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
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Opera Garnier
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.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Fear
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.
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.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Nostalgia
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.
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.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Belgian Waffles & 4 Random Notes
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
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
Friday, January 25, 2008
Bruges (and the continuing saga of the Euro-toilet)
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Brussels, Sandwiches, and Orwell
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.
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.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Off to Belgium
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.
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.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
On Language
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.
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.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Conceptions of Europe
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.
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.
Friday, January 18, 2008
The Things I Have to See
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
The Italian in her
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.
"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
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.
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
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.
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.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Pictures from Bretagne
Here are a few pictures from the Bretagne weekend courtesy of the Magic Queen, Mme. Zoe Kovacs.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Back in Paris
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Sintra and Dreams
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.
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
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).
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
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.
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
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.
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.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Apology, Random notes, and 2 pictures
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Driving in Paris (& various other things)
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.)
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.)
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Happy New Year
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.
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.
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