Just as a general warning to the readers of my adventure journal - whomever you might be - my next post after this is going to be exceedingly long. I suggest doing stretches, and maybe taking a nap before starting.
11.26.2008
Gah! So Much Luggage!
I just got half-way through sorting my stuff. I have about two pounds of maps, tour pamphlets, subway tickets, mementos and other paper-based crap, several pounds of rocks (not the lightest hobby to have - rock collecting), all of my clothes I brought with originally, all the clothes I've had shipped, various presents of differing weights that will have to be sent off in the next few days for Christmas, my laptop, my shoes, various books (none of which I've read - I haven't been in much of a reading mood while here), papers and other assorted homeworks, letters and newspaper clippings, my cellphone charger, power adapter, a stale baguette, two wrought-iron balusters, a travel kennel for a marmot, a bathing house for two but deck chairs for three, and of course, the front half of a Trabant.
Gah! So Much Backblog!
Alright, I'm like a month behind on this adventure journal now. So, I could craft a super-long entry that can only be finished by three people, starting before dawn and proceeding in four-hour shifts, producing condensed 300-or-so word summaries of what they've just read at the end of every shift to fill in the next person and continuing well into next Wednesday. Or, I could just write broadly, writing here there and everywhere like I were Jackson Pollock. Well, rather than tell you how I'm going to tell you everything I did, I'll just tell you. So, here's me, telling you.
November 1st: Wake up Brussels, early morning. Say goodbye and thank you to couchsurf host Damien, eat an apple muffin, get on the train to Bruges. Arrive in Bruges in the mid-morning. It will rain the entire day, and my umbrella will become mostly destroyed in the wind. Bruges is lovely - big towering... uh, towers. Most are churches, but not all. Picturesque, if, like, your pictures sucked. I mean, yeah it was cool, but it's not like it wasn't like EVERY OTHER MEDIEVAL CITY I'VE EVER SEEN. And it was raining. Check in at the hostel at 3. Nap. Meet a nice American girl from New York doing the Grand Tour, who is a floral design artist. We have dinner, sampling some beer, talk, and then call it quits around midnight thirty. Sleep.
November 2nd: Wake up Bruges. The sun! The sun! Finally the sun! I hadn't seen the sun in like three weeks at this point, 'cuz it'd been raining in Montpellier as well as in Belgium. Granted, the sun went away after like an hour, but I got some pretty pictures from a windmill on a hill by the edge of the city. Will have to wait for developing. Saw a church that is an exact replica of either the Church of the Holy Sepulcher or the Church of the Nativity. Definitely not supposed to be in Belgium, in any case. Wandered around, saw a Michelangelo, got some fries, got on the train to Gent.
Arrive Gent in the early afternoon. Cloudy again. Wander around, see a tree the map says "is the most beautiful tree in the world". It sucked. It was brownish gold and was mostly just big. I don't think Belgians have high standards. Or know what they're talking about. Saw the old Socialist Party HQ, also billed as "the most beautiful building". Not quite as sucky as the tree, but nothing to, you know, write home about, present description excluded. Went and saw the "three towers", the Cathedral, the Town Hall, and another Cathedral (which is not actually a cathedral, since it is only in really really big cities that you'd need two Cardinals - if ever). 'Twas cool. Ate lunch at a pannekoekenhuis. Tasty. Wandered around s'more. Met my host, Ramses. Very nice, very generous. Took me out for Bicky's, sort of the national Belgian fast food. Not bad. Worse than McDonalds, but once you're down at that level, it's really just scraping at the bedrock to get further. Get some beer with his friends. Bear in mind, any time I say 'got beer' or 'tried beer', I never had the same beer twice. They literally have a type of beer for every person in the country. Sleep.
November 3rd: Said goodbye to Ramses. Walked around. Saw s'more stuff. Got some interesting postcards that used to be instructional flashcards for Belgian schoolchildren in the 1950s. One of them has the skeletal structure of a pigeon in Dutch and French (the pigeon, remember, is the national bird of Belgium). Some others are quite cool. Went into the real cathedral - saw Van Eyck's Adoration of the Lamb. Or rather, saw a reproduction of it in the back, since the original is in a little boutique that costs 4 euros, and the repro is exactly the same and free. Got a postcard of the angels signing. They look seriously uncomfortable, or confused, or both. Left the cathedral. Wandered around. Realized that, light as I had packed, carrying around 15 lbs or so on my back for four days for about 14 hours a day is kinda rough. Sat for like an hour. Went to find some of the first houses built by Victor Horta. Sucked. I mean c'mon, it took me like half an hour to find them on the block, and when I did I was SO disappointed. Went to use the bathroom at the Design Museum, 'cuz it was free (not many public toilets in continental Europe). While I'm washing my hands, the janitor, who is cleaning up, turns to me and asks:
"Niederlander?" - meaning, am I from the Netherlands.
"No, American."
"Ah, the U S of A. [Pause] So, whose going to win?"
[Me, a little weirded out] "Obama(?)"
"I think so too. He's the real McCoy."
Let me take a moment to analyze what just happened. A Dutch-speaking janitor at the Gent Design Museum is first of all, versed enough in current affairs to know about the US elections (though, really, you'd have to be dead not to), but second of all, knows and is able to use correctly the phrase 'the real McCoy'. I was thoroughly impressed. In fact, I was laughing for like five minutes after that. After that, went to the Botanical Gardens. Neat. Called my host for the night to get the scoop. Can't remember his name anymore. I want to say it was like, Jeremy. That isn't right though. Maybe Sebastian. While I could take twenty seconds and look it up online, I won't, because I am obstinate, and let's face it, I can do a lot more with inventing names every time I need to mention Chuck over there, rather than getting the goods and confirming that he is, in fact, named Jamal. Call up Matongo, he says he'll meet me at the Town Hall around 7. Go there. Meet Cillian at 7. Yunis and I go back to his apartment, which is seriously an hour away on foot, and my back is hurting. I am not happy with you at this moment Joachim, I telepathically tell him. Hussein and I get to his place, where he lives with a young couple and their child. Apparently, lots of, whatchamacallit, roommating dealies in Belgium. While Akiro makes dinner, I take a shower, since I haven't bathed at this point in like five days. Mr. Kookaramanga and I eat dinner, he's an artist, I ask him what that's like, he tells me. I go to sleep.
November 4th: Rin Tin Tin and I take the tram to the station. I say goodbye to Benjamin, and continue on to Brussels. Floriean goes off to work. For reference, Gent is a city that can be seen in about two hours, not two days. Please leave after you find yourself saying, "Well, I could go see this other thing, or..." In fact, you've probably had a fulfilling experience if you leave the whole of Belgium at that point. Arrive Brussels - I think it's sunny. It probably was that day. It was sunny one of them days. Go see the Africa Museum first. SO COOL. First, it's like an hour outside Brussels, so you have to take the tram to get there. The tram goes through one of the only remaining forests in Belgium (sad, but true) - and when you get there, it's a neat place all about how King Leopold screwed the Congo. They have one painting in particular called 'Civilization', where a black boy is being whipped by the house slave while the white master looks on, idly. Yup, that was the 19th century for you. I have something in my teeth. I need to brush them. Also, I've been mistaken for a journalist a couple of times now by virtue of carrying a respectable-looking camera around my neck. Sweet! Took the tram back. Went to the Military Museum to finish up seeing what I hadn't. In other words, a hanger full of old airplanes. Also cool. Went up top the big Arc de Triomphe of Belgium to look out on the murky city of Brussels. Even on a clear day, you can't see more than five miles for whatever reason - pollution, smog, clouds, etc. Speaking of seeing things, did I mention seeing Atomium - the giant model of an iron atom built for the 1950-something World's Fair? It was... not as cool as I'd hoped. After that, I think I got lunch. I got moule-frites, which are mussels and fries, only the place I went to made you make them yourself, so... I don't think they were the genuine article. I ended up just fishing mussels out of a jar and eating them with fries. It wasn't bad, but I'm lucky I didn't end up hurling. Went to the Comic Book Museum. Sucked. Almost 8 euro for two floors dedicated to obscure, obscure Belgian comics and the Smurfs. Only like two panels on Tintin, which was the real reason I came. They will pay dearly for this insult. Near darkish - head to where my couchsurf host Yann lives. It's a fair way to the south of the city - not good since I gotta catch a train at 5:40AM.
Yann is nice, college student in communications - he makes dinner, we go out to meet some of his friends at a bar. On the bus, an old Congolese woman is sitting behind us wearing an Obama button. You rock, lady! Have more beer, meet his friends, all nice people, all Francophone Belgians - unlike Ramses and his friends, who spoke only Dutch and left me confused. Oh, I forgot to mention, I saw my friends Meg and Ping - from Montpellier - in Gent. That was nice. Also out with Yann and his friends was their Slovakian friend... I wanna say her name was Stephanie. She works as the representative for Slovakia for the European Commission's Youth Organization or something like that. Like a girl scout for bureaucrats. Only, she's like 30 (fooled me), and probably legitimately employed. Apparently Yann and his friends met her on vacation in Slovakia several years ago and have been friends since. She didn't speak French super well either, so it was nice that they were taking it easy for both of us. They asked me about the election, about my studies, etc. Nice people. Went back to Yann's place. Slept for four hours.
November 5th: Wake up 4:00AM. Take care of my luggage, etc. Yann walks me to the Avenue Louise, from which is a straight shot to the Boulevard Peripherique that wraps around downtown Brussels and where the train station is located. Say goodbye to him, thank him. Walk, then run for about an hour and a half to the train station. Make it with 10 minutes to spare. On my way in, I see a crowd of people standing under a TV monitor. Guess what they're looking at? Oh that's right, it's the real McCoy, who just became President-Elect the real McCoy. Collapse on the train - sleep groggily for a few hours until the customs agents come onboard and start ruffling through my stuff. Sleep more until the SNCF agent comes on to tell me I'm in the wrong seat, and ask me why I'm in the wrong seat, and scrutinize me to see if he should fine me or not. He does not. I get off at Valence, change trains, head back to Montpellier. Sleep.
So, that was my long overdue entry about my excursion to Belgium. Lovely place. If you have the chance to go, do so. Would I go back? Well, I'm not gonna say no, but I'm not gonna say 'in a heartbeat' either. Since then, what've I done? Well, aside from mundanity, not too much. Oh wait, I just got home from Ireland yesterday. So, lemme tell y'all all 'bout that!
November 1st: Wake up Brussels, early morning. Say goodbye and thank you to couchsurf host Damien, eat an apple muffin, get on the train to Bruges. Arrive in Bruges in the mid-morning. It will rain the entire day, and my umbrella will become mostly destroyed in the wind. Bruges is lovely - big towering... uh, towers. Most are churches, but not all. Picturesque, if, like, your pictures sucked. I mean, yeah it was cool, but it's not like it wasn't like EVERY OTHER MEDIEVAL CITY I'VE EVER SEEN. And it was raining. Check in at the hostel at 3. Nap. Meet a nice American girl from New York doing the Grand Tour, who is a floral design artist. We have dinner, sampling some beer, talk, and then call it quits around midnight thirty. Sleep.
November 2nd: Wake up Bruges. The sun! The sun! Finally the sun! I hadn't seen the sun in like three weeks at this point, 'cuz it'd been raining in Montpellier as well as in Belgium. Granted, the sun went away after like an hour, but I got some pretty pictures from a windmill on a hill by the edge of the city. Will have to wait for developing. Saw a church that is an exact replica of either the Church of the Holy Sepulcher or the Church of the Nativity. Definitely not supposed to be in Belgium, in any case. Wandered around, saw a Michelangelo, got some fries, got on the train to Gent.
Arrive Gent in the early afternoon. Cloudy again. Wander around, see a tree the map says "is the most beautiful tree in the world". It sucked. It was brownish gold and was mostly just big. I don't think Belgians have high standards. Or know what they're talking about. Saw the old Socialist Party HQ, also billed as "the most beautiful building". Not quite as sucky as the tree, but nothing to, you know, write home about, present description excluded. Went and saw the "three towers", the Cathedral, the Town Hall, and another Cathedral (which is not actually a cathedral, since it is only in really really big cities that you'd need two Cardinals - if ever). 'Twas cool. Ate lunch at a pannekoekenhuis. Tasty. Wandered around s'more. Met my host, Ramses. Very nice, very generous. Took me out for Bicky's, sort of the national Belgian fast food. Not bad. Worse than McDonalds, but once you're down at that level, it's really just scraping at the bedrock to get further. Get some beer with his friends. Bear in mind, any time I say 'got beer' or 'tried beer', I never had the same beer twice. They literally have a type of beer for every person in the country. Sleep.
November 3rd: Said goodbye to Ramses. Walked around. Saw s'more stuff. Got some interesting postcards that used to be instructional flashcards for Belgian schoolchildren in the 1950s. One of them has the skeletal structure of a pigeon in Dutch and French (the pigeon, remember, is the national bird of Belgium). Some others are quite cool. Went into the real cathedral - saw Van Eyck's Adoration of the Lamb. Or rather, saw a reproduction of it in the back, since the original is in a little boutique that costs 4 euros, and the repro is exactly the same and free. Got a postcard of the angels signing. They look seriously uncomfortable, or confused, or both. Left the cathedral. Wandered around. Realized that, light as I had packed, carrying around 15 lbs or so on my back for four days for about 14 hours a day is kinda rough. Sat for like an hour. Went to find some of the first houses built by Victor Horta. Sucked. I mean c'mon, it took me like half an hour to find them on the block, and when I did I was SO disappointed. Went to use the bathroom at the Design Museum, 'cuz it was free (not many public toilets in continental Europe). While I'm washing my hands, the janitor, who is cleaning up, turns to me and asks:
"Niederlander?" - meaning, am I from the Netherlands.
"No, American."
"Ah, the U S of A. [Pause] So, whose going to win?"
[Me, a little weirded out] "Obama(?)"
"I think so too. He's the real McCoy."
Let me take a moment to analyze what just happened. A Dutch-speaking janitor at the Gent Design Museum is first of all, versed enough in current affairs to know about the US elections (though, really, you'd have to be dead not to), but second of all, knows and is able to use correctly the phrase 'the real McCoy'. I was thoroughly impressed. In fact, I was laughing for like five minutes after that. After that, went to the Botanical Gardens. Neat. Called my host for the night to get the scoop. Can't remember his name anymore. I want to say it was like, Jeremy. That isn't right though. Maybe Sebastian. While I could take twenty seconds and look it up online, I won't, because I am obstinate, and let's face it, I can do a lot more with inventing names every time I need to mention Chuck over there, rather than getting the goods and confirming that he is, in fact, named Jamal. Call up Matongo, he says he'll meet me at the Town Hall around 7. Go there. Meet Cillian at 7. Yunis and I go back to his apartment, which is seriously an hour away on foot, and my back is hurting. I am not happy with you at this moment Joachim, I telepathically tell him. Hussein and I get to his place, where he lives with a young couple and their child. Apparently, lots of, whatchamacallit, roommating dealies in Belgium. While Akiro makes dinner, I take a shower, since I haven't bathed at this point in like five days. Mr. Kookaramanga and I eat dinner, he's an artist, I ask him what that's like, he tells me. I go to sleep.
November 4th: Rin Tin Tin and I take the tram to the station. I say goodbye to Benjamin, and continue on to Brussels. Floriean goes off to work. For reference, Gent is a city that can be seen in about two hours, not two days. Please leave after you find yourself saying, "Well, I could go see this other thing, or..." In fact, you've probably had a fulfilling experience if you leave the whole of Belgium at that point. Arrive Brussels - I think it's sunny. It probably was that day. It was sunny one of them days. Go see the Africa Museum first. SO COOL. First, it's like an hour outside Brussels, so you have to take the tram to get there. The tram goes through one of the only remaining forests in Belgium (sad, but true) - and when you get there, it's a neat place all about how King Leopold screwed the Congo. They have one painting in particular called 'Civilization', where a black boy is being whipped by the house slave while the white master looks on, idly. Yup, that was the 19th century for you. I have something in my teeth. I need to brush them. Also, I've been mistaken for a journalist a couple of times now by virtue of carrying a respectable-looking camera around my neck. Sweet! Took the tram back. Went to the Military Museum to finish up seeing what I hadn't. In other words, a hanger full of old airplanes. Also cool. Went up top the big Arc de Triomphe of Belgium to look out on the murky city of Brussels. Even on a clear day, you can't see more than five miles for whatever reason - pollution, smog, clouds, etc. Speaking of seeing things, did I mention seeing Atomium - the giant model of an iron atom built for the 1950-something World's Fair? It was... not as cool as I'd hoped. After that, I think I got lunch. I got moule-frites, which are mussels and fries, only the place I went to made you make them yourself, so... I don't think they were the genuine article. I ended up just fishing mussels out of a jar and eating them with fries. It wasn't bad, but I'm lucky I didn't end up hurling. Went to the Comic Book Museum. Sucked. Almost 8 euro for two floors dedicated to obscure, obscure Belgian comics and the Smurfs. Only like two panels on Tintin, which was the real reason I came. They will pay dearly for this insult. Near darkish - head to where my couchsurf host Yann lives. It's a fair way to the south of the city - not good since I gotta catch a train at 5:40AM.
Yann is nice, college student in communications - he makes dinner, we go out to meet some of his friends at a bar. On the bus, an old Congolese woman is sitting behind us wearing an Obama button. You rock, lady! Have more beer, meet his friends, all nice people, all Francophone Belgians - unlike Ramses and his friends, who spoke only Dutch and left me confused. Oh, I forgot to mention, I saw my friends Meg and Ping - from Montpellier - in Gent. That was nice. Also out with Yann and his friends was their Slovakian friend... I wanna say her name was Stephanie. She works as the representative for Slovakia for the European Commission's Youth Organization or something like that. Like a girl scout for bureaucrats. Only, she's like 30 (fooled me), and probably legitimately employed. Apparently Yann and his friends met her on vacation in Slovakia several years ago and have been friends since. She didn't speak French super well either, so it was nice that they were taking it easy for both of us. They asked me about the election, about my studies, etc. Nice people. Went back to Yann's place. Slept for four hours.
November 5th: Wake up 4:00AM. Take care of my luggage, etc. Yann walks me to the Avenue Louise, from which is a straight shot to the Boulevard Peripherique that wraps around downtown Brussels and where the train station is located. Say goodbye to him, thank him. Walk, then run for about an hour and a half to the train station. Make it with 10 minutes to spare. On my way in, I see a crowd of people standing under a TV monitor. Guess what they're looking at? Oh that's right, it's the real McCoy, who just became President-Elect the real McCoy. Collapse on the train - sleep groggily for a few hours until the customs agents come onboard and start ruffling through my stuff. Sleep more until the SNCF agent comes on to tell me I'm in the wrong seat, and ask me why I'm in the wrong seat, and scrutinize me to see if he should fine me or not. He does not. I get off at Valence, change trains, head back to Montpellier. Sleep.
So, that was my long overdue entry about my excursion to Belgium. Lovely place. If you have the chance to go, do so. Would I go back? Well, I'm not gonna say no, but I'm not gonna say 'in a heartbeat' either. Since then, what've I done? Well, aside from mundanity, not too much. Oh wait, I just got home from Ireland yesterday. So, lemme tell y'all all 'bout that!
11.16.2008
My Perpetual Regret
I want holes drilled into the sides of my head, right next to my eyes, facing in that same direction, and in these holes will be threaded fiber-optic video cameras that will be able to record the world as I perceive it in real time. The fact that I do not have these cameras in my head right now makes me ever disappointed that some of the things I see are merely burnt into my brain, and not into a central processing drive where I can easily retrieve them. Also, with these cameras, I could then share with you, the readers of this adventure journal, said pictures or videos. Alas. I guess I'll have to make do with my SRL and Grandma Anne's digital camera - for which, I found a repair place on Friday. The silica packets did not work, unfortunately. Hopefully, they can get it done cheaply and expediently as I would like to have it before I go to Ireland on Friday. Ah yes, I forgot to mention, I'm off to Ireland on Friday.
11.14.2008
The Montpellier Plus
The citizens of Montpellier are blessed, once a week, with the free paper "Montpellier Plus" which bills itself as the "Essential of Information" and is a compression of local news, national news, world news, and little human interest stories related to Montpellier. On my tram ride this morning, I was reading a story about two Montpellierains living in New York, and I decided it might be worthwhile to show you all a little bit of what I get every week. True, the Montpellier Plus is not Le Monde or even the more local Midi Libre, which is the French equivalent of USA Today, but... well, I'll comment afterwards. Anything in the article that was already in English, I'll asterix*. Here is the (mostly literal) English translation, care of moi:
Header: Expatriates - For these Montpellierains, France doesn't meet the standard anymore (literally, doesn't have the weight). Still, it has a standard. Touched by the myth of the American dream, from now on, their Comédie (the main plaza here), is Broadway and their scrubland, the forest of "terribly attaching" tentacular concrete and where, they say, "everything's possible"*.
New York, yes they can!*
Montpellierains in the city that never sleeps
They have made the choice to wake up every morning in a city that never sleeps more than to sleep themselves in this where on says, the sun never goes to bed (implying Montpellier). For these Montpellierains with reddened eyes - but not by the tears of the exile-, New York merits largely its statute of "must live in"* of cities of the possible. For some different reasons, he [Eric] "because I had enough of France and its skimpy mentality," and she [Muriel] "to follow my husband and because working for the UN is a privelege." He is an independent kitchen chef since 12 years, she is a translator of Russian and English for the Security Council since 2006. Eric Delalande and Muriel Robinson reside both in the Upper East Side situated between Central Park and the East River on the north of the isle of Manhattan, a quarter in which a square meter is one of the most expensive in the United States, reputed for its grand hotels, its prestigious schools, such as the French Institute and its celebrated habitants like Woody Allen.
Is it the cause of its mythic skyline and yellow taxis, for its outmoded clichés for which they have chosen the most coveted metropolis, erected in symbol of the American dream? Because all that you have heard on New York is true, we ate there a lot of hot dogs and hot pretzels (spelled bretzel - I can't tell if its a typo or not) on the corners of streets, the businesswomen striding Downtown with Prada and Nike on the feet, the mouths of the sewer smoking in the middle of avenues and there is a Starbucks Coffee for ten habitants. All here is in excessive size down to the rations on the plates. Very quickly one understands that it is a pride to live in Big Apple, it is "up to date"*, cultural New York, and above all it's "up to you"*, providential New York. New York has something of "up to" difficultly translated into common French.
Ducasse and Robuchon shined there for years, thus why not Eric Delalande. Because it is well "the dream american that on believes to attain on day but behind which one has yet to complete years later" which stimulates him and keeps him here since twelve years now with wife and child. And on this 3rd of November, where hte United States don't yet know what it will go to unclench a new era, Eric sense that he can touch it with a finger. "After eight years of Bush, eight years of shit, it has produces a fat revolution of lifestyle which surpasses politics. With the economic crisis, after Iraq, the people don't want to be brutalized anymore."
What seems evident for Eric is that France cruelly lacks this energy that there is here in spite of the hardness of life. "There is a grand liberty of enterprise, and more choice in careers." Muriel who considers above all the concrete value of things estimates that one makes above all the choice of New York "which is not the United States" for "to live here fully in liberalism" (which is to say that above all, one makes the choice of living in New York knowing you'll be living in full economic liberalism). Appearing less concerned by the perspective of better tomorrows, she tempers her proposal in adding she's "not being always in accordance with the government but tries to set it aside". To forge ahead, always. Even if the worm has long since been in the big apple and that the economic crisis poses major problems that one cannot possibly imagine here in France. "My husband works for an investment fund firm and has been subjected to the crisis in head-on collision. As for me, I work all day and neither he nor I have security like unemployment insurance." Leave, stay? It is an eventuality that she displays with a strange serenity. But struggle along, no.
Eric juggles with his charges like a tightrope walker on a wire held above his daily life. "Each month there is $10,000 of which $5,500 goes to rent, $1,500 in insurance, health insurance, social security, etc. and for the French school, $25,000 per year," he exclaims. But neither one nor the other will pronounce the terms of "precariousness" or "buying power". Too loose* (I have no idea why they used this word, it wasn't even in quotes or anything) when one cultivates the win as a New Yorkaise (yes, they call New Yorkers les New-Yorkaise). "I will always find a job and income cooking, one finds it everywhere here" underlines Eric. The worst of the country, they seem not to know. Muriel reminds herself always of the nostalgic scents of the scrubland and the Pic-Saint-Loup (the local mountain), declaring "an unalterable attachment to Montpellier." but never forgetting to thank in passing "the absence of strikes".
"After three days in France, I think of nothing but leaving again. France, it is good for the concept of social security," says Eric, who would not see hanging up the whisk "to return home" if Mc Cain makes off with the 270 grand electors of victory (yes, the verb rafler literally translates to 'swipe' or 'make off with'). But he doesn't yet think that a page in America is in the process of turning. And that he'll keep at it for four years... at least!
Intermittent Quotes -
"I don't think that in France we have an open enough mind to elect a president like Obama. There is hypocrisy in the air." - Eric
"Even my 11-year old daughter thinks Barack Obama is dreaming. OK, you guys need hope but you really need better social security coverage." - Muriel
END OF ARTICLE
There you have it. A glimpse into the minds of the 60-or-so million people by whom I am surrounded every days. Granted, its a glimpse into two of the minds of people surrounded themselves by 300 million of us, but still, Muriel is a good example of what French people are really like. They think its absurd that we don't have unemployment insurance (Ok, if you're laid off in France from a job you've been at for more than 3 years, you get 80% of your salary for the next 3 years. More than that, it's 5 years. And at minimum, you receive something like 1000 euros per month. You wonder why there is an unemployment problem here) and the French are perpetually amazed that Barack Obama is black. Also Eric, you're earning $120,000 a year as a cook, and you live on the Upper East Side. Move to Jersey if your rent is too high. And you Muriel, your husband is an investment banker. An investment banker. Yes, you bet he's going to be affected by a crash on Wall Street, but in France you'd still get unemployment insurance? In this country (which is to say the USA), you'd be publicly and savagely beaten if you asked for that. And when was the last time Woody Allen was mentioned as a celebrity resident of the Upper East Side? Did this article get caught in a time warp from the mid-80s? And also, when have Nikes been a classy shoe for businesswomen? Since when have Nikes been classy for anyone? Does it seem to you that the line about the sewer makes New York seem like a cesspool? I mean c'mon, it's one of the greenest cities in the country, perplexing as that may be. It looks carwash clean compared to Paris. And Muriel, what is this about about always forging ahead, but then you go on to say you're not going to struggle? Did you expect the streets to be paved with gold?
The Montpellier Plus. A standard of journalistic excellence, or an excellence of standard journalism? No, it's just a free rag they hand out at tram stops to give you something to distract yourself with while the panhandlers come by. What is with the French and their obsession with our lack of social security? - which, by the way is not the same thing we conceive of as social security. For them, it is every governmental aid program: retirement, unemployment, maternity leave, sick leave, disability, etc. And why are they complaining? They still retain their government benefits even while being expatriates! And Muriel, even when your daughter becomes the first black man elected president of France, you still won't have a right to criticize us. So, shut up or I'll report you to Homeland Security. In fact, just by typing the words 'Homeland Security', this blog has now been tagged and is being read by censors who will see your heresy and have a team of commandos come bag you off to Guantánamo. As for me, I expect to be awarded the Order of Conspicuous Merit any day! All Hail Big Brother!
Good night and good luck.
P.S., don't get me wrong - I love France. It's just, in the same sense I love a good Monty Python sketch. They're all crazy, and funny to watch, but I wouldn't want to live in one for too long.
Header: Expatriates - For these Montpellierains, France doesn't meet the standard anymore (literally, doesn't have the weight). Still, it has a standard. Touched by the myth of the American dream, from now on, their Comédie (the main plaza here), is Broadway and their scrubland, the forest of "terribly attaching" tentacular concrete and where, they say, "everything's possible"*.
New York, yes they can!*
Montpellierains in the city that never sleeps
They have made the choice to wake up every morning in a city that never sleeps more than to sleep themselves in this where on says, the sun never goes to bed (implying Montpellier). For these Montpellierains with reddened eyes - but not by the tears of the exile-, New York merits largely its statute of "must live in"* of cities of the possible. For some different reasons, he [Eric] "because I had enough of France and its skimpy mentality," and she [Muriel] "to follow my husband and because working for the UN is a privelege." He is an independent kitchen chef since 12 years, she is a translator of Russian and English for the Security Council since 2006. Eric Delalande and Muriel Robinson reside both in the Upper East Side situated between Central Park and the East River on the north of the isle of Manhattan, a quarter in which a square meter is one of the most expensive in the United States, reputed for its grand hotels, its prestigious schools, such as the French Institute and its celebrated habitants like Woody Allen.
Is it the cause of its mythic skyline and yellow taxis, for its outmoded clichés for which they have chosen the most coveted metropolis, erected in symbol of the American dream? Because all that you have heard on New York is true, we ate there a lot of hot dogs and hot pretzels (spelled bretzel - I can't tell if its a typo or not) on the corners of streets, the businesswomen striding Downtown with Prada and Nike on the feet, the mouths of the sewer smoking in the middle of avenues and there is a Starbucks Coffee for ten habitants. All here is in excessive size down to the rations on the plates. Very quickly one understands that it is a pride to live in Big Apple, it is "up to date"*, cultural New York, and above all it's "up to you"*, providential New York. New York has something of "up to" difficultly translated into common French.
Ducasse and Robuchon shined there for years, thus why not Eric Delalande. Because it is well "the dream american that on believes to attain on day but behind which one has yet to complete years later" which stimulates him and keeps him here since twelve years now with wife and child. And on this 3rd of November, where hte United States don't yet know what it will go to unclench a new era, Eric sense that he can touch it with a finger. "After eight years of Bush, eight years of shit, it has produces a fat revolution of lifestyle which surpasses politics. With the economic crisis, after Iraq, the people don't want to be brutalized anymore."
What seems evident for Eric is that France cruelly lacks this energy that there is here in spite of the hardness of life. "There is a grand liberty of enterprise, and more choice in careers." Muriel who considers above all the concrete value of things estimates that one makes above all the choice of New York "which is not the United States" for "to live here fully in liberalism" (which is to say that above all, one makes the choice of living in New York knowing you'll be living in full economic liberalism). Appearing less concerned by the perspective of better tomorrows, she tempers her proposal in adding she's "not being always in accordance with the government but tries to set it aside". To forge ahead, always. Even if the worm has long since been in the big apple and that the economic crisis poses major problems that one cannot possibly imagine here in France. "My husband works for an investment fund firm and has been subjected to the crisis in head-on collision. As for me, I work all day and neither he nor I have security like unemployment insurance." Leave, stay? It is an eventuality that she displays with a strange serenity. But struggle along, no.
Eric juggles with his charges like a tightrope walker on a wire held above his daily life. "Each month there is $10,000 of which $5,500 goes to rent, $1,500 in insurance, health insurance, social security, etc. and for the French school, $25,000 per year," he exclaims. But neither one nor the other will pronounce the terms of "precariousness" or "buying power". Too loose* (I have no idea why they used this word, it wasn't even in quotes or anything) when one cultivates the win as a New Yorkaise (yes, they call New Yorkers les New-Yorkaise). "I will always find a job and income cooking, one finds it everywhere here" underlines Eric. The worst of the country, they seem not to know. Muriel reminds herself always of the nostalgic scents of the scrubland and the Pic-Saint-Loup (the local mountain), declaring "an unalterable attachment to Montpellier." but never forgetting to thank in passing "the absence of strikes".
"After three days in France, I think of nothing but leaving again. France, it is good for the concept of social security," says Eric, who would not see hanging up the whisk "to return home" if Mc Cain makes off with the 270 grand electors of victory (yes, the verb rafler literally translates to 'swipe' or 'make off with'). But he doesn't yet think that a page in America is in the process of turning. And that he'll keep at it for four years... at least!
Intermittent Quotes -
"I don't think that in France we have an open enough mind to elect a president like Obama. There is hypocrisy in the air." - Eric
"Even my 11-year old daughter thinks Barack Obama is dreaming. OK, you guys need hope but you really need better social security coverage." - Muriel
END OF ARTICLE
There you have it. A glimpse into the minds of the 60-or-so million people by whom I am surrounded every days. Granted, its a glimpse into two of the minds of people surrounded themselves by 300 million of us, but still, Muriel is a good example of what French people are really like. They think its absurd that we don't have unemployment insurance (Ok, if you're laid off in France from a job you've been at for more than 3 years, you get 80% of your salary for the next 3 years. More than that, it's 5 years. And at minimum, you receive something like 1000 euros per month. You wonder why there is an unemployment problem here) and the French are perpetually amazed that Barack Obama is black. Also Eric, you're earning $120,000 a year as a cook, and you live on the Upper East Side. Move to Jersey if your rent is too high. And you Muriel, your husband is an investment banker. An investment banker. Yes, you bet he's going to be affected by a crash on Wall Street, but in France you'd still get unemployment insurance? In this country (which is to say the USA), you'd be publicly and savagely beaten if you asked for that. And when was the last time Woody Allen was mentioned as a celebrity resident of the Upper East Side? Did this article get caught in a time warp from the mid-80s? And also, when have Nikes been a classy shoe for businesswomen? Since when have Nikes been classy for anyone? Does it seem to you that the line about the sewer makes New York seem like a cesspool? I mean c'mon, it's one of the greenest cities in the country, perplexing as that may be. It looks carwash clean compared to Paris. And Muriel, what is this about about always forging ahead, but then you go on to say you're not going to struggle? Did you expect the streets to be paved with gold?
The Montpellier Plus. A standard of journalistic excellence, or an excellence of standard journalism? No, it's just a free rag they hand out at tram stops to give you something to distract yourself with while the panhandlers come by. What is with the French and their obsession with our lack of social security? - which, by the way is not the same thing we conceive of as social security. For them, it is every governmental aid program: retirement, unemployment, maternity leave, sick leave, disability, etc. And why are they complaining? They still retain their government benefits even while being expatriates! And Muriel, even when your daughter becomes the first black man elected president of France, you still won't have a right to criticize us. So, shut up or I'll report you to Homeland Security. In fact, just by typing the words 'Homeland Security', this blog has now been tagged and is being read by censors who will see your heresy and have a team of commandos come bag you off to Guantánamo. As for me, I expect to be awarded the Order of Conspicuous Merit any day! All Hail Big Brother!
Good night and good luck.
P.S., don't get me wrong - I love France. It's just, in the same sense I love a good Monty Python sketch. They're all crazy, and funny to watch, but I wouldn't want to live in one for too long.
11.12.2008
Belgium, Land of the Fry, Home of the Rain
I awoke on the morning of the 31st in a strange land - even stranger than the already strange land I have come to inhabit over the last three months. Belgium. Neither bellish nor gummy, but somewhere in between. My first order of business in the morning, after attending to my toiletries and such, was to meet my Montpellieraine friends who were in Brussels along with me. We were going to hang out for a bit in the morning, then split in different directions for the afternoon, and possibly meet up again in the evening.
Our first destination, I cannot remember, because it's now been about two weeks, and I failed to note it in my notebook-based travelogue. However, we eventually wound up at the daily flea market in Brussels, a collection much like the one in Montpellier, only with a far more visible bent on "All Things Congolese". The Democratic Republic of the Congo, formerly Zaire, formerly the Congo, formerly the Belgian Congo, was just that - a colony of Belgium. It is quizzical that one of the smallest countries in Europe had one of the largest colonies in Africa, and one can only muse at what it means that Belgium's former colony is also perhaps the most problematic country in modern Africa. Even today, civil war and rebellion threaten the stability of an already terribly unstable state. It was, after all, King Leopold II's private playground, and he was not a share-and-care sort of kid. He is known for cutting off the hands of those who did not support him, plundered the region, and was laughing all the way to his grave. He is to the DRC as Cecil Rhodes is to Zimbabwe. However, to quote my tourist map, "Whatever history's verdict on Leopold's role in the Congo was, one thing is undeniable: he made Belgium look better." It's true. Belgium is itself a country barely able to stay together. Like Spain or Thailand, it relies on a symbolic but well-respected monarchy to sort of, hold everything together. A clandestine adjective for the Belgian's might just be, well, robber-baronesque. The grand boulevards, fine museums, and diverse architecture would hardly be possible for a country of its size were it not for the historic stuffing of the coffers by returning ivory merchants, mineral prospectors, and the aforementioned robber barons.
So, at the flea market, like I've found elsewhere in Europe, it's hard to actually get anything reflecting the fact that one is in Europe and not Africa. In fact, two of the items I got at the flea market were a wooden elephant and a green stone figurine. I also bought a handful of interesting coins, including a 2 Mark coin from East Germany, and a penny from the British Federation of Nigeria in 1959. I did have to opportunity to buy an ivory figurine, but... well, a) it's illegal to purchase ivory, and b) that would be ethically gray to say the least. I decided not to incur the wrath of the elephant spirits and leave it there. I have also learned to get better at bartering. For instance, feigning disinterest will usually get the seller very interested in getting you interested as well. And it never hurts to be like "What? What did you say? Did you say 4 euros?" when in fact they said fourteen or something like that. And of course, there is the tried and true method of underbidding. For instance, "I'll give you ten for it." "No, fifteen." "Okay, seven." "What?!" After the flea market, we saw one of the key attractions in Brussels - the Mannekin Pis. Yes, it even sounds like what you'd think it is. It's a little statue of a boy, peeing into a fountain. Along with the pigeon, Belgium's national bird, the Mannekin Pis is widely associated with Belgians, much as the Statue of Liberty is associated with us. Only... Lady Liberty is about a couple hundred feet tall, stands at the entrance of one of the greatest cities in the world and is a symbol of hope and freedom for all the world. A little boy peeing into a fountain... well... I'm not emigrating any time soon.
After lunch, I broke off from my compatriots and made my way down to the Park du Cinquantenaire, a big park designed in celebration of the 50th anniversary of Belgium's existence in 1880. It's crowning feature is an arch whose name I know not, but it is extremely imposing. Much like the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, only not a circulatory nightmare, it is an imposing structure that looks out over the city and no doubt commemorates the victory of Belgium over... wait. Who? I'll have to get back to you on that. But, to the left of the arch is the enormous Military Museum, whose contents include a vast array of arms, suits of arms, and a zeppelin hanger filled with full-size planes. Big, jingoistic and not at all subtle about how war is glorified, it is nonetheless interesting and most importantly, free to the public. At this point, and because I was walking everywhere, it was nearly dark, and I had to start thinking of getting back. I decided to swing past the European Commission on my way - an ensemble of buildings that is to Europe what all those unknown bureaucratic and lobbying offices in Washington are to our own system of government. Only, at the end of it all, there is no imposing neo-Classical capitol building, just more office buildings. European officials have been famously quoted noting that many of them don't know what half of the people employed by the Commission even do, and it is little surprise that the barely-elected, heavily lobbied, and immensely bureaucratic European Commission makes almost no sense to me. If understanding how a bill gets through Congress is hard, at least it is all in English. The European Commission respects each of the 23 languages of its member states. I am certain that if they didn't have a word for 'red tape' before joining, they do now.
The evening saw me eat a very nice and hospitable meal care of my host, Damien, and enjoy the company of he and his French friend, whose name is now permanently lost to me. After dinner, I went to join my Montpellier friends at a bar, only to wind up in a series of debacles that kept me out for far too long and in far too noisy conditions, and the story of which is really only amusing to the three of us. That being said, and that I have class in 45 minutes, I shall leave you with the promise of more later!
Our first destination, I cannot remember, because it's now been about two weeks, and I failed to note it in my notebook-based travelogue. However, we eventually wound up at the daily flea market in Brussels, a collection much like the one in Montpellier, only with a far more visible bent on "All Things Congolese". The Democratic Republic of the Congo, formerly Zaire, formerly the Congo, formerly the Belgian Congo, was just that - a colony of Belgium. It is quizzical that one of the smallest countries in Europe had one of the largest colonies in Africa, and one can only muse at what it means that Belgium's former colony is also perhaps the most problematic country in modern Africa. Even today, civil war and rebellion threaten the stability of an already terribly unstable state. It was, after all, King Leopold II's private playground, and he was not a share-and-care sort of kid. He is known for cutting off the hands of those who did not support him, plundered the region, and was laughing all the way to his grave. He is to the DRC as Cecil Rhodes is to Zimbabwe. However, to quote my tourist map, "Whatever history's verdict on Leopold's role in the Congo was, one thing is undeniable: he made Belgium look better." It's true. Belgium is itself a country barely able to stay together. Like Spain or Thailand, it relies on a symbolic but well-respected monarchy to sort of, hold everything together. A clandestine adjective for the Belgian's might just be, well, robber-baronesque. The grand boulevards, fine museums, and diverse architecture would hardly be possible for a country of its size were it not for the historic stuffing of the coffers by returning ivory merchants, mineral prospectors, and the aforementioned robber barons.
So, at the flea market, like I've found elsewhere in Europe, it's hard to actually get anything reflecting the fact that one is in Europe and not Africa. In fact, two of the items I got at the flea market were a wooden elephant and a green stone figurine. I also bought a handful of interesting coins, including a 2 Mark coin from East Germany, and a penny from the British Federation of Nigeria in 1959. I did have to opportunity to buy an ivory figurine, but... well, a) it's illegal to purchase ivory, and b) that would be ethically gray to say the least. I decided not to incur the wrath of the elephant spirits and leave it there. I have also learned to get better at bartering. For instance, feigning disinterest will usually get the seller very interested in getting you interested as well. And it never hurts to be like "What? What did you say? Did you say 4 euros?" when in fact they said fourteen or something like that. And of course, there is the tried and true method of underbidding. For instance, "I'll give you ten for it." "No, fifteen." "Okay, seven." "What?!" After the flea market, we saw one of the key attractions in Brussels - the Mannekin Pis. Yes, it even sounds like what you'd think it is. It's a little statue of a boy, peeing into a fountain. Along with the pigeon, Belgium's national bird, the Mannekin Pis is widely associated with Belgians, much as the Statue of Liberty is associated with us. Only... Lady Liberty is about a couple hundred feet tall, stands at the entrance of one of the greatest cities in the world and is a symbol of hope and freedom for all the world. A little boy peeing into a fountain... well... I'm not emigrating any time soon.
After lunch, I broke off from my compatriots and made my way down to the Park du Cinquantenaire, a big park designed in celebration of the 50th anniversary of Belgium's existence in 1880. It's crowning feature is an arch whose name I know not, but it is extremely imposing. Much like the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, only not a circulatory nightmare, it is an imposing structure that looks out over the city and no doubt commemorates the victory of Belgium over... wait. Who? I'll have to get back to you on that. But, to the left of the arch is the enormous Military Museum, whose contents include a vast array of arms, suits of arms, and a zeppelin hanger filled with full-size planes. Big, jingoistic and not at all subtle about how war is glorified, it is nonetheless interesting and most importantly, free to the public. At this point, and because I was walking everywhere, it was nearly dark, and I had to start thinking of getting back. I decided to swing past the European Commission on my way - an ensemble of buildings that is to Europe what all those unknown bureaucratic and lobbying offices in Washington are to our own system of government. Only, at the end of it all, there is no imposing neo-Classical capitol building, just more office buildings. European officials have been famously quoted noting that many of them don't know what half of the people employed by the Commission even do, and it is little surprise that the barely-elected, heavily lobbied, and immensely bureaucratic European Commission makes almost no sense to me. If understanding how a bill gets through Congress is hard, at least it is all in English. The European Commission respects each of the 23 languages of its member states. I am certain that if they didn't have a word for 'red tape' before joining, they do now.
The evening saw me eat a very nice and hospitable meal care of my host, Damien, and enjoy the company of he and his French friend, whose name is now permanently lost to me. After dinner, I went to join my Montpellier friends at a bar, only to wind up in a series of debacles that kept me out for far too long and in far too noisy conditions, and the story of which is really only amusing to the three of us. That being said, and that I have class in 45 minutes, I shall leave you with the promise of more later!
11.10.2008
They Get Paid For This?
A while ago, I learned to roll with the punches that the French education system gives to me. Today though, was a real sideswipe. I decided, mostly on a whim and out of some potential, repressed feelings of guilt, to go to my Geography workshop, despite having a cold and having stayed up late the night before to finish a paper. I had not been to it before - granted it only started two weeks ago and it was never clarified where or when it met. Typical French. So, I arrive today, thinking perhaps I will be scolded by the professor or that I will simply be swamped by being so far behind.
Nope. That didn't happen. I arrive, the professor is not there. I wait five minutes, he arrives. He has an aura about him that is best described as "I don't know why you're here, I don't know why I'm here". The feeling was mutual among the other... 7 people in the class. He hands out a packet of maps and an article on economic activity in Africa. It's a class on the geography of developed countries. Even the most left-wing optimists would be hard-pressed to name a country in Africa that is, by comparison, developed. So, we get the packet, he reads three questions that we should focus on, and then leaves us in silence for the next 45 minutes. During this time, he is doing God knows what on his computer and looking as though he could have better spent this time being hungover, or possibly just passing Go, collecting the $200 and being outright dead. At the end of the 45 minutes, he asks us what we came up with for answers, and then essentially summarizes all the information given in the packet. He asks us if we have any questions. No one does. He thanks us, and we all leave.
I cannot get those 45 minutes back, no matter how much I try. Like so many car keys, earings, and pennies, I have lost those minutes irretrievably into a spiteful, pitiless vacuum. I muse thus on one of the great American credos, that all men are created equal. Well, men maybe - university courses, not hardly. I don't think I will be going back next week.
Nope. That didn't happen. I arrive, the professor is not there. I wait five minutes, he arrives. He has an aura about him that is best described as "I don't know why you're here, I don't know why I'm here". The feeling was mutual among the other... 7 people in the class. He hands out a packet of maps and an article on economic activity in Africa. It's a class on the geography of developed countries. Even the most left-wing optimists would be hard-pressed to name a country in Africa that is, by comparison, developed. So, we get the packet, he reads three questions that we should focus on, and then leaves us in silence for the next 45 minutes. During this time, he is doing God knows what on his computer and looking as though he could have better spent this time being hungover, or possibly just passing Go, collecting the $200 and being outright dead. At the end of the 45 minutes, he asks us what we came up with for answers, and then essentially summarizes all the information given in the packet. He asks us if we have any questions. No one does. He thanks us, and we all leave.
I cannot get those 45 minutes back, no matter how much I try. Like so many car keys, earings, and pennies, I have lost those minutes irretrievably into a spiteful, pitiless vacuum. I muse thus on one of the great American credos, that all men are created equal. Well, men maybe - university courses, not hardly. I don't think I will be going back next week.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
