An Arkansan Abroad

The Hibernation

2008-05-10T06:08:00.003+02:00

When I began this blog I wasn't prepared for the path my life would take. Over the past year I have somehow been able to hold back the tides of reality and live my own upside down version of the “Summer of George.” Though silent for several months, when I resurrected it at the tail end of December it became my outlet and obsession while in France. Once again on my return to the states this blog has fallen silent—partly out of confusion at my new and “normal” life and partly from my qualms with running a travel blog while no longer abroad.

To remedy this (and to satisfy all five of my “readers”), I've decided to start my “Arkansan at Home” blog, titled Warm Evenings. The purpose is largely to satisfy myself—retaining the outlet and obsession while at home. Since reality has burst the levies of my life, the frequency with which I'll be able to post shall be limited. I'm still trying to figure out how to balance my life...how to balance “reality,” but my aim is once a week.

While this blog had an overarching theme, it never had a day to day thread connecting each post other than what was in my head. This will be roughly the same with minor tweaks. Unfortunately Arkansas might prove to be a harder sell than Paris (instead of a post about visiting the Louvre you'll get one about visiting the snow cone stand).

I selected the title from a Gram Parsons song of the same name and my personal favorite Parsons tune. For me, the phrase itself also hearkens back to innocent summers, to a place in the haze of memory. Perhaps it's just my own fancy, but since I'm back in the place of my birth and since summer is now upon us I figured it worked. I can't promise what will come, but I can promise the honesty of the words that will follow. Hopefully the Warm Evenings header quote from Walker Percy proves itself true for me.

An Arkansan at Home

2008-04-28T04:45:00.004+02:00

Returns are curious affairs. Like most things in our life they seem so much more magnificent in our own minds than they are in reality. By no means did I consider myself a returning Caesar. I had no visions of parades or red carpet welcomes but I must confess that my return has left me a bit dismayed.

Thoreau claimed "most men lived lives of quiet desperation." One always seems to create a fetish out of memory and expectation. Our reminisces are always fonder in mind than in practice. Our expectations of the future are always grander than what they in truth will become. Hope for something greater is upheld in the face of despair. One's hope and one's imaginary future is an easy handle to grasp in a foreign land, where possibilities might seem boundless.

Back at home, an Arkansan no longer abroad, reality has quickly settled in around me and this boundless future proves harder to find. As I navigate the pathways of normalcy, I slog on like Mr. Thomas, quietly raging against that dying light.

The Flights

2008-04-20T15:29:00.005+02:00

I've had a history with U.S. customs. Each time I've returned to our nation after spending time abroad I've been detained several hours. Reasons for this have varied depending on who I am talking to. The first time it occurred it was because I have a "common" name. I was given the impression that they were worried someone (read terrorist) could sneak in to the country using my name since it was so "common." For those that know me (blond and white), this seems like it would be a bit obvious. Fortunately (or not), we have a fairly thorough unit manning our borders.

I was fairly surprised when it happened a second time. The given excuse that time was that they were "looking for someone with my name." One would assume that since I had been previously detained a few months prior that their computers would denote this and it would be an easily resolvable affair. Not only was I wrong but I was chastized when, quoting the previous officer, I asked a new officer why I was detained. That, I was informed, was none of my business and no officer should be giving out reasons for my detention. My desire to return home was greater than that which wanted to partake in a sarcastic retort. Being at this officer's discretion I rightly figured the better way was the higher path and kept silent.

These incidences have created an apprehension within me. I expect to be stopped by customs and thus have to plan for it. When I was booking my return flights I spent $40 more to take a later connecting flight in Newark because I was afraid I wouldn't have made it through customs yet. This in turn created another series of events to which I will shortly return.

My voyage home was far from a staid affair. I flew home on Air India. I thought it was odd that they had a flight from Paris to Newark but the ticket was the cheapest available so I took it. Naturally it never dawned on me that the flight was Mumbai to Newark and Paris was the refueling stop to pick up more passengers and let others off. For as unforgiving as I was about flying on Air India (one of my fears was that they'd only have Bollywood movies on the flight), it turned out pretty cool, which just goes to show you what preconceptions are good for. My rating system might be different from others but when you have movies like Casablanca, The Maltese Falcon, and Dial M for Murder to choose from on your in flight movie screen, you're running a damn fine airline. The fact that the seats were comfortable and the food was good were just added niceties next to Bogie.

Since I had allowed myself extra time to get through customs without missing my flight, it of course turned out to be a breeze. I made it through everything and was waiting for my next flight no more than an hour after I landed. I got to sit in New Jersey for the next two hours waiting on my Air Tran flight to Atlanta and then on to Dallas.

Continuing on with my life's trend, my flight from Newark was late. The two hour wait turned into almost three and a half (this was particularly unnerving since I could have taken an earlier flight to Dallas via Charlotte on U.S. Airways). Miracle of miracles, however, I made my 11PM connecting flight to Dallas after landing in Atlanta at 10:47PM. It was my first time to run in an airport. No one had any stop watches out but, I was like the wind that night. The last thing I wanted was to spend the night in Atlanta's airport after being awake for 24 hours. I just wanted to get home as scheduled.

When I landed in Dallas I didn't have a high school band waiting for me playing "For He's A Jolly Good Fellow." It was just my sister. After being away for so long, Sarah was a very comforting sight even without a brass section.

Thoughts Before Returning

2008-04-17T16:00:00.002+02:00

Would it be cliche to say emptiness pervades my entire being, that I'm alone inside myself and in the world around me? Fault me for saying it but there's the truth. I'm sitting in the Roissy airport with only a newspaper and a sandwich for comfort. Where are the loving arms I know? Where are the smiling faces I once knew?

I'm broken and drained--split equally between the love I have in Paris and the comfort of home. Neither of us expected the end to be like this. Neither of us ever wanted it but, as so often happens in life, we lived the days that were given to us--dark and hollow as they were.

I live with regrets. Regret that I couldn't stay longer to comfort my love. Regret for the things we put off only to have fate put them off for us ever longer. I want to believe I will be back. I want to again look out a window and see the glittering glamor of Eiffel's tower. Whether anything follows from this day is a guess only father time can make. So, I take comfort in thoughts and memories. Broken as I am inside, I try instead to concentrate on the sandwich and paper in front of me. It's all anybody can really do.

May He Find Peace

2008-04-13T12:21:00.005+02:00

A tragedy has struck. Clint Sezalory, Morgane's brother, died in a hospital in Varanasi, a city in northeastern India on Friday. We are all trying to cope with the sudden loss of such a unique person. There are countless emotions that accompany the passing of a loved one, emotions I could never dream of being able to properly convey. What has made this particular passing evermore difficult is the thought that it has occurred so far from home and so far from family. Though it is not something I can accomplish with mere words, what follows below is an attempt to assuage not only my own grief but to offer a bit of relief to those who loved him dearest.

Varanasi is one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world and famous the world over for it's religious significance for Hindus. It is on the banks of the Ganges that the believers go to wash away their sins. As one of the most important pilgrimages a Hindu can make, it is believed to be auspicious to die in Varanasi. Your soul is granted a release from its transmigrations.

Clint was a born adventurer. Though he passed just over a week after his 25th birthday, he had already seen more of the world than the billions who out of fear, poverty, or ignorance are too unfortunate to have that chance. He lived in Africa as a child, he had traversed two continents by rail (Paris to Peking), he had explored the wonders of Big Bend in Texas, and was almost finished with his three month exploration of the sub-continent when he fell ill. He was never afraid of the unknown; he knew no personal limits.

Clint's favorite comic book character was the infamous Tintin, a boy who embarks on journeys throughout the world. He keeps a figurine of Tintin on his desk, one that I have seen every day I have been here in Paris without a second thought. At some point soon after his passing I realized that that statue represents Clint to me and it will always be how I remember him—confidently stepping forward with his eyes on the horizon, ready to greet what's around the bend.

"Somewhere out across the Great Divide
Where the sky is wide and the clouds are few
A man can see his way clear to the light
Just hold on tight, that's all you got to do"

Translating Titles

2008-04-11T17:34:00.007+02:00

There are American influences everywhere in Paris. I don't mean "everywhere" in the sense that France has lost its unique cultural identity, far from it. What I mean is that American life has wedged its way into the day to day life of the French. This is evidenced somewhat constructively in the current events coverage (I'm constantly asked for my thoughts on the Presidential race) though less so in the baser realm of pop culture, particularly movies.

Films that are chosen for wide screen release here have a variety of tasks to complete before their debut. Perhaps the most obvious is the subtitling and/or dubbing work necessary before release. If they are of the giant blockbuster kind (National Treasure) or inane comedy (Wild Hogs) then a dubbed version must be created to accompany (or in many cases, replace) the original version. This is more a financial decision than anything else. Unless the movie is expected to appeal to the broadest base of the population then the expense of employing voice actors won't occur.

To me, the true art within the release process is the film's title. There are two broad categories of titles--altered and unaltered. On the occasions a film doesn't warrant a title change it is always a result of its simplicity. If a title is easy for the French to pronounce themselves then the name stays (ex: Gone Baby Gone, This is England). I find these to be the most interesting because even though they are "easy" to pronounce for French speakers the words generally sound quite different than when they fall out of my mouth. (Though not films this was made clear the other day when I went to the tabac to buy cigarettes for two of Morgane's friends. I ended up having to just point at the packs of American Spirits and "Fee-Leep More-ees" --Phillip Morris).

Of the altered titles there are three kinds. First is the direct translation, which is perhaps the most common (Be Kind Rewind/Soyez Sympas Rebombinez). Next is a complete title change. This is supposed to make the film more appealing and approachable for the French market. As such, upon French release, The Good Shepard is transformed into Raisons D'Etat (Reasons of State) and The Other Boleyn Girl is morphed into Deux Soeurs Pour un Roi (Two sisters for one king).

Lastly, the most peculiar naming method has to be the rare movie that retains an English language title but is different than the original. What first caught my attention to this particular category were posters I've seen plastered across the city advertising Sexy Dance 2. Apart from the amusement I derived from seeing a movie called Sexy Dance 2 on the market, I was eventually prodded into some investigatory work on the internet. This causality occurred when I saw an advertisement for another equally intellectual offering, Never Back Down, which was billed as "Par Les Réalisateurs de Sexy Dance" (from the directors of Sexy Dance). I figured if this "Sexy Dance" was big enough to spawn not only a sequel but cross advertisements, I needed to get some answers. What I found out was that I'm more out of touch than I realized. The original title, Step Up didn't ring any bells either.
I never expected to keep up with adolescent tastes, I'm just shocked that it has already happened. Perhaps I should start spending more time at the mall.

A British Bent

2008-04-10T19:34:00.006+02:00

Strangely enough my life in France has lately been dominated by the not always so friendly neighbor, Great Britain. English is my native language. My biggest news source here is the BBC world. As a person residing abroad, neither of these vestiges of British imperialism should be considered anything but natural. They are so downright common that it'd be strange to have it any other way.

Seemingly conscious choices have marked the shift from the normal day to day life as an English speaker to a complete inundation of Britannia. In the past couple of weeks I've not only become somewhat addicted to reading the Guardian but I've also begun to read A People's History of England by A.L. Morton, a Marxist intellectual from Suffolk. The former can be easily explained or excused since the Guardian is an award winning paper. Since I (and in many ways the world as well) have no real use for communism, reading a 1938 Marxist interpretation of England's history up until WWI would seem a bit pointless. Discounting the outmoded nature of the book (historically and politically), it has turned out to be an interesting read.

Adding to my current reading choices are my film choices. It is a bit misleading to say "I" since the choices have been as much mine as they have been Morgane's. Therefore our Britannic lean in film can be termed a "we" instead of a "me." We've had a whirlwind tour of the United Kingdom of late. We've inundated ourselves with 16th century dramas, one great (Elizabeth) and two decent (The Other Boleyn Girl, Elizabeth-The Golden Age). Robert Altman transported us back to another time with his English manor mystery Gosford Park while Judi Dench and Cate Blanchett reminded us why they are two of the best in the business with Notes On a Scandal, a heartbreaking (and at times uncomfortable) peek into solitude and human relations.

Though all of these things have conspired to give my time here a decidedly British tilt, it was not something I set about on my own. My first inclination was that it perhaps was just a phase, a new penchant for something beyond the "known". This would seem logical if I had consciously conspired to consume the culture of my own accord. Though each choice was itself conscious, the larger motif was never purposely set upon.

When I experience culture it is generally through the English language. In America I can experience foreign locales and other worlds because although the medium might be foreign the explanation or subtitles will always be English. Despite the fact that my French has improved quite a bit, I'm still unable to easily read French for pleasure and still struggle to keep up during French films. Amidst it all it struck me that each passing day here brings to me more and more a feeling of "home" and of belonging. Often I still feel wholly separate and am still very much an outsider but, each time I pop into a shop or take the train into town it feels less so. Each day I spend in France it becomes less of an oddity and more of a home. And thus the subconscious reasoning behind my recent British tilt became apparent. As France became a home, British culture replaced it as an escape. Through the common tongue it has allowed the chance to once again experience a separate world.

Lafayette & the Language of Oppression

2008-04-09T17:24:00.006+02:00

I've never given much thought to the "why" of my language. I've always marked it down as the natural outcome of Britain defeating France in the French-Indian war. This assumption was verbally attacked by a pious Catholic gentleman a few weeks ago when Morgane and I went to visit the grave of General Lafayette at Picpus Cemetery.

A guillotine was set up on what is now Place de la Nation, just a few minutes from the cemetery. An average of fifty-five people a day lost their life at the guillotine from mid June to late July in 1794. Over 1200 bodies were dumped in a nearby garden. Three years later this garden was secretly purchased by a princess whose brother was interred in one of the mass graves. Another group of families bought additional adjoining land in 1803 to create the cemetery that stands today. Burial in the cemetery is, I believe, wholly reserved to relatives of those interred in the mass graves.

Overseen by the sisters of the Sacred Heart, Picpus remains the largest private cemetery in Paris. There is also a fairly large church attached to the cemetery that houses a small station of Vierge de la Paix (virgin of the peace) that supposedly cured the Sun King from an illness and now attracts devout pilgrims. The sisters only open the graveyard in the afternoon but with some convincing (it was my "last day" in Paris) and a few extra euros, Morgane was able to get a caretaker to let us in.

It was on our walk across the courtyard towards the cemetery gate that the caretaker began his discourse on how strange it was that Americans spoke English. Instead, he insisted, we should be speaking Cherokee or even French. My feeble attempt at telling him that I'd speak French if they had been successful in the Seven Years War was met with a confused look. Shaking off my counter argument, he then went on to inform us that America was the only country that spoke the language of the oppressor. He evidently wasn't privy to the fact that the vast majority of the "original" inhabitants/colonists were native English speakers. Nor, I suppose, was he familiar with the categorical extermination of the native population whilst "subduing" them--hence no Cherokee. Declining an opportunity to educate, I sensed the easier route was through acquiescence. I smiled, nodded, and stepped into the graveyard.

The graveyard itself turned out to be a vast spot of quietude, the antithesis of the verbose man who watches over it. Perhaps visiting Lafayette's grave is an odd thing to do in Paris but, he has long been a favorite of mine (having historical "favorites" is one of the perks of being a history geek) so it was something that I had been wanting to see for quite some time. As a result of his military and monetary support, Lafayette and his descendants were granted American citizenship in perpetuity. As a way of illustrating his eternal support of America, Lafayette was buried in American soil.

Despite his continued dedication to the struggle of equality, despite the fact that throughout the U.S. there are at least 50 towns and counties named in his honor, he is largely a forgotten entity as a freedom fighter. Instead, it has become "hip" to revere a practitioner of torture and brutality thanks to an iconic photo. I know it's not going to look as cool on my key chain but I'll take the former marquis any day.

Roller Cops Against Tibet

2008-04-07T21:19:00.007+02:00

Some of you have perhaps already heard about the massive demonstrations in Paris today during the Olympic Torch relay. There were also counter demonstrations by pro-Chinese supporters as well. This naturally led to a few clashes at various points between the Tibetan/anti-China supporters and the pro-China demonstrators.

The governmental response to the torch visit was to treat it as if it were a visiting head of state. This naturally required roller cops. I know these demonstrations were a serious matter. Their seriousness is exactly why I bring this up in the first place. Why on earth do you surround the torch with roller cops? Honestly, what can they do? Unless they have an amazing braking or locking device on the skates they have absolutely no leverage when engaging a subject and are thus worthless. They obviously had plenty of other people protecting the flame on foot, as you can see here:

It still leaves me wondering who does the security planning here. There were several occasions when protesters were within inches of the flame bearer before they were taken down. Eventually the decision was reached that it would be better to put the flame on a bus and surround it with roller cops for the duration of the journey to Stade Charlety.

Naturally I don't want to point fingers and make accusations but it seems as if there was some governmental collusion or at the very least acquiescence with the demonstrators. Part of me hopes that this is the case, otherwise it'd be a bit worrisome to know that demonstrators could easily unfurl banners and flags like the one below on the walls of City Hall, the Eiffel Tower, and Notre Dame. (As you will notice, the French still use the Postal Map Romanization method for Chinese cities, so Beijing is still known as Peking here)

I suppose the real question is: what is more disturbing as a resident? The ability of demonstrators to infiltrate national monuments or the presence of roller cops as guardians of your safety?

Top 5 Churches

2008-04-06T15:55:00.008+02:00

I'm a list maker. One could blame it on my own internal rigidness, my desire to always know what's what and where each thing stands in my own mind. Perhaps because I am perpetually failing to organize my own life I resort to organizing other things. Or again it could just be a reflection of my own love for the ultimate list maker book & film, High Fidelity. The protagonist of which, no surprise, can't figure out his own life but can figure out what he likes. Since it is Sunday and since I have a thing for cathedrals, I've created a list of my favorite churches in France.

St. Etienne du Mont is located just to the rear of the Pantheon on its northeast corner. When I first stumbled (if it's possible to stumble onto anything so close to a giant national monument) across the cathedral this past summer I was astounded. When I revisited a few weeks ago I was astounded again. I've read quite a few Paris guidebooks and never seen mention of this majestic church. It is by far my favorite. If it's possible to put a finger on why it ranks so highly I would venture that it is its simplicity. This is a somewhat paradoxical word to use with something this ornate but you can judge for yourself.

St. Chappelle has already been a subject of a post here before. (If you want to read about it and see the pictures, click here: Words and Wonders ) In size it is simple but the simplicity of size is compensated for in the majesty of its stained glass windows.

Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Chartres

Initially I wavered between restricting the list to just churches in Paris or all of France. I decided to opt for France expressly so it would allow me to include the cathedral in Chartres. The cathedral is about 45 minutes west by southwest of Paris. It sits atop a hill overlooking the city that surrounds it, a mammoth manifestation of devotion and worship. My favorite aspect of the cathedral is the view from the yard in the rear of the church.

Basilique Saint-Denis

Competing in size and fame with the Cathedral at Chartres is the Basilique Saint-Denis which is located in a banlieue of the same name north of Paris. There are two reasons why this particular church is in the Top 5, one obvious and the other not so obvious. First the obvious: It houses the tombs of all but three French monarchs from 496AD onward. As a history lover, how could this not earn a place in my top five?

It is, as you can see, not lacking in beauty. Outside the church grounds is the impetus for the other reason I like the church. Saint-Denis is now a largely Muslim community with around 40 percent of the population being non-natives. Unfortunately it also suffers from the highest crime rate in France. When Morgane and I went to visit it a few weeks ago, we had to walk about a half mile from where we parked to the basilique. Our path lead us through a lively pedestrian market avenue which, except for the biting cold, reminded us both more of a lively Moroccan souk than a French avenue. The clash between the past and the present is what adds to the allure of this massive church.

For number five I'm going to drop "a sly declaration of new classic status." What's a list without a curveball? (that's me painting at the bottom of the picture)

St Alexander Nevsky Cathedral

Located at the corner of rue Daru and rue Pierre le Grand in the heart of "little Russia," this mid 19th century church is quite a spectacle. There are a few things that made this stick out to me. Foremost is that the church is very close to my favorite area of Paris. Secondly, it's the only Russian Orthodox church I've had the pleasure of visiting. For every similarity with other churches I've seen there are just as many differences. Next to the gilded wealth of the other churches on the list, it is bare. But within the plain austerity is the true beauty of the cathedral.

Since there is no way of working it into the list, I'll just label this as an honorable mention.

This is a pulpit sculpted out of wood by H.F.Verbruggen in 1699 for St. Michael and Gudula Cathedral in Brussels. Hands down not only one of the scariest things I could imagine seeing as a child in church but also one of the coolest and most amazing pieces of art I've seen in my life.

Here's a better image of the scene (Adam and Eve being cast out of Paradise)--

I'm not so sure this post will qualify as an adequate excuse for skipping church today but, it might.

Tides of Time

2008-04-04T20:41:00.003+02:00

Today proved to be a new lesson in the constantly changing face of Paris. Rome is the "eternal city" however, the same can be said of any iconic city. Their images make them eternal. Of course there are images associated with every location the world over--China has its wall, London its clock, Egypt its pyramids, and New York its statue. There is the Black Forest of Germany, the hills of San Fransisco, the cliffs of Dover, and the fjords of Norway. Paris has its tower.

What's lost among the images is the true identity of a place. This identity is a constant evolution, an immortal game of growth and reduction. It's like children testing water--one timidly sticks a toe in while one dives head first only to run back out. Underneath our picture, each place in the world is in constant motion with others and with itself.

Paris is no different. What better proof of this than the Eiffel Tower itself? In a city filled with statues, churches, museums, and monuments, in a city whose history spans thousands of years--a creation that is only 119 years old has become the signature image. It was widely reviled upon release and has since become the most visited monument in the world. This is proof enough of the changes that can be wrought on minds and cities alike.

This all became quite apparent to me at lunch. Today was incredibly sunny and not wholly unlike summer. When I was here this past summer Morgane and I stayed in the 17th near the Villiers metro. Looking to take advantage of the weather Morgane and I had decided to spend a few hours in the sun at Park Monceau before having lunch at Le Bistrot du Passage. Every other citizen of Paris seemed to have the same idea as the park was teeming with people by noon.

Heading to lunch down Boulevard de Courcelles and onto Boulevard des Batignolles, I was sent back eleven months. Though shy of a year it seemed longer in my mind. I thought of the wide-eyed person I was that first night in Paris. Walking next to an unbelievably gorgeous woman and making our way to the top of Montmartre. How could I not question the reality of my situation? After descending Montmartre we strolled along the avenues in the deepening twilight before having dinner at Le Bistrot du Passage. Perhaps I was tempting fate by revisiting a memory like that.

Upon first arriving at the restaurant we weren't certain it was the same place. Everything seemed so different, so sterile in comparison to the cozy warmth we remembered. The name was the same so we went inside. Through talking with one of the owners we found out that they had expanded, renovated, and remodeled since our last visit but, believe it or not, he remembered us from our first visit (this says something either about the deep "fish out of water" impression I must have given that first night or perhaps more likely, the hold my girlfriend has over the memory of a man). Where once there was an intimate ambiance and unfettered originality there is now a calculated attempt at unadorned chic. A changed decor and a changed perception aside, the food was unchanged from our first visit: delicious.

If anything, visiting the restaurant only heightened the memory of my first night in Paris. More so than before it has become one of those faraway and foggy memories filled with happiness and longing for which we all strive. Though the city is constantly changing, Paris itself has become more tangible to me. At some point along the way it has ceased to be an obscure myth and became life. This makes those distant memories all the more sweeter than before.

Things I Saw in Barcelona

2008-04-03T12:57:00.015+02:00

Since I've already given a broad summation of my thoughts on Barcelona I'm going to offer a few pictures and light thoughts on particular places in Barcelona. I'm always being asked to post pictures to help counteract my more verbose nature. So, with that in mind:

Sagrada Familia

This was probably the site I was most excited about seeing in Barcelona. Though I don't think my expectations were artificially high, I was a little disappointed with the site. Much like Mont St. Michel, this was something better seen from afar. Currently there is a project under way to finish building the church with 2026 (100 year anniversary of Gaudi's death) being the year of completion. Scaffolding could take away from the most magnificent of facades and if it had been limited to this it would still probably have been fine. What pushed me on over the edge wasn't the crowds or the scaffolding but the entry fee. The fee by itself wasn't exactly exorbitant but when the entire interior of the church is covered in construction barriers and other materials, and the spectacle of interest is thus limited to architects, engineers, and contractors, then the fee becomes so. What made this even more disappointing is the fact that the "interior" construction was supposed to be completed and the current work was finishing the final four apostle towers. Perhaps it is unfair of me to complain since the finished product will (hopefully) be a wonder to see.

Park Guell

Park Guell, much like Sagrada Familia, is an amazing sight in its own right. Some of the allure is however lost when you are one amongst a thousand trying to see the famous sight. And as I said previously, maybe ten of those thousand weren't tourists. Crowded or not, it was a surreal park. I've never experienced an artist or architect that could create such a feel of another place or time yet still keep it so rooted in the reality of the present.

Morgane and I were staying on Rambla de Catalunya, two blocks north of Placa de Catalunya. This put us in the middle of the city and within easy distances of most of the major sights in Barcelona. Apart from the great location, the apartment itself was also very cool. The one drawback was that the foyer of the apartment building smelled like trash. But, when you have a rooftop terrace and a great room, it isn't much of a drawback at all.

La Rambla

There have been plenty of changes to this famous pedestrian thoroughfare over the years and its a far cry from the avenue Mr. Orwell walked along. As a history geek it was cool to stroll down Las Ramblas trying to imagine what it was like during the civil war--the flags of anarchists and communists hanging from buildings, the deterioration and militarization of the street (and city) as the anti-fascist forces devolved into internecine fighting, "Trotskyists" skulking about at night. Even with my overly excited imagination it was a task trying to visualize any of this when the avenue was crowded with people.

Barceloneta

There is a neighborhood that juts out into the sea, south and east of the Barrio Gotica and directly east of the old shipyards called Barceloneta. It was created in the 18th century as a replacement neighborhood for the one razed to make way for army barracks (now the sight of Ciutadella Park just north and east of the neighborhood. It is somewhat removed from the rest of the city and gives it the feel of almost being a separate civic entity. Morgane and I walked through the neighborhood on our first day in Barcelona and I was unable to find a neighborhood I liked more in the days that followed. Morgane is certain the Barceloneta neighborhood was the location used for "The Spanish Apartment" (L'Auberge Espagnol)--which, if you have any interest in Barcelona (or good movies) and don't mind subtitles, I highly recommend. It's been several years since I've seen it but, it was a cool film.

Last, but not least, the man who started it all:

Christopher Columbus. At the end of the Las Ramblas, where the avenue finally tumbles into the coast, there is an absolutely gargantuan statue honoring Columbus. To me it is a metaphor not only for the city but for Catalonia: large, proud, and accessible.

The Birds and The B's

2008-04-01T20:47:00.004+02:00

Yesterday was, as I told Morgane, "the most important day of the year." Unfortunately upon our return from Barcelona Monday morning I was unable to discover any semblance of care, concern, or curiosity in the faces of the Parisians that passed us by. There certainly wasn't anyone loading up on baguettes and brie for the pre-game parties. No one seemed to be rushing home from work to watch the "Lead-Off Man." Though the populous seemed not to care, Opening Day had finally arrived.

Always true to form, the Cubbies strung me out again. I don't know how they do it but they always seem to know the best way to destroy a fan. Leave it to Chicago to give you eight strong innings, have a former ace cum closer give up three runs in the ninth, have the deficit erased/witness the birth of a new star (Kosuke Fukedome--curtain called in his first game), only to lose the game again in the 10th courtesy of another member of our strong pen. There are enough story lines for a week in each game.

As downtrodden as I was going to bed late last night after the loss, there were plenty of things to be happy about. Topping the list is Mr. Fukedome. With the way he played yesterday, he is on a short path to my new favorite Cub (he'd have to turn in an identical performance day-in-day-out for the rest of the year to oust my fellow Arkansan, Torii Hunter, from his spot as my favorite MLB player). There of course is also the sheer pleasure of having baseball on again. Being able to see web gems, box scores, and double steals for the next six months is enough to temper any Opening Day loss.

Even with the loss, even though they are in last place after day one, it is a long season (for most of my friends the length is interminable). But in its length there is countless opportunities. There will continue to be chances to make up for day one, countless chances to make fans forget your former glories as well as your errs. Mr. Pope certainly didn't intend for it to become bywords for my chosen passion but, "hope springs eternal" has become just that. Crack open a Budweiser for Harry and hope as I hope: That this, one hundred years in, might just be the year for my boys. That spring turns to summer and summer to fall with ne'er a Cubbies slip.

Back from Barcelona

2008-04-01T11:50:00.004+02:00

It is hard to separate the Barcelona of imagination with the experience of the city itself. There's a myth of Barcelona. This isn't to say that the city is lacking in any way just that the city doesn't suffer from lack of praise. For residents and visitors alike it is a city where ease is the expectation instead of a reward or a short lived pleasure. A place where "cool" sprouts up from the ground like a palm tree and flowers the city; a destination that enables the visitor to feel that they too can revel in the unique aura that towers over the city.

While hip post-communist destinations in eastern Europe abound, they are largely reserved to the summer hordes. Barcelona, for all intents and purposes, is a year round destination. It's unique position nestled between the Mediterranean and the Pyrenees dictate a certain level of coolness through the winter and spring but nowhere near as cold as a dreary March day in London, or a wind swept Krakow. Barcelona is a vibrant city destination where both culture and relative warmth remain at your fingertips. Save for parts of Italy, this combination grants it a unique position known nowhere else in Europe.

Through my few days there, the tourist appeal has been quite evident. Unfortunately this evidence was found not in the monuments and museums but in the sheer number of like minded people traipsing through the city. Whether it be hordes of Scots rollicking through the Barrio Gotica looking for a night of revelry or the masses descending on the Sagrada Familia--the city witnessed was one witnessed by everyone else.

Though Paris trumps in sheer number of visitors, Barcelona is not far behind. I've never been to a place whose visitors are so apart from the city itself--that stick out from the fabric of daily life so much. Personally I attribute this to two factors. First I think it is a reflection on our own ordered and guided lives contrasting so noticeably against the laid back nature of the city and its residents. Secondly, and perhaps more likely, it is a reflection of the things we come to see. In Paris the monuments are generally much older and are more cohesively integrated within the fabric of the city's daily life. The man with the biggest mark on Paris, Baron Haussmann, helped propagate a city of wide boulevards and grand sight lines. Essentially he transformed a hodge podge medieval city in the systematic and sweeping spectacle we all know today. While Barcelona certainly has wide avenues it retains a certain disparateness in its architecture which in turn creates a dissonance between the Barcelona of daily life and the one seen by the visitor. The man with the greatest mark on Barcelona, Antoni Gaudi, had a vast imagination and great skill. Both of these attributes are easily visible to anyone who may happen across his work. Whereas Haussman's mark on Paris was largely reshaping an existing entity into conformity, Gaudi's mark on Barcelona was one of creation. This has spawned huge tourist attractions in quiet areas. For instance, when you visit the Tuilleries in Paris you are still surrounded by the daily life of a major capital. Contrasting this is Gaudi's famous park in Barcelona. Park Guell is so disconnected from the city itself that the only possible visitors are those tourists making a point to see the planned wonderland and take their turn on his undulating benches.

Not until my last day in the city did I feel somewhat apart from the transient and a piece of the tangible. Courtesy of the magnificent sun, I also realized on the last day what had been missing on the previous two days of the trip. Morgane and I had dropped our bag at the train station and set out to find a spot in the sun. We had ostensibly been walking towards a park but belatedly realized our direction was wrong. This turned out to be one of our better "decisions" of the weekend. We found a small bench in a city park that was populated by Iberians instead of visitors and spent the afternoon lazing in the sun.

On our walk to the serendipitous park we were treated to the bizarre sight of an adult marching band of mixed age and sex playing classic Motown hits. Accompanying the band were young girls (8-10 yrs old) learning a pompom routine. The music, the joy everyone seemed to be deriving from the playing and performing, the sun, the park, and the oddity itself all came together in a weird harmony to provide the perfect finale to our Barcelona weekend.

The Days Behind and The Days Ahead

2008-03-27T09:48:00.003+01:00

I've admittedly been a bit lax lately and haven't taken the time to recount the activities of the past few days. Unfortunately now that I want to, I don't have the time. Morgane and I are off to Barcelona for a couple of days (This will be my first departure from Orly that didn't require a pre-dawn wake up call).

Since this will be a fairly quick trip I'm unlikely to take/have time to visit any internet cafes. Therefore there is the possibility that the Arkansan will be silent for several days.

I'm very excited about seeing Barcelona. For as staid a person as I am, I enjoy vibrant cultures/lands. I suppose I envy the general looseness, and have a drive to see or be a part of it in the vain hope that it might rub off on me. Growing up in school there were always stupid posters hanging on teachers walls (apologies to all my friends in the teaching field) that had things like cats dangling from a poll saying, "Hang in there!" (Hopefully I wasn't the only one subjected to this sort of stuff) There was one I remember with Garfield where he had books tied to him, the caption read: "Learning by Osmosis." If something could sum up my desire to experience vibrant cultures it would be that poster. Even if my attempt is misguided and doomed to fail, it's at least an honest desire. Perhaps I'll even be lucky enough to have some of it rub off on me.

My day with the Kings of France, my day with the first freedom fighter, and my coming days in Spain will have to wait until I return to be heard. I'm off to the airport.

Easter Monday

2008-03-25T16:49:00.004+01:00

Yesterday was a national holiday here. I haven't been able to figure out exactly what it is for. Actually, that is incorrect. It's an easter holiday. The part I've been confused about is why. France is an avowedly secular nation yet, Easter Monday is a national holiday. There doesn't seem to even be a pretend reason or excuse to make it seem less overtly preferential to a particular religion.

Growing up in America I was never exposed to an "Easter Monday." Since I am generally compelled to figure out that which is unknown to me, I quickly realized that the United States is one of the few "Christian" nations that do not observe Easter Monday as a national holiday. I was used to getting out of school on the Friday before Easter. Ostensibly it was always for "teacher's meetings" but the stated reason was nothing more than a veneer covering the real reason: Good Friday (Since I spent my entire childhood in the same school district in Arkansas, I can't really project my experience onto other areas but wouldn't be surprised if this practice is/was common).

Perhaps because I have too much time on my hands I'm allowed to think about these things but, as weird as a secular nation having an easter holiday is, it makes some sense here. First, having the national holiday on Good Friday would be very hard to rationalize. Having the national holiday fall on Easter Monday grants some explanatory leeway. Although the nation is ostensibly Roman Catholic, the rates of atheism and agnosticism are extremely high (polls vary but around 65% of the population claim one or the other) while the statistics for "belief" tend to run around a quarter of the population. But, as most of us probably know from our own experiences, there are two holidays that still bring out the most reluctant churchgoers: Easter and Christmas (I recall dreading these church services because my always punctual father would require us to leave for church an hour or two early to ensure we had a good seat...well, pew I guess). The same pattern holds true here as Easter continues to be a very important commercial and religious holiday weekend. Since Easter always falls on a Sunday, having a national holiday on Monday allows for families to get together across the nation and return home without the stress of the following work day hanging over them.

As per usual, it seems that I'm perpetually confused by this nation. Everything I encounter appears a bit odd or confusing on the surface. Invariably, on deeper inspection, these surface opinions tend to turn out to be quite logical. Unfortunately, in the ever changing face of France, logical rule is desperately needed. As the demographics and opinion of the nation continue to evolve, as politicians across the spectrum become more vocal about their own faith, can secularism in it's current state be the answer?

Fajitas in France

2008-03-24T09:54:00.006+01:00

It's official. I woke up to the songs of migratory birds this morning instead of cooing pigeons. Completing the picture, the sun was pouring in through the window creating the urge to get up while my eyes were vainly trying to remind the rest of my body that we needed more sleep.

Last night, Julie and Maude (Morgane's best friends) came over for dinner à la Arkansan (also known as fajitas). Periodically during my stay here I've wanted Mexican food but it hasn't been too difficult to deal with (I suppose knowing it's not readily available helps to deal with the urges). Abstaining from Mexican food is probably strange to imagine for most of you since my love affair with the cuisine is well known.

Though I was a bit skeptical of the fajitas seasoning packet we got at Monoprix, I must say it turned out very well. My first bite was unbelievable. It was like I had been in the desert and didn't realize I was dying of thirst until I got the first drink from the oasis. I was ravenous. I think I swallowed two packed tortillas before the girls even began to fold their first.

My mind was sent back to a place that seems so far away in my mind--sitting around the backyard, dinner on the grill, and drinking sweaty bottles of Bud. Memories I guess I was too afraid to dwell on for fear of the funk that they might create. To corrupt Mr. Dahl--Funk or not, a little nostalgia, now and then, is relished by the wisest men.

The Rites of Spring

2008-03-22T12:55:00.004+01:00

I've officially made it to spring. Morgane and I celebrated by engaging in the age old ritual of cleaning. As most of you already know, we are living in Clint's apartment while he travels in India (Clint is Morgane's brother). Clint is somewhat of a pack rat. He seems to have trouble letting go of anything (even if it's a Naughty by Nature single from 15 years ago). Despite this, the place has always been relatively clean though never approaching a state resembling order.

After living with a house full of guys for the past two years, a perpetual state of disorder is unfortunately something I've grown to accept. This is not the case with Morgane. Something within her took over and it was cleaning time. My portion of chores consisted of cleaning the kitchen and the shower room (a peculiar feature of most French abodes is the shower and the toilet being in separate rooms).

When you have a dirty rug, mat, or table cloth the common practice here is to shake it out the window. This is a quite natural practice exercised throughout the world. The difference is that here you are dumping whatever filth you've acquired on the table cloth out on the sidewalk below. I wouldn't want to be attacked by crumbs when I walk so I've been a little hesitant about aerial bombing the sidewalk four floors below. I have, however, slowly gotten used to it and don't think much about it anymore. This is largely because, save for one incident where I accidentally hit the windshield of a parked car with a grape while people were in it, I haven't had any problems. I've never heard any French curses directed at me after I shook out a table cloth or a floor rug.

As Winnie the Pooh might say, it's been very "blustery" here of late. Bursts of rain and wind have been followed by periods of sunshine, giving the past week an odd feel. I had shaken out the kitchen floor mat and left it hanging over the balcony railing while I cleaned the floor. Perhaps it was naive to leave it hanging without weighing it down--shades of Kramer dropping the blinds on the Commando 8 and declaring, "Installed!" This naturally proved to be true. As I was beginning to swab the floor a big gust of wind rattled the windows and started to take the mat with it just as I turned around. Unlike Kramer, my naivety didn't fall on a dog. Luckily it landed harmlessly on the sidewalk below as I hung over the balcony helplessly staring down at it. The startled looks of the bystanders quickly turned into smiles and laughter when they saw me pathetically staring down at the sidewalk below.

My mat adventures aside, the cleaning went well. Though there is still stuff bursting out of every closet, drawer, and shelf, the place has taken a more orderly shape--one that is befitting to the new season and the renewal it promises.

Lefty's Luck

2008-03-21T11:20:00.004+01:00

Morgane and I were going to spend yesterday in the city. I was in charge of the itinerary. After a day studying my city maps I felt pretty confident about the day's plans. Our first stop was supposed to be the Gustave Moreau museum. After debarking our train at Saint Lazare, I successfully directed us to the museum by foot only to find it was closed because the staff was on strike. Bad luck.

We had an hour to kill before having lunch at Le Bistral, my friend Finney's place of employment, so we began walking north by northwest from rue la Rochefoucauld towards Place de Clichy and then through the neighborhoods of the eastern portions of the XVII arrondissement. Along the way we serendipitously stumbled upon several different shops that Morgane is going to be able to use for her business. Good luck.

After a quick stop at a boulangerie to get some bread to tide us over before lunch we headed down rue Legendre so I could poke my head into Ste. Marie des Batignolles. Closed for renovations. Bad luck. (This is of course compounded by the fact that I tried to look into Ste. Trinite on our way to the museum and it was also closed) We then continued our stroll along the edge of the park at Square des Batignolles before making our way back to Le Bistral for an early (by French standards) lunch.

Le Bistral is an experimental restaurant (progressive might be the appropriate word). So, compliments of Finney, we were able to bookend our brazed pork with cheese polenta lunch with an entree (appetizer)of fresh goat cheese with beet sauce and a dessert of caramel ice cream on top of green jello, garnished with a fried sugar cracker. I'm not up on haut cuisine but I found it oddly impressive and enjoyable so I'll put it down as good luck.

What made the restaurant experience doubly enjoyable was the appearance of Steeve Eastatof, the winner of the second season of Nouvelle Star (the French American Idol). I don't watch the American show let alone the French interpretation so I didn't recognize him. I was however completely bowled over by his dress. If you click on the link you can get an idea of what I'm talking about. I've never seen a 36 year old man dress like he did. He seems to be going through a severe identity crisis (Barring Halloween, what would possess a person to wear a Sheriff's badge clipped onto their sweater?). Unfortunately Steeve hasn't had much success in the recording industry (the French aren't as keen on manufactured stars as we are) and from what Morgane could gather of his conversation has been consistently misled by the show and his managerial team as to his commercial prospects since winning three years ago. While I derived humor from his appearance, I feel sorry for him more than anything else. He seems to be caught in an uncompromising web of distorted hopes and misplaced trust.

After lunch we walked back towards Place de Clichy to see Julia, a movie starring Tilda Swinton. Neither of us knew much about it. Since she just won an Oscar and it's been a few weeks since a decent English language movie as been released here we figured what the hell. Coincidentally, "what the hell" was also our post movie reaction. We sat through a neurotic, sprawling two hour film that follows an alcoholic woman as she kidnaps a kid, only to have him re-kidnapped from her in Tijauna before she gets the ransom. Bad luck.

Though there were a few disappointments along the way, when it was all said and done it was a good day. My perception of the events and of the luck were extraneous to the fact that Morgane was happy. What's a closed museum here and a bad movie there when your girlfriend is happy? It's like having a win against a ranked opponent when you factor it into your life RPI.

(For the non-basketball fans, the last sentence was my segue)

Yesterday was the first day in my life that I can remember not watching day one of the NCAA basketball tournament. It was the first time I've ever made picks without having formed ideas and opinions about teams. It was the first time I ever made picks without spending hours reading about the match ups.

Somewhere along the way my love for basketball faded. When I was in elementary school I wore, on alternating days, a matching Michigan jersey and shorts (I can't quite recall if it was Jalen Rose or Jimmy King's number) or a North Carolina one (Eric Montrose). Every day in fifth and sixth grade I wore one or the other. I even wore them during the winter. Periodically my mother was able to convince me to wear a jacket or sweatshirt but never pants. Thirty-five degree weather outside and I was in shorts riding my bike to school with Grant (he of course was sporting Razorback gear--Corliss). My mom wore those jerseys out having to wash them everyday. That fiendish passion slowly devolved these past few years to the point where the Big Dance itself was the only thing I got excited about during the season (maybe I have been unconsciously preparing myself for yesterday).

So I've blindly made my picks. In the course of which I also made the one decision in the past I never allowed for myself: letting fan-dom interfere with reality. I picked UT to win it all. This is far from a pipe-dream since UT is a number two seed. I was always too superstitious to actually pick the team I wanted to win (even if I thought they had a good shot). Since this is the first year I don't know my elbow from my asshole in the NCAA world, I guess it fits (Unfortunately mistakes have already been made--I'm pretty sure I had USC, as my dark horse, going to the final four in a yahoo group. Oops.)

This of course highlights the well known mantra that having the perfect bracket always boils down to luck. Proof of this was hilariously highlighted on ESPN two years ago during George Mason's improbable run to the Final Four. One of the gentleman to pick the Patriots to the Final Four thought he had been choosing George Washington. Upon realizing what he did, he said to himself, "Why not George Mason?" and picked them to make the Final Four.

Lefty Gomez once said he'd "rather be lucky than good." If there is a better adage to apply to bracketology or life, I haven't found one. For myself, I always feel as if I'm on the edge, getting tantalizingly close but never quite having the one little missing piece of luck that would thrust me from second or third in the bowl challenge or the tourney bracket into first. It's a situation many of us face in life and one that is irritatingly hard to deal with. It is like being hungry and seeing a meal take place within a house but you are stuck at the window staring, unable to figure out how to get inside. It's a position in which Mr.Eastatof seems to have found himself. He got a glimpse but can't figure out how to position himself at the table. Nor is it any different for teams that sit at home and watch a "cinderella" like George Mason have the ball bounce there way, knowing that it could as easily been them as was not them. Is it better to fail without ever knowing what awaits inside the house or to fail but catch a glimpse?

Categorical Cinema

2008-03-19T10:15:00.006+01:00

One of my favorite things about living in Austin was the Paramount Theater, specifically their summer classic movie series. Virtually everyday from Memorial Day through Labor Day one has the opportunity to watch films on a big screen in a storied theater. I've spent countless hours there in the course of my Austin summers watching various movies, from Lawrence of Arabia and Army of Shadows to Dr. Strangelove and Silk Stockings.

There are many wonderful aspects of Paris (too many to count in fact) but, having theaters strung throughout the city showing old films ranks high on my list. As a tourist or short-term visitor this sort of thing probably won't appear on your to-do list but as an expat or mid to long range visitor like myself, it's one of the many positive aspects of life in Paris. Perhaps it's a somewhat minor perk but it's an enjoyable one nonetheless.

Yesterday morning Morgane and I took the train into the city to a theater on the Left Bank just north of the Pantheon. We were going to watch a 2PM showing of L'Affaire Ciceron (American title: 5 Fingers). The film is based on a true story and stars James Mason as a valet to the British Ambassador in neutral Turkey during WWII. I was pretty excited about seeing it. As it turned out, we were the only people in the theater that weren't alive when the film was released (1952). This, coupled with the fact that throughout the movie Morgane kept falling asleep on my shoulder, made me question how "cool" going to see old movies in the afternoon really was. (In Morgane's defense, it's very tiring trying to keep up with dialogue in a foreign language. Unfortunately I tend to forget how difficult it is for her despite my own situation since I am so used to speaking normally with her)

Hip or not, I loved the movie. Walking out of the theater it dawned on me that I had an overall movie type which was reflected in my enjoyment of the film. What I mean by a "type" is that one will enjoy just about any film given it has certain characteristics. This isn't necessarily one's favorite movies but a soft spot, a cinematic weak point for certain types of movies. For others, these tendencies can perhaps be more easily categorized into certain genres--there are lovers of samurai films, romantic comedies, silent films, etc. Unfortunately my own self-categorization is far from normal and even further from natural. Firstly, since I am a logophile of sorts, good dialogue is of the utmost importance. The other two characteristics are fairly interrelated--international intrigue and foreign locations, which isn't to say foreign films just films that occur in non-domestic locales. I suppose this is a fairly specific typecast for myself but it holds true. I can't think of a movie I've seen that has the stated characteristics that I didn't enjoy. However, if a film is lacking in certain aspects, my overall enjoyment decreases (i.e., The African Queen, The Bourne Supremacy, Patriot Games). So while I still derive enjoyment out of imperfect movies that possess the qualities of my movie type, they are unable to approach the enjoyment I derive from cinematic paradigms like Notorious, The Third Man, or The Bourne Identity that encapsulate all three categories in various forms.

My overly self-analytical mind again rears its ugly head. Someone told me once that it's necessary to know what you want in life. I've always struggled trying to figure out what it is I wanted but in the narrow slice of life that is cinema, I feel like I do. It's not much but it's a start.

An Alternate Anatomy

2008-03-18T08:48:00.001+01:00

One defining feature between here and home is the movie store. The relationship between Paris and the cinema is no secret so I was quite surprised to find out that the movie rental store is a rarity here. Instead there are movie banks. In functionality and use they are very similar to ATM machines. You navigate through choices on a screen to find the rental you want. After you choose your title, the machine distributes the film out of a slot. When you need to return your disc the slot opens, you place the disc inside, a computer scans it and your account is charged for the rental.

The system sounds pretty nice and when it works properly it is indeed. The owner cuts down on overhead by not having a large store and multiple employees. The customer benefits from the accessibility and its ease of use. For me the large drawback is the browse. I love to browse—record stores, book shops, and movie stores. There's an inherent pleasure in seeing the product and making your choice at your own leisure. The ATM style of movie rentals is a cold replacement that puts the onus on the shopper, requiring him or her to know what they want before they come. Suggestions or help are completely absent in the process (not to mention the promotional pleasures one can find in things like free beer Tuesdays at I Luv Video in Austin).

Another consumer drawback is cost. It is four euros to rent a film for 24 hours. A minute late with your return and the price jumps to ten euros! Being used to 75 cent late fees, this was quite a shock. I don't know if the punishment fits the “crime” but I guess it works. I see people renting movies all the time, myself included.

With the above rant, I assume that one can deduce that my abstinence from television has been compensated by movies. I've always been a big moviegoer but here the habit seems to have multiplied a bit. Part of it might just be the allure of cinema in Paris. This would at least account for my trips to the cinema but leaves the question of DVDs unanswered. It occurred to me that this half of the equation might come from living with a person who shares my pleasure in films. Which, of course, is a far cry from living with one television and three guys whose taste didn't always run concurrent with mine.

As a change of pace, Morgane and I had started watching Grey's Anatomy on DVD. I know, I know. As a male I'm not supposed to openly admit to this sort of thing but I got hooked on the show at the tail end of season two (spring of 06). As a result my late conversion I had never seen the first season nor the majority of season two.

I guess it's a good thing that only seasons one and two are available at the cinebank because I think my body has begun to reject the show. Through dreams my mind has been telling me it has OD'ed on Grey's. It's natural to dream about things in your life, or even things not in your life. They're just dreams, right? But there comes a point when they stop being “just dreams” and become something more, something too frequent, too disturbingly natural, too real.

I started dreaming dreams populated with the characters of the show inserted into my daily life. Worse than that, we were all cohabiting in a large house that was eerily similar to my childhood home (without getting too deep, I assume this was a representation of the hospital since it serves as their “home” on the show). Several nights running now I've had to deal with the Christina's sarcasm, the chief's fatherly advice, and Meredith's whining fluctuations of perspective. We ran out of episodes to watch a few days ago, so I'm hoping that they'll stop. In the mean time, I'm on the prowl for new cinematic distractions.

Cold Bodies and Warm Days

2008-03-15T19:21:00.006+01:00

There is a scene in the aptly titled yet still hilarious movie, Dumb & Dumber where Harry, played by Jeff Daniels, is sulking and angry after a fight with his best friend Lloyd Christmas (Jim Carrey). Unbeknown to Harry, Lloyd had went into a town and traded the "Shaggin Wagon" to a kid for a "hog"--a scooter attached to a weed eater engine. This unexpected turn of events led Harry to exclaim, "Just when I thought you couldn't get any dumber, you go and do something like this... and totally redeem yourself!" That's kinda how my day turned out--the unexpected redemption of Paris.

For the past few weeks it hasn't really been that cold in comparative terms. After a certain amount of time you reach a point where you just don't notice it anymore. Day after day of the same weather has the capacity to lull one into a sort of catatonic state of regularity. Seeing the day's forecast was a shot of espresso. It broke 60! A true wake up to the reality of my situation: I am in Paris.

Morgane and I got active early. We were on our way to the Delacroix Museum by 10:30. The museum has three separate areas--the house filled with works and personal belongings, the walled garden, and a studio that also houses works. I've always liked Delacroix so I was glad to have had the opportunity to visit but, unless you are a rabid fan I'd be hesitant to recommend it. However, the museum is situated on one of the most amazingly quiet and serene streets I've experienced here despite being only two blocks from the busy Boulevard St. Germain

After the museum we made our way down rue de Four toward Le Bon Marche. Conveniently located across the street was a church that I wanted to see. This afforded us the opportunity to see the renowned department store and a little time to browse.

Walking out of the store on to rue du Bac I started looking for the church. My expectation was a stand alone church and not one tucked within a slim corridor between apartment buildings. The church, Chapelle Notre-Dame-de-la-Medaille-Miraculeuse, is the resting place of Saint Catherine Labouré who, at the request of the Virgin Mary, created the Miraculous Medal. The chapel (and Catherine's glass encased body) is situated at one of the spots the Virgin Mary appeared to her. Catherine was exhumed in 1933 and canonized in 1947.

I should have been tipped off by the clusters of people around the building and inside the courtyard but I was surprised at the number of people inside the chapel. Initially I assumed we had come during a mass before realizing the chapel was full of pilgrims praying to Saint Catherine.

To my knowledge, I've never seen an embalmed person before much less a saint. It was a very strange experience. Walking up to the altar to see the encased body I felt almost as if I was intruding upon something. I couldn't muster the strength to do anything more than glance at the face. Eerie experience.

Shaking off our dismay we headed next door to the Grand Epicerie of Paris to get lunch. The store is owned by the same company as Le Bon Marche and reminded me a lot of Whole Foods. This impression was aided by the groups of Americans I kept noticing (apparently the "American area" of Paris is nearby). After getting some sandwiches and fruit, we walked down rue de Babylone towards Les Invalides to enjoy the weather and have lunch in the large park in front of the former hospital.

Though Invalides still houses a veterans hospital, it has also become a war museum with materials from 1875-1945. In addition to this, the remains of French war heroes are interred in the domed chapel. Most famous among those interred is Napoleon. This past summer I attempted to visit the tomb with Morgane but happened to come on an afternoon when the state was honoring a recently deceased hero of the Resistance. We were able to stroll the grounds and witness part of the ceremony but were unable to see the church, tombs, or the war museum (which turned out to be very interesting).

Discounting Jesus, I don't think I've ever seen the worship of a person reach such (divine) proportions. Though I don't know the exact measurements, the tomb is huge. Sitting in the middle of the lower floor of the chapel, the tomb lies directly below the dome. In a circle surrounding it are bas-reliefs depictions of Napoleon and his achievements. The thing that pushes this on from homage and towards worship are the depictions themselves. Each one shows Napoleon in the garb of a Roman Caesar with the unconcerned gaze of the divine. Adding to this is the fact that the other figures in the reliefs are generally shown in some state of genuflection or adoration.

As I write, the windows are open and the weather is perfect. Unfortunately the coming week is supposed to bring colder weather and the gift will prove to be brief. Brevity doesn't revoke its status as a gift, if anything it heightens it. This could be seen on any avenue in town as people spilled out of the cafes and onto sidewalks. Today the ephemeral happened to fall into my lap.

Searching For Good Times

2008-03-14T17:36:00.004+01:00

Hopefully I'm not the only person that feels like they've wasted time in their life on occasion (the title is a line from "Time Is On My Side"). As I write it has been almost two and a half months since I left America. That is to say a week or two past the mid-way mark in my adventures which means that I am unfortunately on the other side of the hill slowly sliding back into reality/America.

Perhaps procrastination is indicative of our own perception of mortality. There's always tomorrow. How, amidst the hubbub of one's day, is one supposed to comprehend the magnitude of life and the frailty with which one clings to it? I don't feel I've wasted time, or "missed" anything here but sitting on the back half of my time abroad an unusual sense of urgency consumes me. My mind has been racing trying to figure out what to see and how to utilize the rest of my time in the best way possible but it's all futile. There's always something more. There will always be an unturned stone.

For lack of a better expression it's like having that "oh shit" moment in college when the reality of the test you put off to go knock around with your friends comes crashing down around you. The inconspicuous moments that never seemed important. They're the ones you remember. They're the ones that matter. Perhaps my GPA and my father would disagree with me but it's the truth. Clichés are cliché for a reason.

The never ending dream of man is to catch hold of the ephemeral moments of bliss as they happen. So often it is only in reflection that one comes to the realization of what each moment meant. With my return to America looming on the horizon the realization has been thrust upon me. I know it doesn't matter much what I see or don't see before I leave. The purpose of the trip was not what but who. The memories I retain will be those that seemed to pass before me unnoticed--My idle days with a beautiful girl.

Asinine Affectations of an Arkansan

2008-03-12T11:33:00.004+01:00

Recently a website titled "Stuff White People Like" was brought to my attention. Written from a pedagogical perspective it is ostensibly set up to teach non-whites about whites but the true aim is just making fun of white people. It's filled with items that white people like and each topic is usually accompanied by a humorous summary. Though the humor and insight behind each topic varies widely, it is a pretty interesting list

Although I'm proud to dislike a number of things that according to the site I'm supposed to like as a white person, several of my "likes" dotted the list, most notably The Wire, Breakfast places, & Netflix. However, the particular post that got me the most was the one on traveling (and its sister post, Studying Abroad). You can see each here: Travel, Study abroad

I hope that I currently don't act like the people described and hopefully I won't begin to affect any sort of behavioral pretensions as a result of my time here. The one area where I can see myself possibly failing is the acquisition of a taste for a refined foreign product of some sort. Generally speaking, I had assumed I was safe from this since I've never been much of a "brand man." Despite being briefly employed at a higher end distributor I've never had much pretension with beer. I grew up drinking cheap, mass produced beer and maintained the habit throughout my college and post-college years. So, although I can appreciate and enjoy foreign beers or micro brews, I never fell in love with them (in a sense I've never really out grown my penchant for beers like the High Life). Contrasting that is my relative pretensions with wine and liquor as a result of my time as a liquor store employee. Unlike my friend Skip, I won't stomach rot gut liquors like Kentucky Deluxe. Likewise I affect airs when it comes to certain wines like Yellow Tail whose success is largely based around a successful marketing approach towards women (this is especially noticeable in the college co-ed crowd).

Despite all intentions against doing so, I think I've unfortunately succumbed to the "Czechznlishiyush Pilsner" phenomenon courtesy of Morgane's mom, Monique. Oddly enough, the beverage of choice at her house is cider. I'd never had anything but the sugar soaked beer bottle style ciders of America and was pleasantly surprised with my first taste of French cider. Over the past few months I've become quite fond of the various ciders of Normandy I've been able to sample during meals with Monique. The oddity of this new penchant for cider is of course my distaste for most things involving apples except the apple itself. I've never liked applesauce and apple pie will most always be choice number two given the option. So, becoming attached to cider has been an unexpected turn of events. Though I won't be ordering cases of cider for myself when I get back home it has served as another reminder that your parents were right when they remonstrated you for not trying something--you don't know if you like it until you try it. In a lot of ways that parental dictum sums up the experience of travel (and life) itself.

Omaha and the World

2008-03-11T09:20:00.002+01:00

I had mentioned yesterday that seeing the American Cemetery and the beach at Omaha reminded me of one of the many reasons why I'm proud of who I am as an American (and Arkansan). Those feelings have been easy to loose sight of in the past few years—it is truly amazing how wild the swing between post 9/11 national unity and post Iraq division was. In certain circles the state of the nation became a joke as threats of emigration were bandied around. Regardless of policies or parties, forgetting what's right, forgetting what's important is easy to do in times of despair and negativity. (thankfully we as a nation have a chance once again to move forward, out of the shadow of the previous years/presidency).

So it was with a renewed sense of solemn pride that I experienced the testament to human sacrifice of the “greatest generation” on the beaches of Normandy. It is much easier and pleasant to dismiss certain aspects and policies of the pre and post war world in America and simply canonize the men and women of the era as the “greatest generation.” Painting a picture of sacrifice, hard work, and protection of liberty has created a direct link with the values and ideals of our founding fathers. A lesson is taught and a paradigm of what America is has been created out of our role in WWII. Unfortunately this isn't the reality of the United States and in the post WWII world selfless valor and instances of protecting people against tyranny has become harder to come by and more politically precarious.

We alone can't protect the world from itself but we as a nation must ask ourselves what role we shall play. Shall we revert back to Monrovian isolationism or shall we continue to assert ourselves on the world stage? In the post WWII world a decision was made to shake off the chains of isolationism and step forward into the world and be counted as a super power. This shift occurred with the positive intentions of shaping the world and checking the growth of communism. In doing so we have lost sight of what was right. We lost sight of the lessons of WWII. And though there have been promises of “never again,” people continue to be persecuted and killed in the world while decisive action is avoided and reality is pushed aside. Unless America plans to step out of the shoes it first put on in WWII, there is an imperative to act on behalf of those who can't act for themselves.

This imperative comes not out of interests of state, of money, or of politics but out of whats is right versus what is wrong. The only question that matters is, “Is this right?” If it's not right then definitive action is required. Is it right that we still have a Cuban embargo in a post cold war world? Is it right that there are 1.4 million displaced people in Uganda? It is impossible to protect everyone but if nothing else is learned from WWII we must use the power we have to help when we can. We must use our power to make inroads against the inequities of the world otherwise, what good has come from the lives laid down to free Europe from tyranny?

The Norman Weekend

2008-03-09T18:58:00.005+01:00

Now that I've dovetailed the posts that comprised my "hope trilogy," I can move on to a more traditional post detailing the events of my weekend sojourn to Normandy instead of the vapid thoughts of my rambling mind.

After a long week of work Morgane and I took off early Saturday morning to visit Mont Saint-Michel. The trip tok about 3 1/2 hours from Paris. Speeding along the highway we crested a hill and I caught my first glimpse of the fabled island abbey.

Looming high atop the rocky island, Mont St. Michel casts a striking spell on the eye. Because of the image and the magical association I have created with it in my head, it was one of two things I HAD to see in France before leaving.

For those that don't know, the tidal patterns around Mt. St. Michel draw out each day making the island accessible by foot but then surrounding it with the ocean again at night. As we approached the parking lot at the base of the isle we were warned by signs that read, "To-day this area will be under the sea by 18:30. Please remove your vehicle prior or it will be swept away." An auspicious way to start the visit.

I parked the car and we began the short walk from the lot to the island entrance. Walking into the walls of the village was like stepping into an alternate universe--one where kitschy tourist shops reign supreme over the rocky land. Erase the summer wear and add overcoats and this picture will give you a general idea of what it is like.

We had lunch at the noticeably famous La Mere Poulard (the walls are covered with pictures and autographs of everyone from Tony Parker and Margaret Thatcher to Ernest Hemingway and King Edward VII). The dish of note is a giant omelet that is cooked in copper pans over an open fire. The note didn't really go over well with Morgane and I. To my unrefined pallet it seemed to be like eating foam. I can appreciate the skill it takes to creating an omelet as light and fluffy as they do, however, much like golf, it just ain't my thing.

After our omelet experience we waded through the masses to visit the abbey at the top of the island. Unfortunately the experience on a whole was a bit of a let down. Seeing the abbey (and the views from it) was a unique and beneficial experience. When you add the congesting knot of ridiculous shops and the tourists descending on the isle, it is easy to see that the best view of the island is that which is plastered all over the postcards--the view from afar.

The second thing I felt I HAD to see before leaving was Omaha Beach. It also turned out to be the other large factor that contributed to my general feelings about Mt. St. Michel. The trip from the island to Omaha Beach took about an hour and a half. It was late in the afternoon before we made it but we got out to walk around and marvel at the enormity of where we were standing.

We found a B&B in Colleville-sur-Mer to spend the night and drove into Bayeux for dinner (Ironically our dinner, though more than fifty percent cheaper and virtually unknown in comparison to the famous La Mere Poulard, was leaps and bounds more satisfying than our lunch). Unfortunately we were unable to visit the American Cemetery before it closed on Saturday afternoon and had to wait until after our breakfast Sunday morning. We were treated with a typical Norman morning--gray and damp, which cast an added pall on the morning visit. Without getting to verbose, I can say that the cemetery is on of the most inspired monuments to fallen men I've ever witnessed. Pictures will do no more justice to the feelings that the site is capable of evincing than my words, so I will say simply that it was a touching reminder of the positive pride I have as an American--a pride that at times has been easy to sully, deride, or forget ere these past few years.

(This simple picture offers a glimpse at the cemetery without revealing the monuments that help give the power to the site. I didn't want to post pictures of the monuments because the pictures I found failed to evoke the power they hold in person)

Leaving the cemetery we drove back through the city of Caen so I could get in touch with my roots. Take it as you will (Morgane chooses a tone of skeptical amusement) but I'm related to the King of England, the Bastard Duke of Normandy, William the Conqueror who is buried in the Norman city of Caen. He's my great X27 grandfather. Sadly the lineage is traced through the ultimate Disney villain, the evil King John of Robin Hood fame.

After the brief pilgrims jaunt through Caen, we drove along the Ouistreham canal before crossing it towards the east and making our way along the seashore to Trouville-sur-mer.

Trouville-sur-mer is a charming place. There is a honest reality to the town that is often lacking in many vacation spots. This essence of naturalness gives it an overall appeal no matter the weather or the season. Since it is a mere two hour train ride from Paris it is an easy and accessible retreat for BO-BO (Bohemian Bourgeois) Parisians. My own little BO-BO (Mlle Sezalory) was able to lead us to one of the best bistrot in France (according to the newspaper Le Parisien and now me). We had a traditional Sunday lunch of beef, potatoes, and amazing bread at Les Quatres Chats (four cats) which in (my) French sounds like "lay cat shats." We followed lunch up with a brief walk along the beach before the cold and rain forced us back into the car and the two hour trip back to Paris and another week of work turning Les Composantes into a fashion empire.

The Dovetail

2008-03-07T09:28:00.007+01:00

My second trip to the UGC Cinema at La Defense proved much more successful than the first.

Be Kind Rewind (Soyez Sympa Rebombinez)was released here on Wednesday so Morgane and I made the short train ride over to the mall at La Defense to catch the 8PM showing. We missed our train because it came two minutes early and as a result got to the theater a bit later than desired. As we waited in line watching the available seats systematically drop from 17 to 4 we found out that the director (Michel Gondry) was at the theater for some sort of premier event. Of all the gin joints in all the world Gondry had to pick that one. And as luck would have it we were next in line to get tickets when the show finally sold out. Waiting in line as the theater slowly sold out felt like being in a reinterpretation of The Chinese Restaurant episode on Seinfeld. Everybody else kept getting in and we couldn't. Dejected, we walked back through the mall to the station.

As devastating as missing the Wednesday night showing was, seeing it Thursday night made any bitter memory disappear. Great seats, a great film, and a nice bar of dark chocolate is enough to make any memory history. Once again I'm breaking my own rules but this movie was excellent. By far the most accessible (at least for me)and least depressing Gondry film to date.

Seeing the movie seems to have been a culmination of events for me. Firstly, I saw only one preview in the states before I left. As a result I got a tantalizing taste of the film but was not over exposed to it. I don't know what the marketing was like in the States but I was absolutely insulated here--no commercials, reviews, or ads to sway conceptions. I was at the perfect pre-viewing state, somewhere between knowledge of the film and blissfully unaware.

Secondly it was a funny movie. Exactly what I needed. It was humorous not in the peppy overwritten way Juno was but in an honest and realistic way (this of course seems somewhat hard to accomplish given the premise). What gave the movie (and the humor) its driving power was the communal spirit. It, if anything, was a love song not only to the positive power of film but to the power individuals have to leave a positive impact on the world around us. As a film it brings a message of hope, of innocence, and of progression--all of which sound a lot like an Obama speech. I said it was a culmination.

Funny how things in life have a way of dovetailing together.

The Cares of a Fashion Clerk

2008-03-06T09:03:00.012+01:00

I've been working for Les Composantes in a clerical capacity for a while now and have been exposed to a set of people that really care about fashion. As Morgane delicately pointed out, I have an okay sense of style but an under-developed sense of fashion--or maybe it was the other way around. Either way, when you toss in the foreign language factor it might be easy to think I'm a bit out of my depth. To a certain extent that is true. During my day recording orders and checking emails there are often questions and problems I can't handle or don't know how to answer. However, since I'm a born again positivist, there are also many benefits to being an employee of Les Composantes. I get to work on my French in an applicable setting, help ensure/be a part of my girlfriend's success, and I get an insight into a completely foreign atmosphere (excuse the pun/double meaning).

I spent my teenage years living with two females so I've always felt I had a certain insight into women or at least a solid frame of reference when engaging them. All bets are off for the fashion crowd. They behave like my brother when it comes to Razorback football. There are countless message boards full of rumors, insults, secrets, sales, and scoops. Bloggers by the platoon. It's serious business.

My first instincts were laughter and incredulous disbelief. This is of course the same reaction these girls would have if they knew how much I cared about college football or MLB. Though from time to time I still derive smiles and stifled laughter from the fashionistas, I try to be objective about the situation. Of course the irony is that there is usually no objectivity when it comes to caring about something. The great Roger Angell summed up the "why" as best as anyone could when trying to answer how someone could affiliate themselves with something like a professional sports team:

"What is left out of this calculation, it seems to me, is the business of caring -- caring deeply and passionately, really caring -- which is a capacity or an emotion that has almost gone out of our lives."

His quote, though directed towards sports, is an apt summation of what people feel in Obama. For so long "caring" didn't matter in politics...apathy bubbled over the surface and infected those who should care most. Obama has struck a cord in those countless people. Caring is an affront to the jaded eyes of experience and discerning education, an affront to the mindset of a generation (one that is hopefully on its way out).

Whether it's spring fashion, the NL Central, or a positive political change, there is always something into which we put our hopes. Some passions, like politics, are more readily explainable to those people wondering why one cares. These explanations aren't necessary. Just be glad to have retained the ability to blindly care past childhood. Embrace the joys and heartbreaks.

"And so it seems possible that we have come to a time when it no longer matters so much what the caring is about, how frail or foolish is the object of that concern, as long as the feeling itself can be saved."

Cynicism in America

2008-03-04T16:55:00.011+01:00

What does it say about our civilization when we have put such a high price on honesty? I tried to come up with an interesting and tangible explanation to why I've been relatively silent/inactive this past week but couldn't. The reality is that my inactivity in life carried over to inactivity of pen/mind. It's honest and that has to count for something. It has to count for something. (Isn't honesty McCain's selling point and main source of popularity?)

When did we stop expecting honesty and start expecting lies or half truths? I always hear Watergate thrown out there as the occurrence that changed America, a loss of innocence. Watergate supposedly woke America up to reality. Taking liberties with the English language: it signaled the "cynicification" of America.

Today is supposed to be the day that decides the Democratic nomination. Votes are being cast in Ohio and Texas that will decide the fate of the Clinton campaign. Throughout these past months I've waffled back and forth on what candidate I preferred but today I can tell you that I hope the voters of both states add to Obama's growing mandate.

Along the way it dawned on me that, as a man and a candidate, what Obama offers with his promises of hope and change is as much a vision of the past as it is a paean to the future. His message, more than anything, seems to offer a way to shed the cynical shells we wear as Americans. I concocted many stratagems to avoid what I felt deep inside me--the urge to support Obama. Among other things I told myself that his policies weren't clear enough, that the 1-2 diplomatic punch of the Clinton's would right the wrongs of the world. I was fighting the urge. I was too proud to support a..."feel good" candidate.

His campaign seemed to deny reality. I couldn't stomach that.

Cynicism is a hard thing to shake but at some point I realized that denying reality was exactly what was needed. A reality where honesty comes as a surprise, a reality of hardened cynicism, is a reality that shouldn't be stomached.

An Avett Brothers lyric seems to apply: "So if ever someone says to you, life isn't fair, get used to it. Then you should say 'Well it might be if folks like you would let it be."

Words and Wonders

2008-03-03T12:36:00.005+01:00

I imagine there are countless misspellings and mistranslations of French words all across the English speaking world so it is not really fair to poke fun when I find them here in France. Fairness aside, they are usually too damn funny not to say something about them. Most recently there was a mistake I saw while waiting in line to see St. Chapelle.

As you can hopefully see from the picture above, only one monosyllabic word suffices in description--Wow. It's a two story chapel completely surrounded by the Palais du Justice (formerly a royal residence from the 10th-14th century) on Ile de la Cite. It was built by Louis IX to house the relics of the Passion of Christ like the Crown of Thorns. The purchase of the relics from the Emperor of Constantinople actually cost more than the construction of the church itself. Stained glass windows surrounding the second floor walls of St. Chappelle tell the story of the Bible from Genesis through Christ's resurrection. Also, there is a depiction of the Apocalyptic prophecies of St. John on the western rose window. Lying opposite, the eastern rose window (behind the altar) depicts the Passion.

Being completely enclosed by the Palais, it's somewhat off the beaten path for Parisians and tourists alike. Consequently it, unlike most other church buildings, has an admission price and fairly tight security. It was while waiting in line to go through security that I noticed signs in French, English, and Spanish detailing instructions for passing through the security check. I began reading the sign in English, did a double take and immediately burst out in laughter drawing curious stairs from everyone around me. Someone in the French translation department had created a new English word, "travelator." As in "put your bags and any metal items onto the travelator." Unless "travelator" is the British word for "conveyor belt," some bureaucrat pulled a word out of a hat.

Springtime of the Masses

2008-03-01T18:23:00.006+01:00

The first of March and the signs of spring continue to appear--fewer scarves, girls in skirts without stockings, actual sunshine. If nothing else, the changes could be seen in the mass clusters of people around the city, sprawled along the Seine or perched on the steps of L'Opera Garnier, lapping up the sun like parched puppies. Although the temperatures refused to entirely cooperate, the sun was shining across the capital today. It had been missed.

I keep returning to the weather. People ask if I get homesick and I don't per se, though the weather seems to promulgate a deep craving for light and openness. It's astounding how much a little sunshine can alter moods, feelings, the day itself. The weather here seems to have a cumulative effect--brow beating the inhabitants into a morose state during the winter. Perhaps it's banal but I feel the effects each day. I can see the drawn, stern faces of pedestrians--each feeding off the other and the whole taking their cue from the skies.

At times it is particularly devastating for me as I am disused to the winter as it occurs here. This unfamiliarity is then exacerbated by the effect of being a stranger, a fish out of water. With sunshine comes vibrancy, smiles, and activity. As a foreign resident winter seems to test your mettle and perhaps gauges the true value you hold on a place whereas the warmth of summer is an idyll felt more with the senses than the mind. My time in Paris this summer existed on a different plane. It was an experience suspended from reality. As a result it continues to exist more tangibly in my mind than in the place I see around me each day. These past two months have been rooted in reality, offering a myriad of emotions and experiences. As a result this reality of place has granted me a better understanding of the city that surrounds me and of myself. So while there might be times where something as cliché as a gray sky creates a wistful feeling inside me, there are more often feelings of true happiness found in experiences--of place, of love, of life--all rooted in reality.

Of Floss and Fowl

2008-02-27T10:17:00.007+01:00

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?

The Cluny and The Cops

2008-02-26T10:07:00.005+01:00

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.

Identity and the World

2008-02-25T13:45:00.003+01:00

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.

Noticing the Positive

2008-02-23T11:13:00.004+01:00

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.

Breakfast Abroad

2008-02-22T11:02:00.005+01:00

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.

Art & the Arkansan

2008-02-21T13:34:00.004+01:00

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.

Comfort for the Ailing

2008-02-18T12:45:00.005+01:00

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.

The Forests of Morocco

2008-02-16T10:27:00.004+01:00

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.

A few more pictures of things I saw

2008-02-16T10:19:00.004+01:00

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)

Explanation and a few photos

2008-02-11T20:32:00.002+01:00

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.

Tourism Issues

2008-02-10T21:45:00.001+01:00

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.

Marrakesh Day One

2008-02-08T08:50:00.001+01:00

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.

Say for me that I'm all right

2008-02-06T11:01:00.000+01:00

"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."

Being Late in France

2008-02-05T11:00:00.001+01:00

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.

Food and the World

2008-02-04T11:13:00.001+01:00

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.

A Few Pictures from Belgium

2008-02-01T12:09:00.001+01:00

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

2008-02-01T11:05:00.000+01:00

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.

The Moviegoer

2008-01-31T09:42:00.000+01:00

As an avid moviegoer I've turned into a "know-nothing." I like to have as little information as possible about a movie before seeing it. Previously I read reviews, I talked incessantly to people about movies, and generally tried to be "informed" about the particular film I was going to see. Expectations were created.

With each film I watch I realize how important my expectations are and how they alter my enjoyment. I went from an avid review reader to an avid avoider. I must say I'm the better for it. As a reviewer you have a tricky job, you teeter on the bring between revealing too much or too little. Some don't even attempt to walk the line between the two and choose to stick to mere plot summation. There are no surprises for the moviegoer. It leaves one in a somewhat paradoxical situation. How do you "find out" about a movie without creating preconceptions?

Again, Seinfeld (The show never fails to be applicable)
The Rye Episode-
George and his parents are over at Susan's parents house for dinner. After an uncomfortable exchange between Frank and Mr. Ross about chickens, George tries to change the subject to "Firestorm." Frank takes exception to George and Mr. Ross talking about the film because he hadn't seen it yet.

MR. ROSS: It doesn't have anything to do with the plot!

FRANK: Still! Still! I like to go in fresh!

Take the latest movie I saw-La Visite de la Fanfare (The Band's Visit). It was a gem. Time and again the movies I see "fresh" offer enjoyment whereas movies that never lack a shortage of praise fail to deliver (two examples: Lost in Translation, 40 Year Old Virgin). Raised expectations create an unattainable goal.

In an attempt to live by the laws I want others to abide by I try to keep my praise of a movie limited unless specifically pressed. I've instituted the binary scale in my life for other less auspicious reasons so it might as well be put to use for movies. 1=You should see the film 0=You should not see the film.
La Visite de la Fanfare=1

Opera Garnier

2008-01-29T10:39:00.000+01:00

Sunday night Morgane and I went to the Opera Garnier to hear a chamber music concert. For the most part I am tone deaf. So while I enjoyed the concert (Strauss & Beethoven) I think that someone who knows the difference between F Major and B Minor might have enjoyed the music more. The concert hall on the other hand absolutely captivated me.

Hands down the coolest venue I've been to (Red Rocks being the closet competition). At the Opera Garnier everything is so compact that there isn't a bad seat. Unfortunately enough the operators of the venue take the "equality" part of the French motto to heart. Which means that despite having box seats we had to sit on the same stuffed wooden chairs as everyone else. They looked as if they had been there since 1777.

To top it off (no pun intended) there was a mural on the dome ceiling by Chagall. Even though it doesn't exactly mesh with its surroundings it still seems to work.

All in all it was a very adult way to spend a Sunday evening. Many thanks to Zoe for the wonderful present.

Fear

2008-01-28T13:29:00.001+01:00

It occurred to me that I live my life here without fear. When I say "fear" I mean one of danger. My life is full of any number of small fears, the type of fears you face as an outsider, not confident in your language capacities yet. But I had yet to face any sort of the uneasiness I might get when I walk down a "bad" street in the U.S. until last week. Walking down Boulevard de la Villette to meet McCall and Finney for a drink was the first time I had any inkling of nervousness or fear since I've been here.

European cities are completely different to American cities. In America we have the phenomenon of "white flight"--the exodus to the suburbs. European cities revolve around the city center. The poor are forced to the "suburbs" in Europe while the rich clamor for the city center. That isn't to say that there aren't "bad" parts of European cities, it's just difficult in a sense to "experience" those areas as you might in America. Our "ghettos" are often inside the city which, to a certain extent, increases contact with those neighborhoods.

Evidently I found the edges of a neighborhood teetering on the cusp between dereliction and regentrification, between poverty and trendy. As I walked along the boulevard my realization should have been along the lines of "poverty doesn't equate criminality," but it wasn't. My realization was, "hey, I'm in France. What's there to be scared of?" Unfounded or not, I (and assume America in general) have the conception of France as being a bit soft. The stereotype is one of pacifism and capitulation, not of confrontation.

The most analogous example I can refer to is naturally Seinfeld. There is an episode where Jerry and Elaine go to the opera (Pagliacci, the tragic clown) and as they are waiting on Kramer and George, Jerry gets into an confrontation with a man. Afterwards Jerry remarks that, "I like hanging around this opera crowd. Makes me feel tough." If my mindset of safety could be summed up it would be much like Jerry's, inflated and without a real basis.

Nostalgia

2008-01-27T09:22:00.001+01:00

At the beginning of High Fidelity Rob asks, "What came first, the music or the misery?"
My own cycle seems to have been kicked off by Levon Helm's latest album "Dirt Farmer." The album was a birthday present that I still hadn't listened to until today. I jokingly told Witty at one point that I was saving it up until I was really homesick so an Arkansan could soothe me over.
This afternoon when I popped it in the player I eventually got lost down inside my memories. The music came first but was my heart sending messages to my mind? Did I subconsciously desire it?

Strangely enough the memories and thoughts I was having weren't of going home but of times forever lost. It's a realization we all have at some point in early adulthood and its sentiments have been given voice in various forms throughout history--from Thomas Wolfe to Garden State. Inside each of us lives the desire to return-to find our place of comfort and happiness. And so we spend our years out on our own--separated from what we once were and not yet what we'll become. We are a shapeless lot waiting to find "our" place.

Today I got lost in the web of nostalgia remembering times past, remembering youth, remembering life on South Jackson--eating KFC with my Great-Grandparents, sitting at the bar in the kitchen, the garage code. These nostalgic thoughts are often a pleasant thing to get lost in especially since I long ago realized that I could never return to them. Robbie Robertson summed it up in the Last Waltz when he lamented that "it ain't like it used to be."

My memories where of happy times past and not memories tugging at my sleeve to "come home." I've long felt "homeless." I've had houses. I've lived places but the "home" for which I search, I fear, is still far off in the distance.

Belgian Waffles & 4 Random Notes

2008-01-26T10:44:00.000+01:00

As I expected waffles turned out to be the most important part of the Belgian experience. They were followed closely by beer and the art nouveau architecture. I can't say they were amazing waffles. I don't know what sets one waffle apart from another but the mere fact that I got to have waffles was enough.
Naivety, however, did get the better of me once again: I just assumed they would have maple syrup. The Belgians seem to prepare their gauffres (waffles) in three ways: au natural, with powdered sugar on top, or covered in chocolate. The last option obviously proved to be the best. You could have it chaud ou froid, that is hot or cold. Hot came with the chocolate melted all over the top of the waffle making it difficult and messy to eat (pictures coming soon). Cold came with the melted chocolate settled on the top of the waffle. It wasn't as messy but nor was it as good.
My waffle experience took a positive turn on morning two when we found a restaurant that had "syrup du Canada." A celebratory trumpet sounded somewhere when I read that. Maple syrup. (Insert Jay Lane "Booyeah" here)

Random Notes:
1) There seemed to be a lot of people using canes in Belgium. When I say this I mean young to middle aged people that have some sort of leg affliction. I saw upwards of 15 perhaps while I was there. Proportionally that might not be a whole lot but in this day and age how often do you see seemingly young healthy people using walking canes?
2) I found out today that there are more Lebanese people in Brazil than in Lebanon.
3) I think the Smash Mouth song, "All Star" would make a great/funny Country/Western cover song. Sing some of the opening lines to yourself in a twangy accent.
"She was lookin' kind of dumb with her finger and her thumb in the shape of an L on her forehead."
4) I've seen several great movies lately and one stinker. From the names of the following actors & their movies see if you can figure out which one gets a negative review from me.
Casey Affleck-Gone Baby Gone
Tom Hanks-Charlie Wilson's War
Javier Bardem-No Country For Old Men
Norah Jones-My Blueberry Nights

Bruges (and the continuing saga of the Euro-toilet)

2008-01-25T00:29:00.000+01:00

As a port city Bruges was once one of the most important cities in Europe, not to mention one of the richest. Once the water dried up Bruges lost its access to the sea and thus its trade. Naturally the loss of its population and riches came next. Bruges became a ghost town. This also served to “preserve” the city and is now its lifeblood thanks to the millions of people who pass through Bruges each summer to gawk at the buildings and stroll along the canals.

After seeing Bruges for myself I can relate to Collin Farrell’s recent quip about the city in the trailer for his latest movie, “In Bruges.” Since my mother reads this I won’t be giving a verbatim quote but he intimated that things can be a bit boring in Bruges. This is true. There is a slower pace to the city, which I suspect plays into its stature as a city “stopped in time.” I don’t want this to be construed in a negative light. It is a picturesque city built for peaceful strolls. In the summertime you get to fight the crowds but enjoy the weather. In the winter you lose the crowds but gain large layers of clothing. I have to admit that the frigid weather was a bit of a distraction for me.

There seemed to be little to Bruges beyond the architecture and the quaint waterways. This much was later confirmed by a young citizen and business owner. My other fascination was the bikes. They were everywhere. Until I see Amsterdam, Bruges will remain the bike capital of Europe in my mind.

While we traveled through the cobblestone streets of Bruges in the freezing temperatures we came upon a manifestation of heaven on earth: Le Pain Quotidien. Somehow this Flemish establishment has perfected the art of baking, an art I had always associated with France. Despite her pride in French baking, I'm confident Morgane will attest to the veracity of my claims. It is impossible for me to break down pleasure into words so I’ll just tell you that if you are ever in Bruges get the Tarte au Chocolate at Le Pain Quotidien.

I often pose questions on here. They are rarely rhetorical and if someone has an explanation or answer for them, please let me know. The preceding is especially true for the following: Why are there no “free” toilets in Europe? My dad always told me that there was no such thing as a “free lunch” but as long as man has existed we’ve been able to get rid of those lunches for free. This has ceased to be true in Europe. I could understand it if with the money spent cleaner facilities were provided. However, they seem to be on par if not worse than those in the States. Is it to promote jobs, much like the New Jersey/Oregon laws forbidding citizens to pump their own gas? Is it because they know people will pay? Perhaps it is a true expression of capitalism in socialistic Europe? Answers are needed to ease my wandering mind.

Brussels, Sandwiches, and Orwell

2008-01-22T17:47:00.000+01:00

Brussels
I spent most of my first day in Brussels in a tavern near La Grand-Place. There was a mix-up with Paypal and so instead of exploring the city, Morgane, Zoe, and I were stuck in a tavern trying to fix the situation. Since they have the French language background they got to do the talking and I got to sit around thinking about Belgian identity. At the risk of being pedantic (that’s for you Matty): Belgium is made of two ethnic groups divided along fairly distinct geographic lines. French is spoken in southern Belgium (Wallonia) and a Dutch dialect, Flemish, is spoken in northern Belgium (Flanders).
I asked Morgane if the French speaking Belgians were proud of their “French” heritage or felt any connection to the people at all. This turned out to be quite off the mark. Apparently there is a bit of a rivalry between the two—the Walloons are often the butt of French jokes. I found this quite amusing and wondered if this was true for the Dutch side of the equation too. Neither Morgane nor Zoe could proffer much of a definitive answer but I tend to assume it would be. This seems to be the natural order of the world—poking fun at those with which we have so much in common save one thing or another. Lord knows in growing up in Western Arkansas (and living in Texas) we tended to poke fun at the people from Oklahoma. If we discount the Sooner fans, there is little that separates the majority of us from the majority of “them.”
And yet isn’t it fitting that this country, divided between two cultures, the butt of certain jokes, and at times barely able to form a government for itself is the “capital” of Europe.

SANDWICH SOCIETY
Though much is made of our penchant for hamburgers America is a sandwich society. Of course there are sandwiches everywhere but nowhere is it engrained in the life of its people like the in the United States. Our lives are filled with sandwiches.
Despite outer appearances I am a man of routine. I make lists of things I want to do. I close the lids of open Tupperware and shut the doors of open cabinets. There is a mechanism inside my head that tries to keep things in my life in order. Depending upon the situation these traits range anywhere from “blessings” to “annoyances” but often reside somewhere in the middle ground between “quirks” and “foibles.” Perhaps it is just because I am a man of routine but my meals, especially lunch, revolved around the sandwich. And as a result of my long running penchant for turkey sandwiches I might be biased in making this assertion for America but I believe it.
There are those who argue against the hamburger as a national dish and try to rally around the melting pot status of the United States. We’re too “large” or too “diverse” to have a national dish. Why not have a national dish as broad and varied as our inhabitants and geography? The sandwich is perfect—Gyro, Panini, BLT, California Club—It covers all the ground.
This might not be a ground breaking idea or sentiment but it’s out there now. As I spend my days eating a wide variety of dishes for lunch I often find myself longing for my simple sandwiches. And each time I am able to have a sandwich I am content in ways only the familiar friend can supply.

HOMAGE TO CATALONIA
My life has been filled with books. As I waited for the apartment versus paypal debacle to be sorted out I finished George Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia. I had enjoyed reading the book while I was in college (in fact it was one of the better books I was assigned to read while I was there) so when I saw it on the bookshelves in the apartment I was keen to revisit it.
The version I read in college was the “original” version. At some point after its initial publication Orwell decided upon some changes to the order of the chapters. So, when I read this “updated” version two chapters from the middle of the book that dealt largely with the overall political situation in detail were removed and placed at the end of the book as appendixes. The rearrangement of the chapters proved to be quite beneficial as it streamlined action creating a more cohesive narrative.
Now that you are bored with this inconsequential miscellany: I hesitate to divulge this but I’ve never read Animal Farm or 1984. Despite this embarrassing gap in my literary experience I love Orwell’s writing. He is refreshingly honest throughout the book, not only about what he sees but about himself as well. Despite the somewhat depressing nature of the situation, this honesty allows humor to pleasantly creep in along the edges. And for my money, the closing paragraph is one of the most sweepingly tender and prophetic passages penned.

Off to Belgium

2008-01-21T08:43:00.000+01:00

I had an epiphany just the other day. I feel ridiculous for saying this but it never occurred to me that Belgium was going to have waffles. When it finally did hit me I was ecstatic.
My conversation with a very bewildered Morgane went something like this:
"they have waffles!"
"what?"
"In Belgium! They have waffles!"
"What? So?"
"I'm going to eat waffles everyday!"

I felt like the donkey on Shrek: "And in the mornin' I'm makin' waffles!"

So, for those that haven't figured it out--Zoe, Morgane, and I are going to be spending a couple of days in Brussels.

Before I run out the door, here are a few pictures from the other day. Two waiting in line for the Paris in Colors exhibit and one walking near Chatelet.

On Language

2008-01-20T11:05:00.001+01:00

Mr. Webster defines the word "reproach" as an expression of rebuke or disapproval. It seems to have largely disappeared from common or day-to-day English yet I've heard it more here in France than just about any other English word. I'm basing this fact largely on the commonality of the French word "reproche" from which our own word derives. So, when they (French) need a word or phrase in English for where they would use the word "reproche" en Francais, they naturally use "reproach."
This struck me the other day as a fairly underutilized word in the English language. Instead of saying "he reproached me" a more superfluous and not entirely accurate "he got mad at me" would be used or perhaps the slightly more accurate yet just as superfluous "he got on to me." Perhaps I am being selective in my memory but I rarely hear (or have heard) the word "reproach" come out of a native English speaker's mouth. This isn't an "outrage" to me; I don't want to lead a petition to resurrect "reproach." It is just interesting how a person's perception of a "reproach" is that off an attack ("He got mad at me") when in reality there was just disapproval. The vagaries of language intrigue me.
Coincidentally enough, eight hours after writing this and without my prompting, McCall expressed her amazement at the ability of her non-native friends' ability to always use the exactly right English word for the situation/sentence when she or other native speakers would have used a, in her words, "more casual or laid-back expression." This of course spurred me to think of the situation in the opposite light: as a "student" of French. I'm being to taught the proper word(s)(just as they were taught for English) so it seems logical to have the precisely correct wording in situations, whereas the native French speaker might slough off with something casual or off the cuff.
And now, with all this examined/said I will conclude with the fact that I'm going to start peppering my speech with "reproach." Maybe I will start that petition.

Conceptions of Europe

2008-01-19T11:38:00.001+01:00

After having noticed that I've read several books on Europe since my arrival, Morgane asked me what my conception of Europe was before I first came this past summer. Furthermore, she wanted to know if it has changed and how. This troubled me. Not the questions themselves but the fact that I couldn't rightly recall what image I had in my head for Europe. The questions themselves, like the answers are elusive. As cognitive beings we are constantly forming and reforming thoughts, constantly remolding conceptions of the world around us as well as those of the larger world--even the unknown parts--through the books we read, the websites we check, the TV we watch.
It's interesting to look back on oneself in the past, to examine the ideas and conceptions we once had. Embarrassingly enough I had the conception of Poland being strikingly similar to that of Siberia, which is to say a frozen expanse of tundra (and that, as I was to learn, proved to be a double fallacy since Siberia has a varied geography).
So, the fact that I've been unable to ascertain what my overall conception of Europe once was is fairly frustrating. The best analogy I can conjure is that of a haircut. I've found on occasion that I've been unable to visualize what a friend's hair looked like after a somewhat drastic cut--say shoulder length to shaved head. I know that I know what they once looked like yet I'm unable to truly visualize it. And that is where I am today--struggling to remember what my image of Europe once was instead of what it is now.

The Things I Have to See

2008-01-18T10:43:00.000+01:00

It's become rather apparent that I have desires to see "odd" things. In all likelihood you won't find these places in guidebooks. But that doesn't change my need to see them and the most recent instances could not be further apart from one another.
Jose Bove was on a hunger strike here in Paris. He is an alter-globalizationist, a fierce critic of genetically modified foods, and a general pest to the establishment. He catapulted himself into the global spotlight back in 1999 by invading and dismantling a McDonalds franchise in Millau. He was on the hunger strike to get the French government to get a one-year ban on the use of genetically modified crops. I'm not sure what piqued my interest. I suppose I just wanted to see the spectacle. Once I've got my mind set on seeing something I become fixated. Sadly the hunger strike started the day we left for Portugal and ended the Friday we got back when the government gave in to his demands.
The other instance is Charles Dickens Square. Before the other day when I noticed it on the map, I didn't know such a place existed. Now that I do I just want to see what it's like. I could try to make the argument that it's because I love his writing so much, that David Copperfield is one of my favorite books. Both of those statements are truthful but what does all that have to do with this square in Paris? Rien du tout as they'd say here. Nothing at all. Something unknown, something embedded in my mind spurred me to the desire to know, and that has been the overarching premise that has determined most of my life, it has determined who I am.
I've been able to control this insatiable desire to know where propriety deems it necessary but it doesn't disappear. It's lurking around the corner, waiting to pounce on the next thing that passes in front of my nose. Predictably the urge struck me again yesterday. I had went out to meet Zoe & Morgane for lunch after their business meeting this morning. Following our lunch at L'as du Falafel, we ventured over to Hotel de Ville and waited outside in the cold for 30 minutes to see the Paris in Colors photo exhibit. The exhibit housed works spanning the Lumiere brothers to Martin Parr. It was interesting to see not what changed but what hasn't. Other than the color tones there wasn't much to distinguish between 1926 and 1996. Naturally there were obvious things like the clothes and cars but the essential elements of Paris, the buildings, were the same today as they were yesterday. And tucked within the photos of this exhibit there was a shot of Passage du Caire just off the Rue d'Alexandrie that caught my eye and it the latest in a succession of "odd" things I want to see. I've resigned myself to the fact that in all likelihood the neighborhood has changed and the "magic" of the photo has been lost but I still have to see it for myself.

The Italian in her

2008-01-15T17:55:00.000+01:00

I don't really remember how it came about--perhaps I mentioned her predilection for Italian food, perhaps she made a comment about being Italian on her own. Either way I found out that Morgane is one quarter Italian. I already "knew" this though because she claimed to have told me about it already. My active listening skills aside, I perked up during the second Italian conversation when I heard the words "Zappa."

"Wait. You said 'Zappa,' as in Frank Zappa?"
"Yes. I already told you that the last time too."
"Told me what?"
"That I'm related to Frank Zappa"
"You're related to Frank Zappa?"
"Yes. I told you that already."

This sounded vaguely familiar. I think the forgotten conversation probably took place sometime after I told her I was related to William the Conqueror. Once her laughter subsided I think she might have told me about Zappa. I was probably trying to figure out the quickest way to get proof instead of listening to her.

I'm not sure who wins the cooler relative battle but if you're keeping score at home, my girlfriend is now 1/4th Italian, 1/4 Hungarian, 1/2 Algerian (via Spain), born in the Congo (Kinshasa), and raised in Paris. The next plausible question is of course how in the hell did she end up with an asshole from Arkansas? Chance. Our lives have run together on pure chance. Maybe those New Year's black-eyed peas I've been eating for so long have been working after all.

Dessert as a rite

2008-01-15T17:35:00.001+01:00

One thing I've noticed about France is the importance of dessert. Food in general has a very exalted place in "la vie francais" but dessert is the high point, the culmination of the day, of the efforts of the meal in general. It all builds to the dessert: the fondant au chocolate, creme brulee, tarte tatin, etc.
It occurred to me that in a way it's a lot like Catholicism. Mass is a central part of each Catholics life but the partaking of communion is the essential element. For a Catholic the point of the mass is communion, it all builds up towards the distribution of the consecrated host. What's the point of sitting down for a nice homily if you don't get your dessert at the end? Communion is the point of the service and like many French I've met, it is quite acceptable to skip the meal all together and just eat the dessert. The homily might offer the nutrition your soul needs but the dessert is all it requires for its true salvation.

"Doing sport" in France

2008-01-15T16:58:00.000+01:00

Being an outsider here in France I am apt to notice things that I find humorous or strange, things that might escape the eye of a native. Perhaps my childhood education via Seinfeld ingrained this predilection for particularities and minutiae of everyday life. This habit of mine shouldn't be taken the wrong way. I love it here.

In France there is the verb "faire" which is translated as "to do." The verb is one of the most prominently used verbs in the language. It is utilized in conjunction with most activities to signify the action. In France they "faire du sport," "faire la cuisine," & "faire une visite," which is to say that they "do" sport, cooking, and visits. They also use "faire" to describe what the weather is "doing" on a particular day. It dawned on me that never has a nation of "doers" done so little. What is one's conception of France? Can one deny that France is associated in the American mind with idle hours at a cafe? Deep pontification, philosophers, and endless discussions on life and love?

I suppose it is a somewhat juvenile, or perhaps ill defined preconception of the country but the point was comically driven home for me on a trip to the mall at "La Defense" yesterday with Morgane. I wanted to buy a pair of running shoes so I can attempt to stay in shape while I'm here. The first store we walked into was called "Athletes World." They had three large walls covered in shoes for me to choose from. However, none of the shoes could even remotely be considered for a running shoe, much less doing anything athletic whatsoever. The shoes they had looked like one might be able to "do sport" in them but of course that's the purpose. They want to give the illusion that you are athletic, or "sporty" without actually making you "do sport." After two more stops in different shops I realized it wasn't isolated to "Athletes World." These next two shops were large, cavernous spaces that stocked a multitude of athletic clothing. If you wanted to purchase footwear that would allow you to put that clothing to use you were out of luck. Out of the 75-100 pairs of shoes they carried only about 7-10 pairs were actual shoes for running. To cap it all I found a pair that fit me in the smallest of the athletic stores in the mall.

So, where does this leave me? Now that I've bad mouthed a proud nation's athletic tradition I might be out on the street after Morgane reads this. That's a Seinfeld ending for you.

Pictures from Bretagne

2008-01-13T14:22:00.000+01:00

Here are a few pictures from the Bretagne weekend courtesy of the Magic Queen, Mme. Zoe Kovacs.

Back in Paris

2008-01-11T20:11:00.001+01:00

Jan 11th
The trip to Portugal is now officially over. It’s funny how the trip came full circle—it was raining in Paris when we left and it was raining today when we got back (although today it’s warmer by 10® Celsius , thankfully). After a week of absolutely frigid temperatures in Paris, the weeklong break in Portugal was a nice respite. It was odd to see Lisboans walk around bundled up like it was Lillihammer instead of Lisbon. My feeling was that of a bizarre longing, a collective of wishful thinkers wanting it to be cold. It was like playing dress up when you were a child. You couldn’t experience the real thing so you might as well pretend. They pretended better than anyone I’ve seen. In a t-shirt, I was walking past frilly men in decorative scarves and giant coats and women in furry boots and chic little snow hats.
I’ve been thinking of Lisboa along the lines of an Austin in Europe. Perhaps it’s not the most accurate comparison, perhaps I’m searching for similarities—pointing at things without context. There does seem to be similarities (notably the weather, size, and age demographics). My “piece de resistance*” is the cuisine even though it’s an obvious paradox (the sea v. the ranch). The similarity is not the substance of the cuisine but in who dislikes each of them…Morgane. Lisboa, like Austin, has a very vibrant restaurant scene that we wholeheartedly enjoyed…as long as we steered clear of Portuguese. And likewise in Austin, Morgane loves the restaurants….but not BBQ or Tex-Mex. What sounds better: “Austin: The Lisbon of America” or “Lisboa: the Austin of Europe”
(*Is that a real phrase? Am I confusing it with “plat de resistance?” In a completely unrelated setting and argument I said it and got strange French looks. I hope someone can help me out on this.)

Just before we touched down at Orly I finished “The Impossible Country,” Brian Hall’s account of his travels through Yugoslavia just before its disintegration in the early 90s. Excellent book. If you are remotely interested in the Balkans or if you are simply in need of an engaging and insightful read, I urge you to check it out (I was luckily enough to find it on the bookshelves at the Casa de San Bernard, courtesy of Ms. Agnes Sekowski the week before I left). Though it was published 15 years ago it’s a timeless narrative whose insights into the people and politics of the region are still accurate, applicable, and important (more so even now with Kosovo’s formal independence looming). My plug is now officially over.

Morgane’s brother left for a two month journey through India. We’re staying in his apartment while he is gone. So for those in need or want of an address for me, I now have one. Just drop me a comment on here or an email me and I’ll get it to you. Now that I’m “back” in Paris, my stay is officially under way. For a sedentary person like me, these first two weeks have been a whirlwind.

Sintra and Dreams

2008-01-09T20:37:00.000+01:00

Jan 9th
Lord Byron called it a "glorious Eden"

We made the journey to Sintra today. It was a fantastical place. As we climbed the hills of Sintra towards Pena Palace I was reminded of the lush forest scenes from Pan’s Labryinth. The area surrounding Sintra (and the palace itself) seems as if it’s been plucked straight out of the pages of a fairy tale.

My dreams have been strange lately. Food related? The squid is probably a tally on the yes side of that question. Last night’s dreams included some sort of weird witch marriage that I think saved the world somehow, running from some sort of serial killer with Ashton Kutcher, and walking through a mall with Ghandi. When I couple that string of dreams with the epic baseball dream from the previous night (featuring Tom Pagnozzi, Glenallen Hill, Kelly Saviers, Mia Iseman, my grandmother’s front lawn, Buffalo, NY, and Scott Sagen among others) it seems as if Portugal has done something to my head. Let’s hope it was the squid.

Squid

2008-01-09T20:36:00.000+01:00

Jan 8th
Morgane and I took the Lisboa Metro (fast, cheap, and easy) to Praca Marques de Pombal this evening. After we got off the train we took a stroll down Avenue de Liberdade—the Champs Elysees of Lisboa—until we found a spot for dinner. Prior to this evening Morgane and I were under the impression that no one worked in Lisboa. We were constantly passing people loitering in the street smoking cigarettes and talking among themselves. Our trip to the Praca Marques de Pombal finally enabled us to see the heart of the Lisboa business world.
We had dinner at La Café. It was an impressively pretentious place but the magic of Portugal lies in its price. It had a water list (exactly like a wine list but for water), a “complimentary” piece of chocolate covered foie gras to begin the meal, and a very interesting waiter/chef combination (waiter=cross between Benicio del Toro and Goofy, or perhaps a Portuguese incarnation of Spud from Trainspotting. The chef was a foot shorter than the waiter and a foot wider. He spent 5 minutes trying to convey his thoughts, in French, on food and life).
My food experiment continued—the chocolate covered foie gras was surprisingly good. It was hard to detect the foie gras beyond the wall of chocolate. For dinner I had stuffed squid. It too was fairly good though I have to admit it was somewhat akin to eating spaghetti. The squid had a chewy texture and was stuffed with a sort of ground pork (meatballs).

Alfama and Eye Solution

2008-01-09T20:35:00.000+01:00

Jan 7th
Today has been mostly uneventful. Morgane and I visited the cathedral Sé and walked through Alfama again in an ill-advised attempt to see Sao Vincente de Fora and the National Pantheon. Both of these are closed on Mondays. After our lunch I was finally able to track down contact solution.
Europe has a bit of a pharmaceutical shopping anomaly: you can’t actually shop for things. You enter and ask for what you want because everything is behind counters. This is an obvious problem when you don’t speak the language because contact solution isn’t exactly a high priority translation phrase in guidebooks. Naturally I found the one person in Portugal that doesn’t speak any English or French at the first pharmacy we visited. After some sign language maneuvers I walked out with nothing but a tiny bottle of Visine. On my second visit to a pharmacy the clerk spoke English and informed me that you can only by contact solution in optometry shops. Luckily the closest one to our area was smack in the middle of a ritzy shopping area so I got to drop $15/12€ for contact solution I could have got at a grocery store in America for half the price.

Belem

2008-01-09T20:29:00.000+01:00

Jan 6th
Morgane and I took a tram down the Avenida da India along the coast line to the neighborhood of Belem. We visited the Tower of Belem, Padrao dos Descobrimentos, the Jeronimos Monastery, and the Carriage Museum. As we sat on the edge of the water between the tower and the monument of Descobrimentos it almost felt like we were in San Francisco. The sister bridge of the Golden Gate was off in the distance, slightly shrouded by a light fog. But Jesus Christ loomed above it, reminding me exactly how far from Northern California I was.
I finally decided why I am so enamored with the sculptures, monuments, and buildings here in Lisboa: they are solitary. As you walk through the streets of Paris everything is old and/or big—it all more or less runs together into one never ending spectacle. Here, in Lisboa, when I stand beneath the giant Descobrimentos caravel I’m amazed not only at the design and content but at the brazenness of its sheer size. I’m awestruck in its presence, its audacity.

In a completely unrelated note, we watched “Bobby” on my laptop before going out to dinner. I remember reading positive reviews for the film but sadly not much beyond that. Obviously I’m in no real position to comment on 1968 since I was still 14 years away at that point but to me it seems to have been one of the most cataclysmic years this country has experienced. That the film was able to capture the nature of the time (and the emotions felt by the people) so succinctly is a feat in and of itself. This is magnified twenty fold when you take into account that Emilio Estevez wrote and directed it! I loved Young Guns but I never would have seen this coming from him in a million years. Watch it and decide for yourself.

Apology, Random notes, and 2 pictures

2008-01-05T21:14:00.001+01:00

Internet access isn't one of the selling points of Lisboa. It's taken me three days now to access the internet. Sorry for the delay and then the deluge but what can I do? A few things:
1) Hello to Bill & Grant. I got some hate mail for not name dropping them yet.
2) Virtually everyone in Portugal either speaks English or French.
3) They have the coolest arch/entry way into a city ever.

Showers and Day 2 in Portugal

2008-01-05T21:12:00.000+01:00

Jan 4th
I should probably dedicate an entirely new blog just to European bathrooms. There is a trend in French bathrooms that I can’t understand—the curtain-less shower. I haven’t been able to figure out how a deep tub with a detached shower head and no curtain is reasonable. Is there something about the French that allow them to “shower” without soaking the rest of the room? Is their climate impervious to the threat of mildew? These things perplex me. It’s like have something stuck in your teeth that you can’t seem to get out. I’m at a loss.
I went a week without what I’ll from this point forward refer to as a “shower” (as opposed to the “French shower”). So for a week I fumbled my way through French showers—alternatively putting down the shower head to lather, picking it up again to rinse or re-wet skin that dried, and generally spraying down the bathroom as if I was the groundskeeper at Wrigley Field. I’m a fairly particular person (read anal-retentive) so throughout my stay in Bretagne and the Marais I was dealing with these French showers and getting increasingly frustrated. Through some combination of mind reading or female intuition Morgane must have sensed this because she suggested we stay at her mom’s the night before our early morning flight to Lisboa. Or perhaps it was the fact that her flat was closer to the airport. Or it was my New Years Lentils interceding. Any way you slice it she had a normal shower –praise the lord- but there wasn’t normal bar soap. I’ve never been taken in by the shower gels, so despite having a “shower” my first real one didn’t come until this morning in Lisboa, complete with a bar of Dove. After suffering through those French showers for a week, I was in heaven.
The shower is just the beginning too: Lisboa is awesome. After a light breakfast Morgane and I set out to explore the labyrinthine streets of the old Muslim quarter. We spent most of our day wandering the streets, stopping now and again at a café or on a bench to rest or take in the city. The two sightseeing highlights of the day were St. George’s Castle and __________. They are both most notable because of the views they provide of the city and the waterfront.
For lunch we happened upon Café Royal. We sat outside in a little walled patio and oddly enough were served by a South African man (and he was just as a surprised to meet a Parisian & American dining together as we were to have him as our waiter in Lisboa). The food was great and surprisingly cheap. I think Lisboa is cheaper than Austin or at the very least on par with it. The cuisine itself has been top notch too. We’ve dotted the world map in cuisine choices so far (Indian, Italian, and French) in Lisboa and have yet to be disappointed. This comes as more of a surprise because Morgane had related to me how much she disliked the Portuguese cuisine the first time she visited. Perhaps I’ll change my tune after I experience a traditional Portuguese meal. Until then, I’m thoroughly impressed with everything the city has to offer.

Superstitions and Portugal

2008-01-05T21:09:00.000+01:00

Jan. 3rd
For the first time in my 25 years of life that I can remember I didn’t have Black-Eyed Peas for New Years. Most of you probably know how disconcerting this is for me. My superstitious nature gets the better of me on many occasions. Sarah is very fond of recounting how I “yelled” at her during the Michigan v. Texas Rose Bowl a few years ago because she sat on the couch (thus bringing bad luck). What she usually glosses over is that Texas won that game and it was glorious. It should be no surprise that I find the possibility of not having Black-Eyed Peas for New Years quite vexing.
I naively thought that I would be able to find a West African grocery store in Paris that sold Black-Eyed Peas. New Years has come and gone without Black-Eyed Peas. My solace was found (and sanity maintained) with lentils, the French equivalent for New Years luck. I had lentils w/ Scallops (aka St. Jacques) on New Year’s Eve. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that this will suffice. If I’m spending my time in France I might as well abide by the French luck laws. When in Rome….
Morgane and I have safely made it to Lisboa. We are staying in an apartment straddling the area between Bairro Alto and Chiado, just off Praca Luis de Camoes on Rua de Huerto Seco. The apartment is very well done—it’s a 1/1 with high ceilings and hardwood floors.
Lisboa has proven to be an interesting place. Our initial cab ride into the city revealed just how oddly diverse the city can be. From the airport we skirted the eastern portions of the city. The 70s era apartment buildings that dotted the roadside seemed to be better suited for the Eastern Bloc than the western coast of Europe. Those thoughts gave way as the cab crested a hill revealing the Rio Tejo directly before us. It was only momentarily breathtaking as we wheeled back towards the west driving through an industrial area along the coast. A few short minutes later we were driving along narrow cobblestone roads. This alternating dichotomy of place excites me the most about Lisboa (and Portugal). I enjoy discovering the reality of a place: the destruction and/or affirmation of vague preconceived notions.

Driving in Paris (& various other things)

2008-01-02T18:35:00.000+01:00

Jan 2nd
10:40AM
My first official 2008 entry—it’s been a strange few days. After spending a long New Years weekend in Bretagne, I’m sitting on a couch in a Paris photo studio. Unfortunately Victoria’s Secret hasn’t asked Morgane and Zoe for their expertise yet. Les Composantes (Z & M) have been asked to do test shots for a hotel company’s worldwide ad campaign. So instead of scantily clad women I get to watch “hotel workers” in various poses holding bags and keys as well as all the free croissants I can eat (that's a big boo-yeah, Jay).
So far my biggest accomplishment here has been successfully traversing the streets of Paris in a car. The highways and country roads were a breeze. Driving in Paris is exciting in a nerve-wracking way. I don’t know how it feels to complete in the X-Games but I think driving in Paris might be the closest I’ll get to the X-Games. In all seriousness, even though it’s pretty exciting to drive around the traffic circle at Place de Republique or past the Louvre on the rue de Rivoli, it’s still just driving. Geography (and time) is the only difference between turning onto rue des Batignolles today and learning to turn in Southside’s parking lot with my dad twelve years ago. I doubt he ever thought I would end up using those driving lessons to traverse Paris (especially in a car with two girls and forty pounds of equipment for a photo shoot).
Reading signs in a different language and having signs of different shapes than in the U.S. are two challenges while driving here. However, the biggest challenge has been the stop lights. In the United States you see the lights out in front of you and your gaze is therefore always directed slightly upwards to observe the possible light change. In Paris the lights are always on the left and right of the street at the crosswalk. So instead of stopping with the light out in front of you (and across the street), you have it directly beside you. This is an obvious problem for me. On multiple occasions I’ve come to a stop just past the light, forcing me to crane my neck slightly backwards to monitor the change to green. If I’m more than a second to slow in moving forward, there is always a polite (read frantic) flash of lights behind me or a series of honks to inform me it’s time to go. Luckily for my passengers and me, I’ve only accidentally run two lights (I think). For the most part though I’ve corrected my problem, making it from the Marais to the 17th (the photo shoot is just a block away from where I stayed this summer) this morning without breaking any traffic laws.
Initially my reaction to the lights was “this is stupid.” After giving it some thought I realized it has two fairly distinct advantages. First (and perhaps foremost for the French) is the aesthetic advantage. In a place like Paris it makes more sense to have lights that blend in with the surroundings instead of hulking over them. Secondly it forces the driver to keep their gaze slightly towards the street sides. Paris has a large pedestrian population so the light placement seems logical to help ensure the safety of the citizens.
Enough about driving—Bretagne was an interesting experience. I was a little thrown off by the music at selection at the “party.” I use the quotations because it was a somewhat small affair (especially in comparison with the castle’s size) and was similar to a Junior High dance. For instance, there was the initial milling around in nervous clusters, a large room (much like a cafeteria) that was more than half empty, and the music playlist featured a heavy dose of music from circa 1997 (Blue, Genie in a Bottle, Mr. Jones) instead of circa 2007. All of which of course sent me back to memories of sweaty palms
(on the girls, I was calm and confident teenager), nervous hopefulness, and bad finger foods. Luckily Morgane had dry hands, I had a bemused sense of confidence, and the food was amazing. And to top it off the doubts I had about the French taste in music were straightened out. On two different occasions I was informed that they (the younger people there) had nothing to do with the music choice. In the end the party, just like the old dances, evolved into something beyond apprehension. School dances relied on sugar highs to hop the kids up enough to overcome their nerves. As adults (I use the term loosely), we get much better alternatives, namely wine (which I guess also helped them get over their disdain for the music).
In closing the marathon New Year’s post, I’ll finish with two notes on the town of Rennes and revert to age 15 once again for more comments on French toilets. Beginning with the latter, I had heard countless stories from Chill about the horrible things he witnessed while traveling in Asia. So it was with some disbelief that I came across a rest stop toilet on Auto-route 11 outside of Paris that was nothing more than a hole in the ground. As I took in the spectacle I realized the “toilet” even had handle bars stuck into the wall (Is one to presume they are for the handicapped?). Adding to my disbelief and confusion was that Zoe and Morgane were so shocked and suspicious of my claims. I felt like I was Dennis Kucinich (or Mayor Baker perhaps) trying to persuade people that there really was a UFO. I still haven’t wrapped my head completely around it.
And finally Rennes—it looked to be a marvelous city. We were able to spend a total of 3-4 hours there and with just that brief glimpse it’s a place I’d recommend (and like to see again). Lastly, as I looked at a menu in a restaurant, I noticed a phrase that didn’t make sense to me: “chèvre chaud au miel” The following conversation occurred between Morgane and me:
“It’s a honey cheese”
“A hot honey cheese salad?”
“Yes”
“Seriously?”
“Yes”
“Okay, well I’m definitely not having that.”
“No! It’s good. It’s one of my favorite things. You should get it.”
Well, I’m a sucker for a pretty face (and I’ll try any food once) so I went for it. What followed was a fairly basic salad with walnuts and balsamic vinaigrette topped with 4 squares. They were lightly fried, sealing in the hot honey goat cheese. It was a somewhat strange experience but I have to admit Morgane was right, hot honey cheese salad is tasty.
(We’re off to Lisbon tomorrow morning and will be back to Paris on the 11th.)

Happy New Year

2008-01-01T11:18:00.000+01:00

Happy New Year everyone or "bonne année"

We're leaving soon (hopefully). It's about a 6 hour drive. On the 3rd Morgane and I are going to Lisbon for a week.

C'est tout pour le moment.

Recap of the last few days

2007-12-31T12:09:00.000+01:00

Dec 29th
12:45PM
We’re on Mediterranean time today. I’m supposed to drive Morgane, Zoe, and Gabriel to Bretagne today. The time of departure was intended for 11AM but as 1PM quickly approaches, we’re still at Zoe’s apartment. I’m in no rush. I just would have preferred a few more hours of sleep.
Yesterday was spent wandering Paris—at times in the right direction and on two occasions lost. I had separated from Morgane and Zoe around 11AM to take some bags back to the flat so they wouldn’t have to heft them around all day. After my successful trip back to the apartment I went back out to meet them for lunch. My problems began the minute I stepped out onto the sidewalk: I started walking in the wrong direction. Several things could have helped me: 1) A Map (this New Year I might resolve to carry one with me at all times while I’m in Paris) 2) Sense (or perhaps a lack of egocentric stubbornness). I should have started backtracking the second I realized I was heading in the wrong direction 3) The sun (if the sun ever poked its head through the clouds I might have been able to triangulate my position and figure out which way to go after I neglected to back track). Any of these would have been beneficial and rescued me from the inevitable phone call. Instead I opted to listen to my well fed navigational ego, thinking I could figure out the right way through improvisation and most importantly without backtracking. Eventually I ended up much worse off than when I began, so I made the phone call. Since I was at a metro stop Morgane was able to tell me which lines to take to meet them at a new location for lunch. This worked out well for me. For now on I’ll forsake the roads in favor of the metro since I seem to be able to navigate it. The incident has probably left me better off than before. I got to experience Paris without my chaperone. I also learned a valuable lesson, “there’s nothing wrong with back-tracking.” I was even able to put it into use. When I started walking in the wrong direction later in the afternoon I back tracked with great success.

Zoe and Morgane hosted a dinner party Friday night for family and friends. It was a rather large affair (the picture to the left is from the loft looking down at the table). Since Finney and McCall (my friends from Austin that are currently living in Paris) I got to practice my English. We three, along with Mark (Emmanuelle’s boyfriend…..E=M’s sister), were able to set up an Anglophone perimeter for most of the night to defend ourselves against the mass of Gauls.
The party ran past 2AM (the Subway doesn’t run past 2Am on Fri/Sat nights) so Morgane and I took a cab back into the city and were in bed by 3AM. This of course leads me back to the 11AM departure time and my final lesson of the day—if the rest of the country is on Mediterranean time, I should fall back asleep and join them.

Dec 30th
5:00PM

Located in the northwestern most reaches of France, Bretagne is the birthplace of impressionism. In the French mindset it seems to hold a place akin to our own conception of the northwest. The region is quite damp and experiences light rains throughout the year. In Bretagne, the sun’s presence is always in combat with cloud cover. That interaction between light and shadow is perhaps what first attracted people like Gauguin and Van Gogh to the region.

We are staying in a castle near Pont Aven (sorry the map image isn't great) overlooking an inlet that leads out to the Atlantic Ocean. The castle was purchased by about 13 years ago (I think) by the man who, as far as I can gather, invented the two way pager (I was also told he had the patent on DSL in France as well). Michel (owner) refitted everything in the castle with modern conveniences. Somewhere along the way the balance between old and new seems to have been lost, giving the castle a sterile, unlived in feel somewhat akin a hospital. The outer walls seemed to have been heavily power washed which leaves the walls to seem like a construction of this century as opposed to the 16th. I don’t want to split hairs: getting to stay in a castle is an exciting first for me. As a history lover, I regret the loss of unique identity the castle had in place of what it’s become. One would think a better balance could have been reached.

Dec 28th

2007-12-28T11:37:00.001+01:00

12:05AM

Day two has come and gone. Despite my difficulties accessing the internet at Nanou's apartment, it is an amazing place. We are smack dab in the middle of Paris.

After getting my solid ten hours of rest, Morgane and I went out for breakfast. I had some sort of pear pie (apparently I like pears as long as they are in pie form, GoGo). Following breakfast we walked through the streets of Paris to "Au Printemps," a giant department store. Morgane had a "surprise" for me. The store has a rooftop terrace that offers an amazing panoramic view of Paris. During the winter season they build an "Ice Maze" which was to be the surprise. Unless you are 4, you don't have to worry about getting lost. Lest you think she has doubts about my intelligence or navigation skills, Morgane was expecting it to be much larger. Despite the ice maze let down, the views on the terrace were amazing. Low lying clouds shrowded the tops of the Eiffel Tower, Montemarte, and numerous other buildings. After taking in the view we went back downstairs so Morgane could pick up a few Christmas presents. Evidently they celebrate the season a bit longer than we do.
Next we walked to the Picasso museum which turnd out to be very crowded and generally disappointing.
This evening we met Zoe for a drink so Morgane and she could discuss a new work project. Afterwards we went to watch "I'm Not There." The girls had yet to see it and after reading a Dylan biography while in Houston, I was anxious to see it a second time. With the biography fresh in my mind the film turned out to be even more enjoyable to watch than the first time.
The visit to the theater also offered the highlight of my day: the inaction of a Constanza theory (and if you're counting at home, that's two Constanza references in two posts). Someone at the UGC Bercy cour St. Emillion felt that the Constanza toilet stall hypothesis should be tested. Not only did they drop the door all the way to the floor, creating private rooms for each toilet, they decided the urinal concept unnecessary. Private toilets for each man. C'est liberte!

Dec 27th

2007-12-28T10:38:00.000+01:00

8:47 AM

My first "day" in Paris passed quickly. The rapidity of which it seemed to pass was most likely aided by my status as a zombie. Though I assume I got a few hours of sleep on the plane, by the time I had landed I had been awake almost 24 hours. However, for a person that has trouble functioning on less than 7 or 8 hours, I think I held up pretty well during my first day.
I "surprised" Morgane at the airport--she was reading a book, not expecting me to pass through customs, etc so quickly. The ease with which I was able to exit my plane and make it through customs made me feel like George Costanza on his fabled trip to the airport, "I was seeing moves 4 times ahead." Everything fell into place for me (and I never hit the Van Wyck!). I got the tram right before it left, my bag was the fifth off the plane, and unlike the U.S., France has no problems with my name.
After a long cab ride into the city (we are in the Marais, Bob I'll post some pictures), I got to open my birthday and Christmas presents. We went for a walk through the city and then had falafels with the rest of America. Evidently the best falafel place in Paris is right around the corner and has garnered mentions in all the American guidebooks, so I felt a little funny spending my first meal in Paris surrounded by Americans. The falafel was excellent. So it goes.

The temperatures here are not too much worse than they would be in Arkansas-30s to 40s (I'm still adjusting to that celsius thing).
One of my presents from Morgane was a scarf, so that's helping me stay warm. Much to Morgane's dismay, I've never owned a scarf before so I needed pointers on how exactly one comports oneself while in a scarf.

The sun finally seems to be coming out (it's hard to tell since th windows face a courtyard) which means it's time to face day two en France.

Apology & Thoughts before boarding

2007-12-28T10:25:00.001+01:00

I'm sorry it took me a day or two to get back on board with the blog. I've been having unexpected problems with the internet connection at Nanou's apartment.

Dec. 25th
8:30 PM

With as much air travel as I've been exposed to over the last seven months one would think my flight nerves might have been a thing of the past. My nervous expectancy and the rumbling in my stomach are a constant reminder how little my uneasiness has dissipated.
As I struggled through a Monday level crossword, I wondered if it was a bad omen. The sort of signs I always hear are out there. My educated side dismisses these fears as irrational yet me churning stomach begs otherwise. The saying claims "mind over matter" but today I'll settle for "mind over stomach" and let the matter sort itself out.
As with every departure there are tinges of bittersweet melancholy that hang over the journey like a morning mist...blending images in just the right way to muddle your mind. The Christmas season has successfully magnified those feelings in ways I've yet to experience, tinging this particular adventure with a somewhat gray pallor. My heart knows it will wash away quicker than it crept in.

Looking back

2007-06-27T19:30:00.000+02:00

Kasia was quick to berate me on how abruptly I "ended" my trip/thoughts on the experience. I apologize for the "abrupt" ending. Now that I've had a week and two days back here in the states I still don't know what this trip has meant for me. Certainly it has granted me a much broader world perspective that I previously lacked, granting my hesitant nature a bit more courage and bravado than I once had. It allowed me to reconnect with a special person, Morgane, whom I long assumed I would never see again. Never in a million years would I have guessed the course the trip, and consequently my heart, would take me down. The multitude of coincidences and occurrences that determined the shape my adventure would take confounds me still. Whether this trip will become a catalyst in my future or just a blip in my experiences remains to be seen. The siren song of travel has captured me and consequently the odds are in the catalyst's favor.

Windsor and Wrap Up?

2007-06-19T05:09:00.000+02:00

I don't know how to wrap all of this up. I'm on the plane from London to Toronto and I guess it is still too early to have any perspective on all that has occurred these few weeks. My only recourse is to fill you in on the last day in London-
Morgane, myself, Mark, and Emmanuelle I went to Windsor Castle and then had a traditional Sunday afternoon lunch at a Pub before heading back into London. to visit Harrods/Laduree. I was also treated to a car tour of London as we drove Mark back to his flat. He's Australian and not been in London for very long but was able to give interesting commentary on the city's sights as we drove by them. The evening as spent quietly between the sisters and I over Italian food, talking of politics and "the state of the world today." Before I knew it I was in the air on my way home, wishing I had more time.

London

2007-06-19T04:54:00.000+02:00

My first day back in London was lazy to say the least. We stayed up too late and then had to catch early trains the next morning. Morgane's was 35 minutes or so after mine and was then delayed an 1 1/2 at the Chunnel. Once she got in it was after 11. We set off for her sister's place and spent the next few hours napping, eating lunch, and napping more before finally setting out to find a cafe. As we walked around the neighborhood (west Kensington) Morgane of course picked the one wine bar (no English Pub?!). After an hour or so we walked back to the flat where Emmanuelle (her sister) and Mark (sisters BF) were waiting on us. After the initial formalities etc we all set off for dinner at Gazette.
Saturday-
The pattern continues. Got up late, had lunch at a pub (my first fish and chips left something to be desired), then walked by Westminster Abbey (which was closed), around Parliament Sq, and past Whitehall to Trafalgar Sq where the skies opened up on us. Hustling in to the National Gallery we quickly realized that a lot of people had the same idea to take advantage of the free museum to stay dry. Despite the somewhat noisy crowd I found the gallery to be a very pleasing museum. I was able to see several masterpieces from the likes of Botticelli, All the ninja turtles (sans Donatello), Rubens, Velásquez, Goya, etc. My favorite by far was a fairly striking yet simple portrait by (to me) and unknown artist, Bartolome Esteban Murillo's portrait of Don Justino Deneve.
After strolling through the gallery for some time we decided to head towards St. Paul's. Luckily the rain had stopped and we were able to get into the Cathedral. I had bad luck with churches in London. Westminster was closed and St. Martin-in-the-fields was closed until fall for renovations, so I was 1 for 3, which wouldn't have been bad if sightseeing were baseball. After St. Paul we headed to Green Park to enjoy the "sun"--I say sun because it was periodically counter balanced by powerful gusts of wind. After sitting in the park reading, the cold became to much for my Austin bones and we headed back to the flat.
Emmanuelle and Mark had been at a tennis tournament all day and were crashed out. Morgane and I followed suit. Upon waking up I couldn't believe it was 10PM--the sun still plays tricks. We ordered Chinese food and watched a movie.

Wednesday thru Friday AM

2007-06-19T04:28:00.000+02:00

If I had to suggest seeing one museum in Paris that has the perfect balance (great works of art but not as crowded as Louvre etc) it would be the Rodin Museum. The majority of the works are Rodin but there are also quite a few works from his lover, Camille Claudet. The collection also boasts a spattering of paintings from masters like Van Gogh, antiquity pieces from Rodin's personal collection, and a surprisingly vast (and lurid) collection of Japanese works. The "major" highlights are two "Thinker" statues (one small inside and one large statue in the gardens) and one of the "Gate to the Inferno" (I saw one of the others at the Orsay). We've been having bad luck with museums. Rodin was closed on Monday when we tried to visit initially and the Catacombs had already closed when we tried to go Wed after Rodin.
Thursday-
After lunch Morgane and I headed to the Catacombs--big let down. Bunch of bones and some info on the old quarry and the personages now lost in the bones. I was hoping for info geared towards the resistance since the Catacombs were used as their hideout in WWII.
Next we went to the Pantheon-vast improvement on the Catacombs. After whiling away an hour on the steps of the Pantheon, eating an orange and taking in the view of the Eiffel Tower, we met up with Zoe. As we were leaving the Pantheon we decided to sneak into the cathedral adjacent to the "Civil Structure." I was ambivalent about seeing the inside of this church and shouldn't have been. Never have I been so pleasantly delighted by a church as I was St. Etienne's. Since I'm so fond of ranking things I would venture to say that it was my favorite church/cathedral I had the privilege of seeing in my travels thus far. We stopped at an intersection just around the corner from the church that was bustling with cafe's--3 on one paved peninsula and 1 opposite--and had a couple of drinks. We were interrupted midway by a street performer belting out sub par renditions of "French Classics." This naturally led to another round to brace ourselves against the musical onslaught. Our move was parried by the performer. A Boris Yeltsin look alike, apparently a close associate of the singer, had wandered up and succeeded in taking over the mike for a treacherous translation of "House of the Rising Sun." Eric Burdon was crying somewhere. Boris had unknowingly given us our signal for an exit and thus encountered a new found peace walking the streets of Paris that no manner of honks and speeding scooters could destroy.
After a quick bus trip to Place D'Italie, we wandered the tight lanes in search of an appropriate place to eat--never have I encountered a more fickle pair when deciding on a restaurant. One restaurant had a bad typeface on their menu, one was too sparsely populated, one had bad decor--on a previous evening they had deigned to inform the proprietor of "Scoop Cafe" that he should have gone with a more muted sign rather than the neon he chose. In the end we finally settled on an Italian restaurant. The food was delicious, ambiance with out par, and the neighborhood my favorite thus far perhaps (It also had the added distinction of being the lone restaurant in Paris that is non smoking). The neighborhood once was a poor area but has since become re-gentrified and I suppose "hip." It found a balance between lively activity and a sense of small town charm. As the subway headed back towards the flat off Villiers I caught my last glimpse of the Eiffel Tour ablaze in light. Thus ended my last night in Paris.
Friday Morning-
I had half a mind to recreate my first night in Paris by making the walk up to Montemarte--one last panorama of the captivating city. As I walked to the station with Morgane Friday morning, I cast a glance over my shoulder as the Cathedral on the hill and knew I was right not to revisit before I left. Perhaps one day I'll be back in Paris and in a fit of melancholic nostalgia I will make my way up the hill in the vain hope of realizing the ecstasy once achieved. Until then, Paris is wrapped in a protective case and will remain ever glorious in my memories.

Recap of Sunday through Tuesday

2007-06-19T04:18:00.000+02:00

The last day or so have been a whirlwind of sorts. Before I start in on all of that let me note something about the Slovene cave ride that I forgot to mention earlier. I was very amused by their safety regulations, i.e. their lack of regulations. As I was ducking low overhangs while riding the train I imagined what it would be like if this were in the States. We probably would have been wearing seat belts, helmets, and had to have signed a waiver before getting into the caves. In Slovenia you just pay for your tickets and they trust/expect you to pay attention and not be a dumb ass.
After finishing with Slovenia, what to do next was the biggest question. Dubrovnik, the destination I wanted to visit the most was too far out of the way (at least two days overland). I was at an impasse. So, I wen to the station and caught a train that headed north through Bled into pastoral Austria and then from there west into Germany and onto Munich. Munich was a blur. Nothing against anyone who adores Germany (I found the landscape gorgeous). It just doesn't pique me at all. After getting into Paris early Monday morning the majority of the day was spent recovering from the pace of the past few days. Tuesday was Versailles-enormous. We went through the Chateau's tour, out around the gardens, had a picnic in Marie Antoinette's domain, and then explored her compound and pretend village. It was interesting and I'm glad I went but my enjoyment was tempered by my utter disdain for crowds (and the idiotic things they take pictures of). After getting back to the flat I tried to make chocolate chip cookies for Morgane but amidst the conversions (Celsius, grams, etc) lack of brown sugar, and no measuring cups something was lost. They were average and edible though far from pretty and reminded me more of muffins than anything.

London

2007-06-16T13:38:00.000+02:00

I've been slacking, I know. I hope to be able to update y'all on the last week of my travels before I leave. Its weird but Slovenia was more ''wired'' than France. Morgane says that they like to keep the "technology" separate from their day to day activities/life which I have to respect. She also lamented the Starbucks phase that is picking up there. People think its cool to walk around with their coffee like they see in movies and TV, which I guess makes a slight dent in the cafe culture. Anyways, Im still alive and in London. I think I'm going to the beach tom. with Morgane and her sister.

Blue Highways

2007-06-09T22:33:00.000+02:00

Let me preface this post a bit. 1) Dad you might want to get out your atlas. 2)Witty I wish you could have been behind the wheel for this portion of the trip, you would have loved it. 3) Kasia, I love you but I'm really glad you weren't behind the wheel...fifty fifty shot we would have died. Now that that is out of the way, I will begin.
I was able to rent a car this morning and drove south from Ljubljana to the Postojna cave system. I missed the 10AM tour and had to wait until 11AM, thus setting my packed day back an hour. The cave system was awe inspiring-the little trains carting you through most of the way not so much. Felt like I was riding the kids train at Creekmore Park. Despite that "they were beautiful caves" (the English speaking guide kept talking about the "beautiful caves" and "this is the most beautiful part of the beautiful caves").
Unlike the rest of my group, the majority of whom were German and Italian, I bypassed the tacky souvenir shops and headed down the road to the Predajma Castle. It was a veteran move. I beat the shopping crowd and was able to take in the castle with ease. I know I overuse the superlative "amazing" here a lot but this castle was amazing. Built into the side of a mountain it was virtually impenetrable.
As I was leaving the castle I, like Mr. Frost, came to a fork in the road. I could back track the way I came in or take the cliched road less traveled. I opted for the latter (thank the lord) and it made my day/trip--for the time being. I was immediately engulfed by trees on all sides and a nice vertical drop to my left. I maneuvered through the mountain road which quickly became a gravel path. Soldering on, I passed dozens of cut trees on the road side and rock slide warnings. Just at the moment I was beginning to worry, God gave me pavement.
I made it back to civilization--Slovene remnants of it at least--and then onto a normal two lane highway. After heading north by northeast to get back to a "normal" road, i.e. one on my map, I set back towards the northwest along the Idrija River Valley and up into the Soca River Valley. I continued along the same bearing towards the Italian/Austrian border and then hooked back to the northeast through Triglav National Park. Along the way I found several answers for those who claim you cant find heaven on earth. Tackling Ole Three Heads (Triglav) was a task. There are 50 combined switchback turns coming up and down the mountain. The turns themselves weren't so bad, it was the scads of bikers--Bikers of both sort, cyclists and Harley lovers. There are about 2 mil people in Slovenia and I would put money on them having the highest per capita motorcycle ridership/ownership of any nation. I probably saw upwards of 500 in my 6 or 7 hours on the road. Its rare, for me at least, to see natural water the color of aqua. These rivers in Slovenia are exactly thus, the very definition of aqua.
In many ways this area of the Julian Alps reminded me of Montana--by far my favorite state for scenery--rapids, fly fishing, kayakers. The level of proximity with the mountains around you (and their majesty) almost makes my memory of Montana pale in comparison (I would place the drive today at #2 on the trip thus far, behind the 1st view from Montemarte/night in Paris). The land was perfect for driving--mountain passes, straightaways along the river--everything a gear head could want. If I was excited about it, I cant imagine the level for someone like Witty or Hottie--and definitely explains the high amount of motorbiking.
After descending the mountain I headed east towards Bled. Standing on the shore of Bled looking out over the lake is one of the more picturesque sights available. Looking back the other way is not so lovely. That is the crux of my problem with Bled. It has a gorgeous view-a church on an island in the middle of a lake, a castle on a mountain overlooking the lake, traditional boats called Pluenta for transporting people to the island. All of which brings it to as close to picture perfect as possible. The town itself however is overgrown with tired, word communist era "resort" buildings and tacky shops.
I went for the church and its lore. It has 99 steps leading up the hill where the church sits. The tradition holds that a husband must carry his bride up the steps if he is to be thought fit to marry (I was lucky to catch the tail end of a wedding today while there). I'm told that few actually succeed (or attempt) the feat these days. There is a free standing bell in the middle of the church before the altar that, upon making a wish, you ring the bell and your wish will come true. Ive made mine, it doesn't involve the Cubs winning the world series but Ill let you know how it turns out.
So, Bled was a bit of a let down but I made it back in one piece, saw what I wanted to and all with time to spare for a small dinner and a cold Union. Ive finished with Slovenia and will head out tomorrow. Where depends on the trains.

Ljubljana Day 2

2007-06-08T22:09:00.000+02:00

After walking around this morning I found the Tourist Info office and secured another hotel room for the evening at Park Hotel. A bit further from the city center than Id like but it beats paying another 50euro at a nicer place. It reminds me of Jester.
I had lunch at Ribca, a fish place located right next to the fish market, overlooking the Sava River. Sarah would have freaked out if she was here. I ordered smoked trout with horseradish and rucola. They brought the entire fish, eyeballs and all (I'm trying not to make eye contact. It unnerves me a bit too). Despite the initial shock/chuckle, I peeled back the scales and devoured the best trout Ive had.
Hope of hopes, the sun is coming out. I will be walking up the mountainside to the city's castle-hopefully burning through the massive lunch.
The town seems to be filled with visitors. Ive overheard maybe a dozen native English speakers-the rest seem to be Slovenes and the ever prominent black footed sandal wearers.
I figured out what was going on in the main square yesterday, they were giving away a car to whoever could keep touching it the longest.
Sadly, I was able to stumble on the most strenuous path up to the castle. Huffing and puffing I made it up the mountainside, wondering the entire way how in the world this castle could ever be taken by an invading army. Turns out it hasn't. They successfully repelled the Ottomans and a peasant rebellion. The castle (and esp. the view) was amazing. On my way down I found the second easiest path up (the first being a tram). It is surprising how quickly one is surrounded by the woods--in a matter of steps you could convince yourself into thinking you were in the country. After resting a bit in the woods I cont. my walk through the city to see one of their architectural masterpiece's. This city is an architectural jewel. No architect has shaped a town/city as much as their native son, Joze Plecnik. After visiting the national and university library building I walked through one of the more serene and verdant sections of town to see his home. The museum inside is apparently top notch but closed on Fridays.
I was caught up in a late afternoon rain storm and was able to make it to the TI-burning an hour on the internet and getting a road map. I hope to rent a car tomorrow. I am planning on heading to Bled, a lakeside town, After a night and partial day there I will be making a drive through Triglev Natl Park, over the national mountain, and down the Soca River Valley. Most likely stopping at a small town for the night somewhere. Then I will head to see a cave system and a castle built into a cliff side. Then I will either drop the car off or begin a drive back towards Paris.
Tonight for dinner, once the rain stopped, I ambled down the now familiar streets to a place serving traditional Slovenian food. I started with an assorted wild mushroom soup and should have stopped there, it was in a sesame bread bowl and big enough for a meal. I had a hamburger like ground beef patty covered in some sort of Slovene sauce. My first non English speaking Slovene Ive met was my waiter tonight and mixed up my side order so I ended up with fries that I hardly touched. I drank a local rose colored win called Cvicek that is quite good. What is a Lewis vacation without too much food?

Ljubljana--A wet wander

2007-06-08T09:35:00.000+02:00

Finally made it. Light sprinkle when I disembarked and walked towards my hotel. I say "towards," I ambled along in a fairly correct general direction. After a good 15 minutes or so of wandering I found the hotel with the help of some waiters. Of course it was booked solid through the 14th. A panic made my stomach flop--I was truly worried. I passed two different outdoor festivals during my walk. The receptionist was able to get a room at my second choice--I had 15 minutes to get there. I did this successfully, passing a huge line for another concert along the way. I hadn't showered in 36hrs so that took priority over food (a first, I know). I'm going to be forced to find a different lodging tomorrow night because my hotel is booked solid. Thats a problem for tomorrow--tonights work includes a large Union pivo (beer) and a pizza. The Union is crisp and clean, just like Chill likes them, and the pizza is amazing. The different names for pig products across borders is mind boggling. Pepperoni=bacon in Slovenia, FYI. So, I have a bacon pizza with oregano, basil, and oil--not sliced, just one flat pie. Weird combination? Maybe but it is great.
The English of everyone Ive met so far has been excellent--Which naturally works out for me since my Slovenian is admittedly weak. My travel guide said to expect as much (in terms of English proficiency) but even with the forewarning I'm amazed at the excellent speech. It helps that the majority of television stations are in English with subtitles. The jukebox at the bar has been playing a steady diet of American music--from the Fugees to Percy Sledge.
The city seems full of young people and hearing them speak their native tongue mystifies me--I think I can say honestly Ive never heard Slovene spoken until today.
Despite the initial mist getting of the train, the night has been sublime. A slight breeze tempering the mild evening with just the right chill. As I write this I jinxed the evening and with it my plan for a riverside walk. After initially letting up, the rain has continued again with a new force and bade me to stay dry under the awning for one last pivo--the golden word across Eastern Europe.
I'm cold and wet after my walk back to my hotel--an unseen band is into its encore outside my window somewhere towards the river--there is life everywhere and Ive got the bug. I'm in love with Ljubljana.

Venice to Ljublana--Like totally

2007-06-08T09:26:00.000+02:00

The endless ennui of waiting at the Venice station finally ended. What I saw of Italy this morning I didn't like--graffiti everywhere and rundown. This leg, after backtracking out of Venice and looping north, has been nothing short of gorgeous. My quiet enjoyment is tempered by confusion and annoyance. I'm having a hard time figuring out why there is a large group of college kids heading to freaking Ljubljana, Slovenia. A big factor in this destination was the fact that its off the beaten path. Ive never heard "like" so many times in my life. Four girls are directly behind me all talking over one another in a cacophony of competing inanities.
What is worse--the constantly jabbering mother and grandmother (in what I guess is Hebrew) or these girls? At least the "like" girls are staying put--the other pair was constantly moving around. I escaped to an empty pack of seats, leaving a poor old man to deal with them himself. One hell for another I guess.
Earnest Hemingway drove an ambulance along the Soca River Valley front during WWI, eulogizing it forever in A Farewell to Arms. As the train chugs along through the lower Alpine forests and along mountainside curves offering breathtaking valley views, it reminds me somewhat of the drive on 540 to NWA. Thoughts of Hemingway and home offer a little respite from the no longer sober group of girls.

Paris to Venice--The morning and the wait

2007-06-08T09:18:00.000+02:00

The rain has found me again. Gray skies and a light mist covering Milan make it hard for me to believe this is a center for fashion. The ramshackle buildings and rusted machinery remind me more of Gary, Indiana than Italy.
Ive found an empty compartment. Richard and his girlfriend returned last night and are still asleep. I slept fitfully again--The "bed" wasn't too bad in and of itself. Throw in loud snoring by Allocene the majority of the night, two of her random bag inspections, and you have a recipe for lack of sleep. Now I'm somewhat worn, irritable, and less than hygienic praying for a short stopover in Venice en route to Ljubljana. I'm very fearful of a 7 or 8 hour wait.
Reached Venice just before 10AM--Long train ride made worse by lack of sleep and getting up early to see the cant miss view. Well you can miss it. I was extremely let down. Maybe the sun needs to be shining for its "magnificence" to be appreciated.
My train doesn't leave for Ljubljana until 345PM, which would give me time to see the major sights if it weren't raining. So I sit with heavy eyes watching the clock tick by.

Paris to Venice--Varying degrees

2007-06-08T09:02:00.000+02:00

Ive never been more uncomfortable in my life. After saying my goodbyes (for the week at least) to Morgane and Zoe I boarded the train for Venice. My compartment was booked to capacity, with nary an English speaker amongst them, which made me nervous. Then the last passenger in our compartment arrived wanting someone to switch with his friend so they could sit together. I figured what the hell, how could it get worse than the mixed cast I had? No freaking A/C is exactly how. Holy crap. Ive never been one to tolerate heat when stationary for five minutes much less a 12hr train ride. Why not switch back? I'm in a virtually empty cabin--Virtually sans Allocene?--a very large woman from the Ivory Coast prone to muttering under her breath and constantly rearranging her sacks of food containing god knows what. I think there is another passenger in our cabin too--British with adequate French, named Richard. He has rightly avoiding the cabin like the plague.
So far the passing scenery has been placid and idyllic. We've been following a river the majority of the way, name unknown. Ill have to find a decent map. I'm embarrassed by my lack of knowledge in regards to Europe's natural geography. My French history has been found above par--somehow besting my Parisian guides and stumping them often with my questions (of which I ask a lot, and are "weird" at that). We've been reassured twice that the AC was working now--I can hear it churning and though it seems to be getting cooler (or I am acclimating) its a slow process.
I wish I was more impressed with the scenery--there is nothing striking and Im kept wondering at every river and field what significance each particular plot had in WWII.
Allocene has raised her couchette. Shes been lying there for 15 minutes staring up into the corner of the cabin, lost in thought. She doesn't speak English and her accented French leaves me blank. So I'm left to ponder her story. Where is she going, what has she seen, what has she been adding with her calculator, and what the hell does she have in the dozen rucksacks?

Paris to Venice--D DAY

2007-06-06T13:25:00.000+02:00

I'm taking a train to Venice tonight at 8PM. Supposed to take 12hrs. I think I'm more nervous about this portion of my trip than any other. Ive ventured somewhat into the "unknown" thus far but I take the next step tonight. Ive relied on Morgane in steering me around, ordering food, etc and now the crutch will be cast aside. Hopefully I wont fall. Venice will be a short experience. I'll spend a day and a night there then hopefully be off again to Slovenia. I was informed by the ticket lady yesterday to be sure to wake up an hour before arrival because the view crossing the lagoon isn't to be missed.
Yesterday was spent in much the same fashion as my other days. The spot of leisure was the "Jardin des Plantes." We bought Turkish sandwiches (very similar to Gyros), which was another gourmand first. The "chef" has a giant hunk of lamb hanging up under a heat lamp. After preparing the bread, condiments, and vegetables he shears off larges pieces of lamb for each sandwich. Between the sandwich and the fries (I think they are more popular here than the states) it could have fed two. Ventured to the cinema again last night to see a French movie/musical called the "Chansons des Amours." It was kinda tough to follow along verbatim but I enjoyed it. Wonderfully shot and definitely French. It was pretty cool seeing a bunch of places I'd been to during my time here.
The extent of my time in Slovenia will be dependent on how much I enjoy it (I guess that is obvious). I really want to visit Dubrovnik but it is somewhat difficult to get to so I might have to save that experience for another time. My train back to London leaves Paris on Friday the 15th. I'll be getting back into Paris on Thursday, then Zoe and Morgane might join me in London for the weekend. I guess that is as close to an itinerary as I can get for those curious.

Paris Day 6 cont. & 7--Lazy river

2007-06-05T13:41:00.000+02:00

I ended up having some serious family time Sunday. After having the mother's day meal we (Morgane, Zoe, Eva and I) made the trek out into the country side to Eva & Zoe's parents house, who had apparently just made it back into town earlier that afternoon. I was regaled with another amazing home cooked meal and plenty of jabbering in French that was virtually impossible to follow (the lone exception being Jacqueline, the grandmother, who had exquisitely methodical and clear diction which allowed me to keep up with her portion of the conversation). I was also not informed of the fact that we would be sharing another family dinner, so I had already changed out of the "nice clothes" I had on into an ultimate jersey (my knowledge of activities is not on the high priority for these ladies unless I specifically ask they prefer to surprise me...which has its positives too) and felt...under dressed to say the least. Zoe is somewhat of a capricious instigator so she really enjoyed giving me a hard time about my choice of clothing for a nice dinner. We finally started heading back to Paris after midnight (I think Ive intimated how long, luxurious meals are and the cigarettes that follow them. Ive second hand smoked more in a week than I have my entire life I think).
After sleeping in, Zoe, Morgane, and I had lunch/first meal and then lazed around on the banks of the Seine napping and reading. Once we got our laziness out of the way, Zoe left to take care of her cats and Morgane and I set out for Luxembourg Gardens, passing the Sorbonne along the way. Luxembourg was lovely and despite the amount of people enjoying the weather very tranquil. Next we walked around the St. Germain area a bit before stopping for a drink and a snack. The purpose of the stop was to kill time waiting on Zoe to get back but naturally she was late. We eventually made our way back towards the flat and had dinner at an Indian restaurant...I know, stop the press--I ate Indian food and really enjoyed it. I had some sort of lamb dish, Mussa Tikka maybe? Crunchy flat bread was set on the table before the meal (The Indian equivalent to tortilla chips?) and reminded me of my mom's tacos. Yes, I know how weird it sounds but its true, there was a spice in it that I guess was in the spice pack she used.
I'm off to Slovenia tomorrow I believe.

Paris Days 3, 4, 5, 6

2007-06-03T17:26:00.000+02:00

The past few days have been very sedated (if anything in Paris can be). I've met Morgane's best friend, Zoe Kovacs. I tend to walk slow and eat fast. In Paris it's the opposite, walk fast and without abandon but take your sweet time with the meals (or anything but walking for that matter). I thought I had it bad dating Kasia. I've learned to expect one or two activities with these ladies to be all day affairs...I can't even begin to relate how many times Ive wanted to pull my air out. Please don't get the wrong idea, Ive been having great times throughout, I'm just easily frustrated. These last few days have been light on the sites and heavy on la vie français. I visited Oscar Wilde's grave at Père Lachaise and Musée D'Orsay. La vie français has been running various errands throughout the city, whiling away a couple of hours at a café or picnicking on the Sèine. There seems to be a phenomenon among Parisiens--the disbelieving eye. When approaching an intersection you must walk all the way to the curb (or most likely past it) and poke your head out to get a better look at traffic that is visible two steps back. I've never experienced such disregard for traffic than here (except maybe on campus at UT).
Yesterday we paid a visit to the childhood home of Zoe and her sister Eva in a small town outside of Chartres. Then we drove the 20 kilometers into Chartres and made our way to the riverside (creekside would be more apt) to rent paddle boats. Before we could do that though we had to get some food. Food is somewhat of a misnomer though. I've never been around people who eat more sweets. I thought I had a sweet tooth and these girls put me to shame. It was approaching 4PM by the time we sat down to our chocolate crepes...which was apparently breakfast. I wasn't sure if they considered the cookies we had on the way to be breakfast, apparently not. We paddled down a peaceful river I believe they call "l'Eure." I ended up handling the lions share of peddling but I guess I needed it after the crepe. After an hour of peddling along we left to visit the Cathedral. Instead of walking from where we were they decided to drive and try to find a spot closer. Wrong idea. After a half hour of driving through the surprisingly trafficked streets of Chartres we found another space and walked through the tight streets towards the church. Chartres is a very picturesque town, which makes the imposing Cathedral that much more spectacular. I think I might have been in more awe of Chartres Notre Dame than Paris'. After spending time walking in and around the church (which was in the middle of mass while I was inside) we thankfully decided to get some food. I've been rightfully accused of being like a toddler in that I get very testy when I'm hungry. I had had three cookies and a crepe by that point and it was well past 6, so I was a bit on the starving side of hungry. Well, after turning their noses up at several restaurants we finally ended up at a place on the town square. I felt like I had put up with a lot that day and needed some comfort food. So, for the first time on my trip, I ordered a cheeseburger and a large glass of beer. It helped soothe my soul thankfully. After dinner, we found our way back to the car and struck out for Paris (80 kilos). I've tried unsuccessfully to orient myself in Paris and have found it impossible. Despite this, I've felt like Eva (and her navigators) take really out of the way routes when in Paris. I have no way to prove this but I believe it. All of that is to say, it seems like it takes a ridiculous amount of time for them to get around Paris in a car (then you have to throw in 20 minutes of driving around trying to find a spot). All of that is neither here nor there but, upon getting back to the flat we all went to have a drink before calling it a night.
Today we've all (Eva, Zoe, Morgane, and I) spent at Morgane's mother's flat celebrating mother's day. Eva and Zoe's parents our out of town, hence they are here. Clint, Morgane's brother, is also here and thankfully speaks English. I needed some male companionship after these last few days surrounded by estrogen. We had a very French lunch that I thoroughly enjoyed. Not sure what tonight holds but, tomorrow might hold the beach if the weather is pleasant. And then I think Tuesday is departure day to somewhere...not sure yet.

Paris Day 2-The sites

2007-06-03T17:10:00.001+02:00

After sleeping in, Morgane and I headed out the door to hit the sights. I couldn't have a better guide (or host for that matter--The flat is big and in a great location, she had a week long subway pass for me when I arrived--both of which barely scratch the surface of her hospitality that she has extended to me).
We took the sub to L'Arc de Triomphe, then walked down the Champs Elysee-stopping at a patisserie, Ladurée, along the way. Morgane introduced me to the house specialty-Macaroon. Ive had macaroons in America but those fall miserably short of Ladurée's treat. As most of you know, I consider myself an expert in the dessert arts (tasting at least), so it's no weak praise when I call the small, simple confection perfect.
I'm a bit short on time so I won't wax on every detail of my day. I did see the sight: Eiffel tower, Notre Dame, etc. The one let down being my expectation of a building where the Bastille stood and not just a monument where it once was. Kind of disappointed and a little embarrassed that I didn't know the building wasn't there anymore. Scattered amongst our walk through the city was an early afternoon stop at a café for refreshment and recharging (smoking is allowed virtually everywhere and blows my mind)and an even later afternoon lunch off Louis XIII Square (just steps from Victor Hugo's home). A more lovely spot to eat a Croq Madame can't be imagined. My time here has definitely been a fairy tale so far--a surreal dream that has yet to sink in yet. Perhaps it's the lack of responsibility, lack of "real" life that makes this trip such a peaceful waking dream.
My time here has been so thoroughly authentic. We partook in the sacrament of Paris, the cinema, tonight as well--there was no popcorn, candy, cokes for sale--no lobby for that matter (this experience has granted no end to the revelations).

Paris Day 1-A Fairy Tale...

2007-06-03T16:37:00.000+02:00

In the realm of possibilities, I'm sure there are some who could find a better way to start their Paris adventure. For myself though, it doesn't get any better than my first night. Morgane met me at the train station (I was a little nervous about whether or not she'd be there). After a little bit of initial awkwardness upon seeing each other after 5 yrs (a small mix up on the subway) we arrived at our stop (Villiers Station). Walking out of the Tube in London was amazing for me, this was well beyond that and can never be replicated. As I reached the top of the stairs I was greeted with an exquisite view of Sacrè Couer directly in front of me, perched on its hill top. Mon dieu et bonjour, Paris.
Morgane has secured an amazing flat for me while I'm here--beautiful. The windows look out onto a wonderful courtyard that give the building a serenity unthinkable in a city of this size. After sitting and talking for awhile we set out on the 1.5 mile (give or take) walk towards Montmarte. Morgane guided me through the more pleasant side streets as we made our way to the top. We turned a corner and there it was in front of me. I hadn't realized we were "there" already.
If you've seen the view (especially at sunset) then you know the glory of Paris. If you haven't, then we are out of luck because I haven't the ability to describe the magnificence. We made our way into the church, a jewel in its own right, and as luck would have it the sisters were in the midst of a choral prayer. Nothing could have amplified my awe in the church like their voices.
Upon leaving the cathedral, we paused on the top of the steps leading towards the front doors of the church. We sat picking out the scenes and monuments of the city, admiring the view for some time before making our descent.
Eventually we looped back down the hill towards the flat passing the Moulon Rouge (the sex trade is still strong in the area, and despite this...or perhaps as a result...the neighborhood is trendy). Despite the late hour (1030) we were able to eat dinner at a traditional bistro around the corner from the flat. Morgane naturally handled the ordering, seating, etc and then towards the end of the meal, I was asked in perfect English (w/out a trace of accent) if everything was good by the host. It really threw me for a loop. But, to answer his question and to fill you all in, it was great. I had duck--when in Rome, right? Dinner at this bustling bistro was a perfect cap to end the long day.

London to Paris--A trip of 1sts

2007-05-31T20:59:00.001+02:00

First time out of the country, first time in Canada, first time to cross the Atlantic, first time in Great Britain and now my first real train ride. I'm well aware that it wont meet my idealized notions of train travel (between going under water and traveling at light speed, it will be nowhere near any nostalgic civilized conception from English Lit). Nevertheless I'm genuinely excited about the train ride and my first glimpse of the continent--the excitement only slightly tempered by my always inopportune and fickle stomach ailments.
The chunnel was much shorter than Id expected. I don't know if Id say it was a let down (like the "tunnel" in NWA was the first time I went through it). The first continental glimpse was one of post card farmland followed quickly by the city/stop of Calais. First difference between UK and France is the lack of trees separating the tracks from the country side which obviously helps the view.

London--Not a chill to the wind but a nip to the air

2007-05-31T20:34:00.000+02:00

I slept horribly. Couldn't find the right sleep. I was fooled by the early sunlight of the north. I assumed it had to be 7am at the earliest--5:15. I felt like Kasia, up until 2AM and wide awake @5. So I went for a walk. For some reason the think I wanted to see the most in London was Grosvenor Square. I guess that's silly but there it is. I set off north towards the Square passing all sorts of embassies along the way. I had London to myself that early in the morning. The street I took to the square was small and tight, confirming my preconceptions of London. After reaching the square I realized that the majority of it was cordoned off (protection for our embassy). I strolled around it then headed towards Hyde Park. The vast open space was amazing in the heart of the city (it would have reminded me of Central Park more if it weren't so flat). Achilles, looming large, was the most striking feature of the park. A monstrous sculpture, it was created from cannon used during several battles to honor the Duke of Wellington. I strolled down the (by this point) the much busier Knightsbridge Rd towards Royal Albert Hall (the other top destination in London for me) before realizing it would be too much ground to cover. I also figured something would be open by this point so I could get batteries for my travel alarm clock and maybe a quick bite. Wrong again. It was only 630 by the time I got back to my hotel. I wandered for another 15 minutes (getting a Pain au Rasin at Starbucks along the way) until I found a small shop run by a man apparently prone to sneezing fits--which naturally interrupted the battery and newspaper transaction. He was a friendly, helpful man though (helping me sort through the various change I'd acquired). Speaking of which, Ive always envisioned English women as somewhat frumpy and with bad teeth--wrong again--I haven't seen anyone around my age that wasn't at least on the attractive side of plain. Maybe I'm just in need of personal/verbal contact so my eyes are jaundiced.

After about 4 more hrs of sleep I walked across the street to what I can only guess is Jamba Juice's UK arm/brand: Crush. Jamba is better. I cleaned up, packed, and went down to check out. Despite its ease and low cost I opted for a cab to Waterloo instead of the Tube. The concierge hailed me a bright pink Taxi and off Charles and I went. I'm glad I opted for the cab because I passed the changing of the guard as it was happening and saw Parliament, Big Ben, etc along the way (with the ever present help of Charles pointing things out along the way). Now I'm about 3hrs early for my train (I guess I take after Dad) but I had to be out of the hotel by 12 and don't feel like lugging my bag around London trying to see sights--So, instead Ive got the International Herald Tribune, a croissant, some water and a prime spot for people watching.

Toronto to London

2007-05-31T16:57:00.000+02:00

My flights been delayed 45mins. I wonder if they'll "make up time in the air" à la Seinfeld. Ive been amazed at how much longer the days are here than in Austin. Maybe I'm just more aware here (that and the fact that I am never up before 6am in Austin). I was shocked to see that 2 of the 4 breakfast dishes offered at the airport restaurant this morning had chorizo in them. I was not adventurous enough to sully my pretentious Austin mouth with the Great White North's version but it did give me a chuckle of amusement ( especially since I'm so used to Yankee's asking what 'CHOR-EYE-ZO' is). Hopefully the flight will go well and I'll be in London safely.

It's midnight and I managed to navigate myself safely from the airport to my hotel for 4 pounds. The rain has followed me here but stopped long enough for me to get to my hotel dry. My first view as I crested the steps leading out of the Tube were red telephone booths--Quintessential London. I didn't pause over the '"view," my bag was heavy and I was anxious to find my hotel. Initially I was somewhat confused on finding it. I spotted what see,ed to be my hotel--big glass entry way, well lit but the address was 1 Curzon and I needed 53 Curzon. For a moment I doubted the innate navigation skills as a male but as I turned around I saw my hotel (which, as it turns out is a condo/hotel building and did nothing to meet my expectations of what a hotel should look like. Now its well after 12 and I'm debating between finding an internet cafe (that is supposedly 1 min away) or showering after a long day of travel and trying to force sleep on my 730PM body.

Apparently everything closes early in London except for 24hr Kinko's/FedEx. I hadn't realized the 24hr convenience store idea never made it across the Pond. Everyone I asked looked at me like I asked them if there were any Martians around, "Oh no...Not Around here" followed with a shock of disbelief that anyone could ask that kind of question.

Houston to Toronto

2007-05-31T16:50:00.001+02:00

I was safely dropped off at the Airport by Gogo and Granddad. Currently waiting to board. A bit nervous but sure of the trip and the guaranteed joy it will I know it holds.

In Toronto finally. The rain gods wont let me dry out. Its overcast and raining. My flight was quite bumpy which wasn't great for my nerves. Upon disembarking I realized that Toronto really does live up to its billing as the worlds most diverse city. After some initial confusion I was able to find ,y way through customs and then somehow locate the shuttle to my hotel. There are major differences between the US and Can (everything being announced in Fr and Eng pops into my head first) the small differences-mainly in wording (History Television instead of channel). My first experience in another country will be a brief one but has created a much greater excitement inside me that lust for Europe.

Austin to Houston

2007-05-31T16:44:00.000+02:00

I'm sorry this has taken me so long to do but blogspot was banned at the London cafe. I'm on a tricky French computer so bear with me.

There are few occasions that make me nervous driving. I'm at peace on the road. My first leg from Austin to Houston was far from peaceful. I was afraid Id be washed off the road. Visibility was pitiful and my self confidence was thankfully dented by enough by the rain to slow down. The one solace from the rain was the top 500 country song count down on KVET that I had for half the trip. After I lost that station I continued soaking myself in Americana by listening to The Sugar Hill Anthology. I guess the impending Euro adventure has me grasping for true American music to help bury my fears.