Even though it isn't always indicative of the state of the world the aim of the content is grabbing our attention. Negative events accomplish the goal. It seems natural, even logical. Stopping to smell the roses is tough when in comparative terms your entire life is roses. Perhaps the negative events we notice are noticed to inflate our sense of self, to secure our sense of superiority, to mask the void we often feel.
What I found, or rather realized, is that I've had a lot of "complaints" on here and I didn't want to convey an ill defined picture of my life by focusing only on the little aggravations I experience. If anything I find humor in the aggravations and don't look at them in a negative light. In the spirit of optimism, I set out today to write about an inherently positive topic and ended up rambling about the world.
Maybe it is a stretch but my positive topic was bugs. I suppose I should say "lack of bugs" because they don't have them here. I've seen one bug since I got here. It was upon seeing the tiny little mite yesterday that the idea of positivity struck me. I took it as a harbinger of spring. Who needs robins when you have mites? Perhaps not having bugs in the winter isn't a huge deal. After spending a year and a half at the Roost (or the "Group Home" as my father and Nancy call it) waking up to roaches on the counter, I consider no bugs in the winter a significant perk. It's not exactly a life changing miracle but no bugs is a pretty comforting thing.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Breakfast Abroad
I have a very passionate relationship with cereal that has cooled a bit with age. As a child and through my teenage years I frequently consumed a couple bowls for breakfast and at least another one or two at night before bed. The nightly bowl is rare these days but I still regularly consume my two morning bowls (though in Austin the practice is harder to maintain with my predilection for breakfast tacos).
The strangest thing about my already strange cereal habits is my preference for plain cereals (Top Five: Cheerios, Raisin Bran, Chex, Grape Nuts, & Rice Krispies). Even as a child I never cared much for Tony the Tiger or Toucan Sam or Count Chocula. I would even load down my Cheerios with Wheat Germ when I was a kid. Curious as they might be, my preferences have never been an issue. As anyone that's been in a grocery store can attest, there is never a shortage of cereal, healthy or otherwise, to choose from. That isn't the case here.
The French apparently have an utter disdain for non-sugared cereals. It seems like the common Frenchman would rather go hungry than not have a little chocolate or fruit in their cereal. One might be tempted to think that it's natural because they don't eat cereal as much as Americans. This, however, is false. They have an entire row devoted to cereal! They have a different cheese for each day in the year, one would think they could diversify their stock a bit. Instead I'm left with three non-sweet options--Corn flakes, 100% Bran, and Muesli.
I've been forced into a corner: for the first time in my life I'm willingly eating Honey Nut Cheerios regularly. Some would argue that bucking habits is a positive benefit of travel, even if the habit is as minute and ridiculous as my cereal choice.
The strangest thing about my already strange cereal habits is my preference for plain cereals (Top Five: Cheerios, Raisin Bran, Chex, Grape Nuts, & Rice Krispies). Even as a child I never cared much for Tony the Tiger or Toucan Sam or Count Chocula. I would even load down my Cheerios with Wheat Germ when I was a kid. Curious as they might be, my preferences have never been an issue. As anyone that's been in a grocery store can attest, there is never a shortage of cereal, healthy or otherwise, to choose from. That isn't the case here.
The French apparently have an utter disdain for non-sugared cereals. It seems like the common Frenchman would rather go hungry than not have a little chocolate or fruit in their cereal. One might be tempted to think that it's natural because they don't eat cereal as much as Americans. This, however, is false. They have an entire row devoted to cereal! They have a different cheese for each day in the year, one would think they could diversify their stock a bit. Instead I'm left with three non-sweet options--Corn flakes, 100% Bran, and Muesli.
I've been forced into a corner: for the first time in my life I'm willingly eating Honey Nut Cheerios regularly. Some would argue that bucking habits is a positive benefit of travel, even if the habit is as minute and ridiculous as my cereal choice.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Art & the Arkansan
In the annals of storytelling there exists a particular favorite of Kyle Wittenberg. He has always been fond of recounting it but I must step in and steal his task today.
Kyle and I were out on a warm Friday evening circa spring of 2003 with another friend. This particular friend had many associates in the fine arts realm. One such associate was hosting a party. As we approached the apartment there was what I'd call "peculiar" music playing. This was the first sign that what we were about to enter was not really a party in the sense we were expecting. Just how ill suited the word "party" was impressed upon us when we opened the door. There were two people staring at us. Witty invoked God while I chose sanctified feces upon witnessing the spectacle. One person was wearing a phantom of the opera mask with a top hat and no shirt. The other, presumably female, had bed head like Rip Van Winkle, a torn white dress covered in what I hope was fake blood, and a make up job courtesy of Marilyn Manson. To round out the feeling the house was lit with a handful of rustic candles.
While our friend hovered between laughter and fascination, I leaned over to Witty and told him about my favorite bumper sticker: "Just because no one understands you doesn't mean you're an artist." Though many disturbing things were witnessed in the five minutes before Kyle and I were able to make our exit it has become a memory we both look upon fondly.
The story and sticker highlight my relationship with much of the modern art world. Perhaps I suffer a little bit too much from my upbringing but I fail to make the connection between fetid beef and art. To be fair, there is a plethora of wonderful modern art it is just too often overshadowed by displays I don't care for. So when I went to the Pompidou today my excitement at seeing what has been described by two vastly different people (Morgane and Marce) as their "favorite museum in the world" was mildly tempered by my uneasy relationship with modern art.
I was duly impressed. There were numerous pieces that fascinated me (perhaps largely because I could understand them in a traditional sense) and there were also a few things that I'll politely refer to as "interesting." All told Beaubourg is an amazing space. It is everything that is great about modern art.
If I were to lodge a complaint it would be that I found it a bit confusing. I wasn't the only one. I kept running across a few packs of confused wandering Asian tourists and an inter-generational English family. It seems that this is perhaps once again more of a commentary on my ignorance than anything else.
Kyle and I were out on a warm Friday evening circa spring of 2003 with another friend. This particular friend had many associates in the fine arts realm. One such associate was hosting a party. As we approached the apartment there was what I'd call "peculiar" music playing. This was the first sign that what we were about to enter was not really a party in the sense we were expecting. Just how ill suited the word "party" was impressed upon us when we opened the door. There were two people staring at us. Witty invoked God while I chose sanctified feces upon witnessing the spectacle. One person was wearing a phantom of the opera mask with a top hat and no shirt. The other, presumably female, had bed head like Rip Van Winkle, a torn white dress covered in what I hope was fake blood, and a make up job courtesy of Marilyn Manson. To round out the feeling the house was lit with a handful of rustic candles.
While our friend hovered between laughter and fascination, I leaned over to Witty and told him about my favorite bumper sticker: "Just because no one understands you doesn't mean you're an artist." Though many disturbing things were witnessed in the five minutes before Kyle and I were able to make our exit it has become a memory we both look upon fondly.
The story and sticker highlight my relationship with much of the modern art world. Perhaps I suffer a little bit too much from my upbringing but I fail to make the connection between fetid beef and art. To be fair, there is a plethora of wonderful modern art it is just too often overshadowed by displays I don't care for. So when I went to the Pompidou today my excitement at seeing what has been described by two vastly different people (Morgane and Marce) as their "favorite museum in the world" was mildly tempered by my uneasy relationship with modern art.
I was duly impressed. There were numerous pieces that fascinated me (perhaps largely because I could understand them in a traditional sense) and there were also a few things that I'll politely refer to as "interesting." All told Beaubourg is an amazing space. It is everything that is great about modern art.
If I were to lodge a complaint it would be that I found it a bit confusing. I wasn't the only one. I kept running across a few packs of confused wandering Asian tourists and an inter-generational English family. It seems that this is perhaps once again more of a commentary on my ignorance than anything else.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Comfort for the Ailing
It's been a slow transition back into "life" here in Paris since I returned from Morocco. I picked up a bug at some point in my travels. My inclination to put pen to paper was severely hampered these last few days by my illness but I seem to be emerging from it finally. Though it wasn't an experience I would label as fun (or any other word resembling it), being sick did allow me to catch up on the happenings of the U.S. sporting world.
Desire for "comfort" or "home" is at least a reticent issue for most when they are away. These desires are heightened to extraordinary levels when ill. This was so much so for me that I even began reading about the NBA. Like many Americans I have at least a general interest in basketball itself but I rarely put much more effort into it beyond sports center highlights. Reading articles about shifting power balances in the league, trade rumors, and general league miscellany as a very casual fan highlights how much I needed the reassuring comfort of home.
The biggest ray of sunshine to warm my woozy weekend was the official end of winter. Paris is refusing to reflect this turn of events as of yet but Spring Training has officially begun. I will spare you my baseball ravings for the moment but not my ravings on weather.
One of the things I thought I missed the most when living in Austin were the winters in Arkansas. Living in Paris during the winter has altered my mindset a bit. In Arkansas (and America in general) you might have winter weather that is generally as cold if not colder than Paris. However you are less likely to be in the weather on a day to day basis. We get from point A to point B with heated cars, only stepping outside to go from car to building. Here point A to point B includes public transportation and actual walking before reaching the destination. As a result Paris is actually colder.
I'm far from a weatherman (calling Scotty B and Radar Wittenberg for help here) but there seems to be less sunshine here as well as bitter winds. Both of which help generate an overall feeling of coldness. What all this rambling is building towards is the fact that I don't know if I want winter in my life anymore. Al Gore aside, I think my brother might have the right idea in south Florida (where distaste for winter outweighs fear of hurricanes).
I'm sorry I don't have much beyond this to relate at the moment. Even life in Paris is a little slow when you're sick.
Desire for "comfort" or "home" is at least a reticent issue for most when they are away. These desires are heightened to extraordinary levels when ill. This was so much so for me that I even began reading about the NBA. Like many Americans I have at least a general interest in basketball itself but I rarely put much more effort into it beyond sports center highlights. Reading articles about shifting power balances in the league, trade rumors, and general league miscellany as a very casual fan highlights how much I needed the reassuring comfort of home.
The biggest ray of sunshine to warm my woozy weekend was the official end of winter. Paris is refusing to reflect this turn of events as of yet but Spring Training has officially begun. I will spare you my baseball ravings for the moment but not my ravings on weather.
One of the things I thought I missed the most when living in Austin were the winters in Arkansas. Living in Paris during the winter has altered my mindset a bit. In Arkansas (and America in general) you might have winter weather that is generally as cold if not colder than Paris. However you are less likely to be in the weather on a day to day basis. We get from point A to point B with heated cars, only stepping outside to go from car to building. Here point A to point B includes public transportation and actual walking before reaching the destination. As a result Paris is actually colder.
I'm far from a weatherman (calling Scotty B and Radar Wittenberg for help here) but there seems to be less sunshine here as well as bitter winds. Both of which help generate an overall feeling of coldness. What all this rambling is building towards is the fact that I don't know if I want winter in my life anymore. Al Gore aside, I think my brother might have the right idea in south Florida (where distaste for winter outweighs fear of hurricanes).
I'm sorry I don't have much beyond this to relate at the moment. Even life in Paris is a little slow when you're sick.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
The Forests of Morocco
They have trees in Morocco! Trees! I decided I needed to write a book called "Maybe I'm Not As Smart As I Thought" and fill it up with all the misconceptions I've had and things I've learned. Surely I'm not the only one who never placed trees among the various things they might associate with Morocco. I imagine most lists of association would be similar to mine and revolve around words like dry, desert, and mountain. It is telling how reductive preconceptions tend to be (Although the United States is the "land of milk and honey" in certain circles even it suffers from reductive preconceptions that revolve around words like cowboy, imperialistic, and infidel).
As a part of a tour group Morgane and I were able to see a large portion of the country very easily. We spent three days in Marrakesh, two days in Fez, one in Meknes and one day seeing both Casablanca and Rabat. The trade-off for this was a lack of "freedom" and has resulted in a desire to return to Morocco to see it again on our own terms.
It would be too difficult for me to give give a summary of everything we did or saw while in Morocco. Instead I'm going to try and highlight a few things that might serve to highlight the "personality" of Morocco.
First is the oranges. You can't really go anywhere without seeing orange trees in Morocco. For those who watch (or watched) the Simpsons there is an episode where Homer drifts off into a daydream about "the land of chocolate." He prances around taking bites out of chocolate trees, buildings, etc until he is roused from the daydream. I love oranges so Morocco seemed like a magical land of oranges. Unfortunately I wasn't able to prance around the country plucking oranges as I pleased. They look good but are apparently too acidic to eat. It would have been a hellish tease had edible oranges not been purchasable everywhere we went.
Morocco, like every other nation in the world, has a deep passion for soccer so I naturally saw games going on everywhere we went at all times and in all sorts of odd places. For the most part this was expected. What wasn't was the massive amounts of jogging I saw. People of all walks of life were always out jogging, stretching, and doing calisthenics.
Casablanca and Rabat were vastly different from the rest of the nation. They were much more "western" in their make-up, with modern buildings and a "progressive" population. Casablanca was very cosmopolitan. It reminded me of Miami a bit (the positive vision of it and not the negative one that people like my brother hold). The rest of the nation, although quite tolerant and "progressive," existed in more traditional ways. Although Marrakesh, Fez, and Meknes were all large cities in terms of population, they all lacked the trappings one usually associates with large cities. They existed largely without high-rise buildings. The amount of construction and the artist renderings accompanying them seems like this dichotomy between Rabat and the rest of the nation will vanish soon enough. Perhaps it is an inevitable transformation. An older couple on the tour (Frank and Charlotte were my names for them) had visited Morocco thirty years ago and were visiting for the first time since then commented on how much the country had changed. In particular they mentioned that Marrakesh was still largely the old city. None of the hotels surrounding the Medina were there yet. Change seems like it's harder to deal with when it doesn't occur in front of you. You can adapt with it as it happens when you are in the midst of it.
Morocco is a bi-lingual nation. Most Moroccan conversations are carried in colloquial Arabic but everyone also speaks French. As a result there are a few language quirks that aren't found in "normal" French. "Elle" is the third person female word in French (she, her, etc). Moroccans have largely replaced the word and instead use "gazelle" to refer to women (I suppose you can draw your own conclusions on how the language reflects the patriarchal nature of the society). The other language quirk that I noticed was a preponderance for the informal form of speech instead of the formal. Most French speakers use the formal "vous" with strangers, customers, etc while it was very common for the Moroccans to scrap this and use the informal "tu" instead (example: s'il te plait instead of s'il vous plait for "please"). Perhaps it is unfair but in my mind I linked this to the post-colonial relationship. Since Morocco is so heavily reliant on tourism (largest portion of which is French) the people buck the "vous" in an attempt to reassert their equality with those that were once "above" them. Conversely it could also be construed as a indication of the friendliness of Moroccan society.
Morocco is still a poor nation (15-20% below the poverty line I think) so the last thing I want to mention is a little unfair due to the humor I found in it. We spent quite a few hours in a tour bus while we were there so I was able to see a lot of different places along the way. At one point we were driving along and I noticed that there was construction going on to create a larger highway (from two lanes to four). To keep cars from veering out of their lane and into the construction area, small orange cones had been placed intermittently along the way. Naturally the builders realized this wouldn't be enough to "deter" cars so they added 10-12 large rocks between each cone to help keep out unwanted cars. I must admit that seeing sharp grapefruit size rocks along the road side made laugh. I can't imagine the lesson learned by a car that accidentally floated a bit too far to the right.
And that is Morocco.
As a part of a tour group Morgane and I were able to see a large portion of the country very easily. We spent three days in Marrakesh, two days in Fez, one in Meknes and one day seeing both Casablanca and Rabat. The trade-off for this was a lack of "freedom" and has resulted in a desire to return to Morocco to see it again on our own terms.
It would be too difficult for me to give give a summary of everything we did or saw while in Morocco. Instead I'm going to try and highlight a few things that might serve to highlight the "personality" of Morocco.
First is the oranges. You can't really go anywhere without seeing orange trees in Morocco. For those who watch (or watched) the Simpsons there is an episode where Homer drifts off into a daydream about "the land of chocolate." He prances around taking bites out of chocolate trees, buildings, etc until he is roused from the daydream. I love oranges so Morocco seemed like a magical land of oranges. Unfortunately I wasn't able to prance around the country plucking oranges as I pleased. They look good but are apparently too acidic to eat. It would have been a hellish tease had edible oranges not been purchasable everywhere we went.
Morocco, like every other nation in the world, has a deep passion for soccer so I naturally saw games going on everywhere we went at all times and in all sorts of odd places. For the most part this was expected. What wasn't was the massive amounts of jogging I saw. People of all walks of life were always out jogging, stretching, and doing calisthenics.
Casablanca and Rabat were vastly different from the rest of the nation. They were much more "western" in their make-up, with modern buildings and a "progressive" population. Casablanca was very cosmopolitan. It reminded me of Miami a bit (the positive vision of it and not the negative one that people like my brother hold). The rest of the nation, although quite tolerant and "progressive," existed in more traditional ways. Although Marrakesh, Fez, and Meknes were all large cities in terms of population, they all lacked the trappings one usually associates with large cities. They existed largely without high-rise buildings. The amount of construction and the artist renderings accompanying them seems like this dichotomy between Rabat and the rest of the nation will vanish soon enough. Perhaps it is an inevitable transformation. An older couple on the tour (Frank and Charlotte were my names for them) had visited Morocco thirty years ago and were visiting for the first time since then commented on how much the country had changed. In particular they mentioned that Marrakesh was still largely the old city. None of the hotels surrounding the Medina were there yet. Change seems like it's harder to deal with when it doesn't occur in front of you. You can adapt with it as it happens when you are in the midst of it.
Morocco is a bi-lingual nation. Most Moroccan conversations are carried in colloquial Arabic but everyone also speaks French. As a result there are a few language quirks that aren't found in "normal" French. "Elle" is the third person female word in French (she, her, etc). Moroccans have largely replaced the word and instead use "gazelle" to refer to women (I suppose you can draw your own conclusions on how the language reflects the patriarchal nature of the society). The other language quirk that I noticed was a preponderance for the informal form of speech instead of the formal. Most French speakers use the formal "vous" with strangers, customers, etc while it was very common for the Moroccans to scrap this and use the informal "tu" instead (example: s'il te plait instead of s'il vous plait for "please"). Perhaps it is unfair but in my mind I linked this to the post-colonial relationship. Since Morocco is so heavily reliant on tourism (largest portion of which is French) the people buck the "vous" in an attempt to reassert their equality with those that were once "above" them. Conversely it could also be construed as a indication of the friendliness of Moroccan society.
Morocco is still a poor nation (15-20% below the poverty line I think) so the last thing I want to mention is a little unfair due to the humor I found in it. We spent quite a few hours in a tour bus while we were there so I was able to see a lot of different places along the way. At one point we were driving along and I noticed that there was construction going on to create a larger highway (from two lanes to four). To keep cars from veering out of their lane and into the construction area, small orange cones had been placed intermittently along the way. Naturally the builders realized this wouldn't be enough to "deter" cars so they added 10-12 large rocks between each cone to help keep out unwanted cars. I must admit that seeing sharp grapefruit size rocks along the road side made laugh. I can't imagine the lesson learned by a car that accidentally floated a bit too far to the right.
And that is Morocco.
A few more pictures of things I saw
Marrakesh at night
The famous Place Djemaa El Fna in Marrakesh
Rabat
The leather tanners in Fez
Roman city of Volubilis
Entry arch in Volubilis
Moroccan countryside (Paysage D'Ito--this is the best picture I could find but doesn't really convey how gorgeous this area is)
The famous Place Djemaa El Fna in Marrakesh
Rabat
The leather tanners in Fez
Roman city of Volubilis
Entry arch in Volubilis
Moroccan countryside (Paysage D'Ito--this is the best picture I could find but doesn't really convey how gorgeous this area is)
Monday, February 11, 2008
Explanation and a few photos
Internet opportunities have been sparse so I have a back log of things to post. First I have a bit of an explanation for my post kvetching about tour groups and then a general update as to what I've been up to here.
My remarks yesterday arose not out of frustration with the tour group or Morocco. My frustration can be seen as frustration with the world--the tour just happened to bear the brunt of my feelings. I don't want this to come across as a correction to my previous remarks; it should be regarded more as an addendum. I believe what I wrote but I wanted to offer a more rounded explanation to why I wrote it. There are countless things wrong with the world and just as many (if not more) that are right. So although I have discovered a certain distaste for tour groups I can easily recognize a myriad of benefits they offer. There is a trade-off with travel as there is with everything in the world and I am beginning to see each side.
In lieu of a day by day description of what I've been doing I'm going to post some pictures and captions of things I've been able to see.
Hassan II Mosque in Casablanca. Third largest Mosque in the world.
Absolutely beautiful. I don't have any mosque to compare it to since it is one of the few that allows non-Muslim visitors but it was jaw-dropping.
The tomb of Mohamed V--Protected by some awesome Moroccan soldiers--in Rabat.
The door leading into the medina in Meknes
That's all for now.
My remarks yesterday arose not out of frustration with the tour group or Morocco. My frustration can be seen as frustration with the world--the tour just happened to bear the brunt of my feelings. I don't want this to come across as a correction to my previous remarks; it should be regarded more as an addendum. I believe what I wrote but I wanted to offer a more rounded explanation to why I wrote it. There are countless things wrong with the world and just as many (if not more) that are right. So although I have discovered a certain distaste for tour groups I can easily recognize a myriad of benefits they offer. There is a trade-off with travel as there is with everything in the world and I am beginning to see each side.
In lieu of a day by day description of what I've been doing I'm going to post some pictures and captions of things I've been able to see.
Hassan II Mosque in Casablanca. Third largest Mosque in the world.
Absolutely beautiful. I don't have any mosque to compare it to since it is one of the few that allows non-Muslim visitors but it was jaw-dropping.
The tomb of Mohamed V--Protected by some awesome Moroccan soldiers--in Rabat.
The door leading into the medina in Meknes
That's all for now.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Tourism Issues
We are only at day one with the tour and I am already struggling with it. It's more than the frequent stops to take ridiculous photos, it's more than the impossibility of keeping up with the French guide. It's the sick feeling I get while a part of a tour. I feel like I am contributing to something sinister. There's nothing wrong with the people on the trip nor those that run it. It seems to creep below the surface of life here--looks on peoples faces, being swarmed by sellers, crowding through tiny passages.
An insurmountable barrier is laid down between those who come to see and those seen. It feels like a perverse neo-manifestation of nineteenth century colonialism. The people might be "free" but they are forced to be put upon because we don't have anything better to do than come look at things, at them, to relax under their sun while they bring us sodas and sandwiches.
To those that say, "you are helping their economy," I say there were jobs before.
To those that say, "it raises cultural awareness," I say travel raises cultural awareness. This just creates an "us" and a "them" mentality--lucky us, poor them. Equality can't exist. It's like arguing that going to the zoo can show you how animals live. Biologically speaking those poor beasts might be alive but they are not living.
The tragedy of course is that I see all this, I feel all of this but am cynical enough to know that there is no hope for change. And that cynicism, that loss of hope is a bigger tragedy than anything I might see here.
An insurmountable barrier is laid down between those who come to see and those seen. It feels like a perverse neo-manifestation of nineteenth century colonialism. The people might be "free" but they are forced to be put upon because we don't have anything better to do than come look at things, at them, to relax under their sun while they bring us sodas and sandwiches.
To those that say, "you are helping their economy," I say there were jobs before.
To those that say, "it raises cultural awareness," I say travel raises cultural awareness. This just creates an "us" and a "them" mentality--lucky us, poor them. Equality can't exist. It's like arguing that going to the zoo can show you how animals live. Biologically speaking those poor beasts might be alive but they are not living.
The tragedy of course is that I see all this, I feel all of this but am cynical enough to know that there is no hope for change. And that cynicism, that loss of hope is a bigger tragedy than anything I might see here.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Marrakesh Day One
I have a lot to write but not a lot of time to do it in. Normally I think I would be okay but the keyboard is not only a French keyboard but a French-Arabic keyboard. Somewhat difficult to handle. Please forgive mistakes.
The first thing that I noticed stepping off the plane was the haze that covered the horizon. It is a bit odd to long for a desert but when you spend winter in Paris you can understand the delight of debarking in a desert.
After finding our tour group, we boarded a bus and headed into the city. So far there seems to be only one candidate for my old French guy friendship experiment and he really is not even that old.
Marrakesh is an hour behind Paris so it was just after 11AM when we got to the hotel. We had the day largely to ourselves so we set out for a walk before lunch. With no plans we just started ambling along. Two minutes into our journey a man noticed we had crossed the street and were not turning. He told us that we had to go left to the Medina. We hadn't exactly been looking for it but we thanked him and turned left. Two minutes more and we had another friend. This friend took us to the Medina and then led us through the non-touristy parts of the inner city-through cold covered portions of the inner walls, into nooks hiding a vast array of tanners soaking goat skins, downstairs into dark "boulangeries" with brick hearth ovens. It was a unique experience and the man was genuinely nice (all schemers are). I had an idea something was going on and thus wasn't too surprised when we were led into a few shops towards the end of our journey (Morgane astutely noted that his conversation died down considerably once he realized we weren't buying anything). After we politely declined the shopkeeper's entreaties our buddy got us a cab and we returned to the hotel five euros in the hole. It was money well spent.
After lunch and a nap Morgane and I went down to the pool (Since I forgot to pack any trunks when I left for Paris in December I bought a pair of "Burberry" trunks for twenty bucks). When we got out to the pool Morgane immediately noticed that no one was swimming (if this were literature class the professor would tell you the author is "foreshadowing"). We sat down to read at a table while I worked up a sweat before the plunge. It was a very dry sunny day and well into the 80s. Over a period of twenty minutes I didn't witness a soul in the pool. Not so much as a toe tester--again, foreshadowing. After finishing a chapter I decided it was time to do a few laps, maybe a white-tail dolphin and call it an afternoon.
I almost passed out the second I hit the water. It was like the poolboy had imported snow from the mountains and dumped it into the pool. I felt like I was being stabbed with tiny needles all over my body. I could barely breathe let alone make it to the side of the pool. I've had my fair share of cold water swimming but this was a new kind of cold, it was like swimming in a slushy.
My immediate problem upon coming up for air was that I couldn't touch the bottom--i.e., stand and catch my breath. Gasping, I paddled over to the side of the pool so I could compose my self. When I got out of the water I realized I was on the wrong side and the only way back was to dive in and swim back. Holding back my rage at the pool I said a little prayer and dove back in. I repeated the same gasping frantic swim to the other side. Once I was out and drying off my skin felt like pins and needles. It was akin to the feeling you get in winter when you put your cold hands under hot water. And thus my plans for an early morning swim on day two went out the door.
The first thing that I noticed stepping off the plane was the haze that covered the horizon. It is a bit odd to long for a desert but when you spend winter in Paris you can understand the delight of debarking in a desert.
After finding our tour group, we boarded a bus and headed into the city. So far there seems to be only one candidate for my old French guy friendship experiment and he really is not even that old.
Marrakesh is an hour behind Paris so it was just after 11AM when we got to the hotel. We had the day largely to ourselves so we set out for a walk before lunch. With no plans we just started ambling along. Two minutes into our journey a man noticed we had crossed the street and were not turning. He told us that we had to go left to the Medina. We hadn't exactly been looking for it but we thanked him and turned left. Two minutes more and we had another friend. This friend took us to the Medina and then led us through the non-touristy parts of the inner city-through cold covered portions of the inner walls, into nooks hiding a vast array of tanners soaking goat skins, downstairs into dark "boulangeries" with brick hearth ovens. It was a unique experience and the man was genuinely nice (all schemers are). I had an idea something was going on and thus wasn't too surprised when we were led into a few shops towards the end of our journey (Morgane astutely noted that his conversation died down considerably once he realized we weren't buying anything). After we politely declined the shopkeeper's entreaties our buddy got us a cab and we returned to the hotel five euros in the hole. It was money well spent.
After lunch and a nap Morgane and I went down to the pool (Since I forgot to pack any trunks when I left for Paris in December I bought a pair of "Burberry" trunks for twenty bucks). When we got out to the pool Morgane immediately noticed that no one was swimming (if this were literature class the professor would tell you the author is "foreshadowing"). We sat down to read at a table while I worked up a sweat before the plunge. It was a very dry sunny day and well into the 80s. Over a period of twenty minutes I didn't witness a soul in the pool. Not so much as a toe tester--again, foreshadowing. After finishing a chapter I decided it was time to do a few laps, maybe a white-tail dolphin and call it an afternoon.
I almost passed out the second I hit the water. It was like the poolboy had imported snow from the mountains and dumped it into the pool. I felt like I was being stabbed with tiny needles all over my body. I could barely breathe let alone make it to the side of the pool. I've had my fair share of cold water swimming but this was a new kind of cold, it was like swimming in a slushy.
My immediate problem upon coming up for air was that I couldn't touch the bottom--i.e., stand and catch my breath. Gasping, I paddled over to the side of the pool so I could compose my self. When I got out of the water I realized I was on the wrong side and the only way back was to dive in and swim back. Holding back my rage at the pool I said a little prayer and dove back in. I repeated the same gasping frantic swim to the other side. Once I was out and drying off my skin felt like pins and needles. It was akin to the feeling you get in winter when you put your cold hands under hot water. And thus my plans for an early morning swim on day two went out the door.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Say for me that I'm all right
"If you see him, say hello, he might be in Tangier"*
-No Tangier for me but it was the best I could do to suit the context of my impending departure for Morocco. Can't really say when I'll be able to update the blog next because I'm not taking my lap-top. *(The altered quote is from "If You See Her, Say Hello" by Bob Dylan. Hands down one of my favorite Dylan songs. It's beautiful)
This will be my first foray into Africa and I don't really know what to expect. I'm both nervous and hopeful. Admittedly I'm also a bit fearful (Unfortunately I still hold on to the remnants of a warped and unfounded Occidental world view). Despite the fear I can't wait to see the country, experience it for what it is and not what my nervous mind says it is.
There should be plenty of interesting experiences along the way because Morgane and I are going with a French tour group. She's afraid it will be a horrible experience. I can't help laughing out loud when I think about the situation. My secret hope is that we are the youngest people in the group by about 30 or 40 years and I make friends with some old French guys. I guess I'm a bit optimistic but there isn't much sense in thinking about it any other way. Until next time, As salaam Alaikum.
"If she's passin' back this way, I'm not that hard to find. Tell her she can look me up if she's got the time."
-No Tangier for me but it was the best I could do to suit the context of my impending departure for Morocco. Can't really say when I'll be able to update the blog next because I'm not taking my lap-top. *(The altered quote is from "If You See Her, Say Hello" by Bob Dylan. Hands down one of my favorite Dylan songs. It's beautiful)
This will be my first foray into Africa and I don't really know what to expect. I'm both nervous and hopeful. Admittedly I'm also a bit fearful (Unfortunately I still hold on to the remnants of a warped and unfounded Occidental world view). Despite the fear I can't wait to see the country, experience it for what it is and not what my nervous mind says it is.
There should be plenty of interesting experiences along the way because Morgane and I are going with a French tour group. She's afraid it will be a horrible experience. I can't help laughing out loud when I think about the situation. My secret hope is that we are the youngest people in the group by about 30 or 40 years and I make friends with some old French guys. I guess I'm a bit optimistic but there isn't much sense in thinking about it any other way. Until next time, As salaam Alaikum.
"If she's passin' back this way, I'm not that hard to find. Tell her she can look me up if she's got the time."
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Being Late in France
Everyone is always late here. Some of you might recall last month when we were supposed to leave for Brittany at 11AM and didn't get on the road until about 3PM. That's a particularly egregious example but serves to highlight the prevalence of the situation as well as the general acceptance of it.
In America we are time conscious. That's evident. When you are late everyone wants to know: Why? What took so long? What happened? That is if you are lucky. If you aren't so lucky the responses will be more openly hostile.
Here no one demands reasons. C'est pas grave. No big deal. If you are asked simple excuses suffice. One of the beauties of the mass transit system is an easy excuse. I missed the bus. Bomb sweep on the metro.
I found myself behind schedule the other day and was mentally preparing my story for why I was late only to discover that no one cared--a reoccurring French motif. I can't tell you how much time I've spent concocting excuses and stories to assuage people when I'm late in the States. Trying to avert attention from the fact that I was too tied up in myself to leave on time. Excuses that say, "I'm so sorry. I do care about your time. It was beyond my control. No disrespect."
Here everyone knows everyone else is self-involved. There is an acceptance that personal lives are busy. The emphasis in America is supposedly "individual freedom" but so much time is invested into group activities--rotary club, team sports, book clubs--that we all learn to limit our own individuality in respect to others. We're brought up as a community, we learn to interact, to behave in group settings. As a result we learn to lie or make excuses in order to not offend.
Whereas our individual freedoms stop at the expense of others they know no burden here. You live your life. You identify yourself with yourself. In America we often define ourselves by our social outlet group. I play ultimate Frisbee. My friend is a duck hunter. Another is a drummer in a band. In the eyes of the French, part of our supposed "individual identity" gets lost at the expense of that activity. We lose a piece of our "self" by coalescing into something larger.
In America we are time conscious. That's evident. When you are late everyone wants to know: Why? What took so long? What happened? That is if you are lucky. If you aren't so lucky the responses will be more openly hostile.
Here no one demands reasons. C'est pas grave. No big deal. If you are asked simple excuses suffice. One of the beauties of the mass transit system is an easy excuse. I missed the bus. Bomb sweep on the metro.
I found myself behind schedule the other day and was mentally preparing my story for why I was late only to discover that no one cared--a reoccurring French motif. I can't tell you how much time I've spent concocting excuses and stories to assuage people when I'm late in the States. Trying to avert attention from the fact that I was too tied up in myself to leave on time. Excuses that say, "I'm so sorry. I do care about your time. It was beyond my control. No disrespect."
Here everyone knows everyone else is self-involved. There is an acceptance that personal lives are busy. The emphasis in America is supposedly "individual freedom" but so much time is invested into group activities--rotary club, team sports, book clubs--that we all learn to limit our own individuality in respect to others. We're brought up as a community, we learn to interact, to behave in group settings. As a result we learn to lie or make excuses in order to not offend.
Whereas our individual freedoms stop at the expense of others they know no burden here. You live your life. You identify yourself with yourself. In America we often define ourselves by our social outlet group. I play ultimate Frisbee. My friend is a duck hunter. Another is a drummer in a band. In the eyes of the French, part of our supposed "individual identity" gets lost at the expense of that activity. We lose a piece of our "self" by coalescing into something larger.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Food and the World
Depending on where you are in the United States (or world) there are generally two types of people (or areas)--the sauce people and the meat people. My friend from west Texas has lamented that the BBQ focus in central Texas is on the meat as opposed to the sauce like in his native Lubbock area.
This "theorem" can be expanded more generally to what I'll call "accoutrement" people (the sauce and toppings people) & the basics people. Simply put is it the ice cream you enjoy or is it the sprinkles on top?
As usual this whole line of thought was spurred by an innocent remark from Morgane at dinner on Saturday night in reference to "Le Burger" I was going to order. She intimated that it was going to be really good because of the French cheese on it. I replied somewhat in jest that where I come from the meat makes the burger not the cheese. In America when we order steak we order specific cuts. In France its just steak but that steak comes with a wide variety of sauces! We have to know what we are eating, how it was raised (Kobe beef, free range, grain fed, etc).
This predilection for accoutrements carries over into the salad arena as well. When we have a salad at home we pull out the tube of ranch or Italian dressing. Here salad isn't salad unless you have the sauce. Any old Hidden Valley will not suffice. The sauce is created from scratch.
Morgane thinks that the majority of the world is accoutrement driven. Throwing out a wide swathe of examples: Indian, Thai, Mexican etc. This is most definitely true but it also occurred to me that the sauce divide falls across economic lines. If you are poor you most likely aren't eating meat at all. If you are surviving off of a staple crop like rice and eating it daily, it honestly needs to be kicked up a notch to remain interesting. Taking that a step further-how much of the prevalence of spices in the "developing world" is aimed at diverting your attention away from your hunger?
Conversely, the ability (or leisure) to focus on the meat is a statement on where the U.S. (recession or not) is in comparison with the world. We are among the few nations whose populous can afford to care about this stuff.
This "theorem" can be expanded more generally to what I'll call "accoutrement" people (the sauce and toppings people) & the basics people. Simply put is it the ice cream you enjoy or is it the sprinkles on top?
As usual this whole line of thought was spurred by an innocent remark from Morgane at dinner on Saturday night in reference to "Le Burger" I was going to order. She intimated that it was going to be really good because of the French cheese on it. I replied somewhat in jest that where I come from the meat makes the burger not the cheese. In America when we order steak we order specific cuts. In France its just steak but that steak comes with a wide variety of sauces! We have to know what we are eating, how it was raised (Kobe beef, free range, grain fed, etc).
This predilection for accoutrements carries over into the salad arena as well. When we have a salad at home we pull out the tube of ranch or Italian dressing. Here salad isn't salad unless you have the sauce. Any old Hidden Valley will not suffice. The sauce is created from scratch.
Morgane thinks that the majority of the world is accoutrement driven. Throwing out a wide swathe of examples: Indian, Thai, Mexican etc. This is most definitely true but it also occurred to me that the sauce divide falls across economic lines. If you are poor you most likely aren't eating meat at all. If you are surviving off of a staple crop like rice and eating it daily, it honestly needs to be kicked up a notch to remain interesting. Taking that a step further-how much of the prevalence of spices in the "developing world" is aimed at diverting your attention away from your hunger?
Conversely, the ability (or leisure) to focus on the meat is a statement on where the U.S. (recession or not) is in comparison with the world. We are among the few nations whose populous can afford to care about this stuff.
Friday, February 1, 2008
A Few Pictures from Belgium
Exploring Bruges
During our exploration I discovered Cookies Kitchen. I'm not entirely sure why Zoe made me put my hands up...but there I am.
You can imagine our surprise when we found this picture hanging in the Cafe...
The Sudden Death!
Traffic and the world around us
Morgane and I were driving to pick up some things from Zoe when the traffic on the periphrique went from "fluide" to "perturbé." As we crept along the traffic ballet began--cars trading places with each other in the hope that the other lane could get them to their destination quicker. I soon realized that as drivers the French change lanes with the same detached recklessness they use each day on the sidewalk. Walking along the city streets I noticed the tendency for the French to walk along, oblivious to everything around them, until they bump into someone or a horn is honked and they are momentarily halted in their self-absorbed journey.
Thus far I had yet to see this tendency carry over into the roadways. Very quickly I realized that no one really knows where the other cars are. A blinker is clicked and the car enters the next lane. No glances in the mirror, no waves. The lane is taken as if the road was empty. The closest thing to a "courtesy" or a "warning" is the blinker, which isn't much of a warning at all but it serves to absolve them. Unless you are also of the "head down" school of driving you must constantly be on guard.
Perhaps I'm being a bit unfair but it's not hard to make the leap from here to the examples of French Foreign Policy where this sort of "head down" attitude manifests itself. And here I'm talking about Rwanda, about the French insistence in handing out huge subsidies to farmers while the world changes around them--while it passes them by, while it threatens to alter their inflated sense of power.
(Paradoxically, France is the same nation that has given the world Doctors Without Borders as well as Reporters Without Borders. Paris is the headquarters for UNESCO. It's a confounding dichotomy)
Sarkozy rode the hope of systematic change to the French system all the way to the Presidency. But even his thrusts for change, his bids to regain prestige and economic viability have been characterized by his ability to see the goal and not the traffic around him. How else do you explain his handling of the Libya incident or Carla Bruni? He successfully negotiated the release of Bulgarian nurses who had been convicted in Libya of intentionally spreading HIV at the expense of the EU. A conquest of sorts that was the first step towards putting France back in the center realm of the national stage. Seven months later and this one mindedness has diminished the Sarkozian sheen. He seems to have stepped too far out into the street with the Carla Bruni business and the public has honked its horn. His popularity has tanked and with it, some would say, his "mandate for change."
Perhaps being cut off by a red Renault is too large a jump to genocide and Presidential policy after all.
Thus far I had yet to see this tendency carry over into the roadways. Very quickly I realized that no one really knows where the other cars are. A blinker is clicked and the car enters the next lane. No glances in the mirror, no waves. The lane is taken as if the road was empty. The closest thing to a "courtesy" or a "warning" is the blinker, which isn't much of a warning at all but it serves to absolve them. Unless you are also of the "head down" school of driving you must constantly be on guard.
Perhaps I'm being a bit unfair but it's not hard to make the leap from here to the examples of French Foreign Policy where this sort of "head down" attitude manifests itself. And here I'm talking about Rwanda, about the French insistence in handing out huge subsidies to farmers while the world changes around them--while it passes them by, while it threatens to alter their inflated sense of power.
(Paradoxically, France is the same nation that has given the world Doctors Without Borders as well as Reporters Without Borders. Paris is the headquarters for UNESCO. It's a confounding dichotomy)
Sarkozy rode the hope of systematic change to the French system all the way to the Presidency. But even his thrusts for change, his bids to regain prestige and economic viability have been characterized by his ability to see the goal and not the traffic around him. How else do you explain his handling of the Libya incident or Carla Bruni? He successfully negotiated the release of Bulgarian nurses who had been convicted in Libya of intentionally spreading HIV at the expense of the EU. A conquest of sorts that was the first step towards putting France back in the center realm of the national stage. Seven months later and this one mindedness has diminished the Sarkozian sheen. He seems to have stepped too far out into the street with the Carla Bruni business and the public has honked its horn. His popularity has tanked and with it, some would say, his "mandate for change."
Perhaps being cut off by a red Renault is too large a jump to genocide and Presidential policy after all.
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