A vacation from my vacation?
Justin and I leave this afternoon for a three day weekend at an American friend's house in Burgundy, where we'll be relaxing with three or four other expats. This seems a little bit superfluous for me. But what can I do?
Friday, May 18, 2007
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
La musique mysterieuse, et un manifestation décevant.
Mysterious music, and a disappointing protest.
This morning I am slow to get up. I lie with my face buried in my pillow, the sun trying to pry its way in. As I slowly regain consciousness, I hear a strange sound rising from the street below Justin's apartment. It is not the jackhammer or the backhoe that have been tearing up the concrete for a few days now. What is it? It is music, definitely live music, shrill and reedy. Could it be the band from the school across the street? My mind begins to click back into shape, and I dismiss that possibility — the parts are perfectly in time, and no middle school music group could manage that. What could possibly be outside the window? My desire to solve this mystery overpowers my bed addiction (I think that my five strongest feelings are curiosity, love, horniness, sleepiness, and hunger, perhaps in that order), and, pulling on my pants, I hop to the window. There is no crowd, just the regular pedestrians and construction workers. The music is loud, piercing, and it seems so close that I can't perceive a direction. AH! There he is. It's an organ grinder! I have never seen an organ grinder before, but I recognize him to be one, even without the monkey. He is just standing by the construction, behind a box almost as large as he, stationary except for his winding forearm. It appears that his performance is old hat to everyone else on the street. I only get to watch for a second before he stops. I've got to document this! This may be the coolest thing I've seen yet on my trip, so I dash for my camera. Alas! I get back to the window in time to see him disappear around the corner. It is as if he existed solely to get me out of bed this morning. I wish, oh I dearly wish for an organ grinder alarm clock. That would be utterly fantastic.
Here is a picture of the construction, then, sans organ grinder. He would have been over past the right side of the picture. In the picture with the workers are some suits, who arrived today to inspect the progress. Although I could not hear anything of what they discussed, it looked from above to be ridiculously bureaucratic of them. Justin said that this was very French, both in the excess of bureaucracy, and
also in the distinct outfits — he says that French people "treat their job as a costume", in that they keep a greater separation between their personal and professional life.
In the States, workers worry more about getting along with eachother, being friendly and whatnot, while the French worker's main concern is either being competent or at least projecting an air of competence. Apparently the tradeoff here is in customer service. According to Justin, America:"The Customer Is Always Right"::France:"What Customer?"
Here is a funny story that a cute Australian girl named Jessie related to me on the plane back to Paris from Pisa: An American woman visiting France walks into a cafe (or a patisserie, or a charcuterie, it doesn't really matter) and says to the man behind the counter, "Hello, can I have a slice of cake and a coffee, please?" The man looks apologetic and replies, "Pardon, madame, mais je ne parle pas anglais. Pouvez-vous parler en français, s'il vous plait?" The woman furrows her brow, and speaks a little slower: "I would like some cake... and some coffee, sil voo play?" "Je suis très désolée, Madame, mais je ne peux rien comprendre, parce que je ne sais aucun du mot en anglais. Vous devez parler en français pour moi." The American frowns, huffs in frustration, and pulls out a dictionary from her purse. "Je voodray doo gatoh ay un cafay oh lay, sil voo play?" The man behind the counter smiles slightly and says, "Zere, zat was not so deefeecult, was zat?"
Around noon, Justin and I walked a few blocks, just past Place de la Nation, to a large market. The market consists of just one aisle, with stalls on either side, but the aisle is about a mile long, it seems. I would call it a farmer's market, except that in addition to all of the produce, there were appliances for sale, as well as clothing and various tchotchkes (e.g. Alphabet train sets – each car was a letter. The vendors had, naturally, spelled out a few names as examples. The one in front? "Norbert". I can't wait to see their list of available novelty miniature license plates). We didn't walk very far down the market, only about twenty stall lengths, not nearly far enough to see the end, but Justin said that it just repeats a bunch of times.
There are statues all over this city, and Place de la Nation is no exception. I don't know what is depicted by the statue in the middle of the circle, but it seems nice and dynamic. On the east side of La Place are two Lord-Of-The-Rings-esque columns with statues facing east. At one time, this was an entrance to the city. Justin says that back in the day, they used to have executions right here, and there is a graveyard a few blocks away where they would bury the unfortunates.
In news completely unrelated to me:
• Humpback whales have been spotted in the Sacramento River, just downstream from Sacramento. Growing up in Davis (maybe in all of Northern California), you learn the story of Humphrey the Humpback Whale, who swam upstream all the way from San Francisco Bay in 1985 and delighted the residents of Sacramento for a a few weeks before he was escorted back to his home. As long as they make it okay, I think that today's news item is pretty cool.
• Not so cool is the media's obsession with all things Anna Nicole. Apparently her diaries were published online today, and apparently that is front page news for CNN.com. AND OF COURSE I CLICKED ON THE LINK. I am ashamed of that. But had I not, I could not have given you this gift, a hilariously eloquent/ridiculous sentence from the article about her diary entries/life: "She was careless with spelling, punctuation, and, too often, with her own well-being." That just completely cracks me up. Completely.
This morning I am slow to get up. I lie with my face buried in my pillow, the sun trying to pry its way in. As I slowly regain consciousness, I hear a strange sound rising from the street below Justin's apartment. It is not the jackhammer or the backhoe that have been tearing up the concrete for a few days now. What is it? It is music, definitely live music, shrill and reedy. Could it be the band from the school across the street? My mind begins to click back into shape, and I dismiss that possibility — the parts are perfectly in time, and no middle school music group could manage that. What could possibly be outside the window? My desire to solve this mystery overpowers my bed addiction (I think that my five strongest feelings are curiosity, love, horniness, sleepiness, and hunger, perhaps in that order), and, pulling on my pants, I hop to the window. There is no crowd, just the regular pedestrians and construction workers. The music is loud, piercing, and it seems so close that I can't perceive a direction. AH! There he is. It's an organ grinder! I have never seen an organ grinder before, but I recognize him to be one, even without the monkey. He is just standing by the construction, behind a box almost as large as he, stationary except for his winding forearm. It appears that his performance is old hat to everyone else on the street. I only get to watch for a second before he stops. I've got to document this! This may be the coolest thing I've seen yet on my trip, so I dash for my camera. Alas! I get back to the window in time to see him disappear around the corner. It is as if he existed solely to get me out of bed this morning. I wish, oh I dearly wish for an organ grinder alarm clock. That would be utterly fantastic.
Here is a picture of the construction, then, sans organ grinder. He would have been over past the right side of the picture. In the picture with the workers are some suits, who arrived today to inspect the progress. Although I could not hear anything of what they discussed, it looked from above to be ridiculously bureaucratic of them. Justin said that this was very French, both in the excess of bureaucracy, andalso in the distinct outfits — he says that French people "treat their job as a costume", in that they keep a greater separation between their personal and professional life.
In the States, workers worry more about getting along with eachother, being friendly and whatnot, while the French worker's main concern is either being competent or at least projecting an air of competence. Apparently the tradeoff here is in customer service. According to Justin, America:"The Customer Is Always Right"::France:"What Customer?"
Here is a funny story that a cute Australian girl named Jessie related to me on the plane back to Paris from Pisa: An American woman visiting France walks into a cafe (or a patisserie, or a charcuterie, it doesn't really matter) and says to the man behind the counter, "Hello, can I have a slice of cake and a coffee, please?" The man looks apologetic and replies, "Pardon, madame, mais je ne parle pas anglais. Pouvez-vous parler en français, s'il vous plait?" The woman furrows her brow, and speaks a little slower: "I would like some cake... and some coffee, sil voo play?" "Je suis très désolée, Madame, mais je ne peux rien comprendre, parce que je ne sais aucun du mot en anglais. Vous devez parler en français pour moi." The American frowns, huffs in frustration, and pulls out a dictionary from her purse. "Je voodray doo gatoh ay un cafay oh lay, sil voo play?" The man behind the counter smiles slightly and says, "Zere, zat was not so deefeecult, was zat?"
Around noon, Justin and I walked a few blocks, just past Place de la Nation, to a large market. The market consists of just one aisle, with stalls on either side, but the aisle is about a mile long, it seems. I would call it a farmer's market, except that in addition to all of the produce, there were appliances for sale, as well as clothing and various tchotchkes (e.g. Alphabet train sets – each car was a letter. The vendors had, naturally, spelled out a few names as examples. The one in front? "Norbert". I can't wait to see their list of available novelty miniature license plates). We didn't walk very far down the market, only about twenty stall lengths, not nearly far enough to see the end, but Justin said that it just repeats a bunch of times.
There are statues all over this city, and Place de la Nation is no exception. I don't know what is depicted by the statue in the middle of the circle, but it seems nice and dynamic. On the east side of La Place are two Lord-Of-The-Rings-esque columns with statues facing east. At one time, this was an entrance to the city. Justin says that back in the day, they used to have executions right here, and there is a graveyard a few blocks away where they would bury the unfortunates.
Justin and I are sitting at the table around 3pm (15h, en Français), type-type-typing away at our respective computers, when sirens break the silence. Down the street zoom first a few police motorcycles, then a few police cars roll by, then a convoy of police vans amble past, then a flotilla of riot cop RV's rumbles through. Some stop at the intersection below Justin's apartment, some continue on towards Nation, and some turn down various side streets. What the hell is going on? Aha! 
Today Nicolas Sarkozy gets sworn in as President of France — there must be a protest going down at la Place de la Nation. And it promises to be a doozy, given the intimidating show of force by the police. 
Fifteen minutes later, we hear chanting and, a block away, see hordes of people streaming towards Nation. Exciting, exciting! I grab my camera and get ready to be the next guy-who-took-this.
What a disappointment it turned out to be. Hordes, apparently, look larger from a block or two away, 
when you can only see thirty feet of them at a time. There were maybe a thousand of them, 99% my age or younger, milling about, smoking, with the requisite dreadlocked drum circle, a kid with a black anarchy flag, some jokers sitting in the gutter launching into a chant that 
would last a few seconds before it petered out. A few people stood on the back of a flatbed and spoke for a couple minutes into a microphone, but it seemed very disorganized. The gendarmes (riot police), laying in wait a block or two away, must have been more 
disappointed than me: "Well, boys, it looks like we're not going to get to rough up any hippies today." Justin said later he saw someone get arrested (by six gendarmes) for walking down the street, so I guess they were bored.
Tonight I had my second rehearsal with the theatre troupe. It went fine, except that four (of nine) actors did not show up. But the music went okay – not really much more difficult than dealing with unmusical American actors. The biggest hurdle today was putting stresses on the correct syllables. We Americans tend to consolidate the accent onto one syllable, and the French spread it out a little. It makes for slightly peculiar (to me) text-setting. But as long as they're cool with singing it, I'm okay teaching it.
Still, the rehearsal was draining, so I was very happy to go get a burger and a beer down the street. The burger was served on an English muffin! An interesting novelty, but I do prefer a fluffier bun. It was kind of small, too. And it cost 13 euros. France, America's got you beat on this one.
In news completely unrelated to me:
• Humpback whales have been spotted in the Sacramento River, just downstream from Sacramento. Growing up in Davis (maybe in all of Northern California), you learn the story of Humphrey the Humpback Whale, who swam upstream all the way from San Francisco Bay in 1985 and delighted the residents of Sacramento for a a few weeks before he was escorted back to his home. As long as they make it okay, I think that today's news item is pretty cool.
• Not so cool is the media's obsession with all things Anna Nicole. Apparently her diaries were published online today, and apparently that is front page news for CNN.com. AND OF COURSE I CLICKED ON THE LINK. I am ashamed of that. But had I not, I could not have given you this gift, a hilariously eloquent/ridiculous sentence from the article about her diary entries/life: "She was careless with spelling, punctuation, and, too often, with her own well-being." That just completely cracks me up. Completely.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
Le Pompidou.
The Pompidou.
One thing that Paris has is museums. I am not terribly interested in them, but Monday the 30th I decided to go the Centre George Pompidou, which is the main modern art museum. I left a little disappointed — having been to the New York MOMA over Christmas, I didn't see many different things in their permanent collection. Still, it was all "great" art, which is more than I could say for the special exhibitions. One of them was about Samuel Beckett, and it seemed fairly interesting, but I felt like I should have known more about Beckett to really appreciate it. The other special exhibition, "Air de Paris", was all art by Parisiens, I believe, and it mostly sucked. There was, however, one piece that got me so much that I broke their rule prohibiting taking pictures (I hereby apologize to the staff of the museum and to the city of Paris). It is by Philippe Rahm, and the sign said this:
Luckily for me, there is no such prohibition for the permanent collection. I took too many to upload here, so may I direct you to my Flickr set of Pompidou pictures?
http://flickr.com/photos/montchristopherhubbard/sets/72157600192964767/
The other cool thing about the Pompidou is the view of Paris from the top floor. You can see Notre Dame to the south, la Tour Eiffel to the southeast, and Sacre Coeur and Montmartre to the north.
In the plaza in front of the museum, artisans sell trinkets (is it weird for me to call them "artisans", yet use the low word "trinket"?), folk musicians play, and street performers entertain. Two young people were walking across the square, holding a sign: "Free hugs." I didn't need one, but still I hustled over to catch them, and got two good hugs. And they each got one good hug, I hope. The Free Hug movement is one of my favorite things about the world today. I am proud of my generation for it.
One thing that Paris has is museums. I am not terribly interested in them, but Monday the 30th I decided to go the Centre George Pompidou, which is the main modern art museum. I left a little disappointed — having been to the New York MOMA over Christmas, I didn't see many different things in their permanent collection. Still, it was all "great" art, which is more than I could say for the special exhibitions. One of them was about Samuel Beckett, and it seemed fairly interesting, but I felt like I should have known more about Beckett to really appreciate it. The other special exhibition, "Air de Paris", was all art by Parisiens, I believe, and it mostly sucked. There was, however, one piece that got me so much that I broke their rule prohibiting taking pictures (I hereby apologize to the staff of the museum and to the city of Paris). It is by Philippe Rahm, and the sign said this:"Despite appearances, the environment recreates an actual night time scene as the orangey-yello [sic] stimulates the production of melatonin, a sleep hormone. The speakers broadcast eighteen Diurnes, which are inversions of the eighteen Nocturnes for piano by Irish composer John Field (1782-1837)."Here are the illicit still images and video of this piece, Diurnisme:
Luckily for me, there is no such prohibition for the permanent collection. I took too many to upload here, so may I direct you to my Flickr set of Pompidou pictures?
http://flickr.com/photos/montchristopherhubbard/sets/72157600192964767/
The other cool thing about the Pompidou is the view of Paris from the top floor. You can see Notre Dame to the south, la Tour Eiffel to the southeast, and Sacre Coeur and Montmartre to the north.In the plaza in front of the museum, artisans sell trinkets (is it weird for me to call them "artisans", yet use the low word "trinket"?), folk musicians play, and street performers entertain. Two young people were walking across the square, holding a sign: "Free hugs." I didn't need one, but still I hustled over to catch them, and got two good hugs. And they each got one good hug, I hope. The Free Hug movement is one of my favorite things about the world today. I am proud of my generation for it.
Les lumières néons.
The neon lights.
In France, all of the pharmacies advertise with the same neon green plus sign, like some sort of psychedelic Red Cross outpost. I do mean all – this is not a chain of pharmacies, this is the symbol for a generic drugstore, whether it be two blocks from Justin's apartment in Paris (as the one pictured is), or two blocks from the ocean in a sleepy seaside Mediterranean fishing village.
In France, all of the pharmacies advertise with the same neon green plus sign, like some sort of psychedelic Red Cross outpost. I do mean all – this is not a chain of pharmacies, this is the symbol for a generic drugstore, whether it be two blocks from Justin's apartment in Paris (as the one pictured is), or two blocks from the ocean in a sleepy seaside Mediterranean fishing village.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
La verité.
The truth.
A note to you: I have been writing a lot of entries for this blog, but have been unable to post them until now. So I am editing the post time to reflect when I wrote the entries, not when I posted them. A little white lie, perhaps, but I think that it's truer than the other way around.
A note to you: I have been writing a lot of entries for this blog, but have been unable to post them until now. So I am editing the post time to reflect when I wrote the entries, not when I posted them. A little white lie, perhaps, but I think that it's truer than the other way around.
Saturday, May 5, 2007
l'Homme araigné.
The Spider Man.
Tuesday was May Day, a national holiday in France. It was definitely the quietest I've seen the streets. To take advantage of the holiday, I assume, Sony released Spiderman 3 here that day, three days earlier than in the States! So of course, we went. If you know me (and you do), you know that I really liked it, and was far more forgiving of the schmaltz, dialogue, and length than my viewing partners. C'mon, it was awesome. I thought that Topher Grace was just super excellent as Eddie Brock/Venom — I would have dug a whole movie of him. Alas, he had to split screen time with two other villains (both of whom were pretty awesome themselves). Oh well. I'll also mention an especially funny scene involving a very stereotypically "French" maître'd, played by the incomparable Bruce Campbell. All of les Français in the audience seemed to enjoy our version of them as much as I did. Brandon said afterwards that they like it because it's sort of true. All I know is that I think that I would get a kick out of seeing an "American" character in a French film. (By the way, the French don't translate "Spiderman" into "l'Homme Araigné." They just say "Speederman." It's adorable.)
After the film, Justin, Lucie, Brandon and I went to the Parisian Chinatown and had dinner. It was Chinese food, no different than I'm used to. I think that's the first dinner we've eaten out, so I can't tell you much about the food scene. Bread, cheese, wine — but you knew that.
Tuesday was May Day, a national holiday in France. It was definitely the quietest I've seen the streets. To take advantage of the holiday, I assume, Sony released Spiderman 3 here that day, three days earlier than in the States! So of course, we went. If you know me (and you do), you know that I really liked it, and was far more forgiving of the schmaltz, dialogue, and length than my viewing partners. C'mon, it was awesome. I thought that Topher Grace was just super excellent as Eddie Brock/Venom — I would have dug a whole movie of him. Alas, he had to split screen time with two other villains (both of whom were pretty awesome themselves). Oh well. I'll also mention an especially funny scene involving a very stereotypically "French" maître'd, played by the incomparable Bruce Campbell. All of les Français in the audience seemed to enjoy our version of them as much as I did. Brandon said afterwards that they like it because it's sort of true. All I know is that I think that I would get a kick out of seeing an "American" character in a French film. (By the way, the French don't translate "Spiderman" into "l'Homme Araigné." They just say "Speederman." It's adorable.)
After the film, Justin, Lucie, Brandon and I went to the Parisian Chinatown and had dinner. It was Chinese food, no different than I'm used to. I think that's the first dinner we've eaten out, so I can't tell you much about the food scene. Bread, cheese, wine — but you knew that.
Arrivare a Firenze.
Arrival in Florence.
It all worked out: the train I grabbed to Ventimiglia headed straight to Florence, so I never had to get off — bought a ticket on board. I shared a six-seat compartment with Robin Kaloc, an art student from the Czech Republic. Our French was about the same, so we talked a bit, then tried our best to sleep. After only a few minutes of lying down, a man burst in yelling at us, first in Italian, then in English: "Two tickets! You pay for two tickets, not six! You only get two seats!" We sat up, and he went away. In a little while we each lay down again across the seats we hadn't paid for, but he never came back to hassle us.
The area of Florence around the train station was just a dirty city, but minutes into my bus ride, the buildings all got centuries older. Florence is in a river basin, and the bus wound up the hillside, pausing at the Piazza Michelangelo. From that piazza, you can see every single rooftop, none more than three stories high; extending above them are a few steeples, neat enough, but dwarfed in size and majesty by Il Duomo. I've seen pictures, but to see it tower over an entire city is something else. Look, you'll have to believe me for now. I'll get a picture and you'll see.
I am now in Nate's little kitchen, chilling with Angelico the cat. In a few hours Nate will be awake again, and we'll head out into Florence.
It all worked out: the train I grabbed to Ventimiglia headed straight to Florence, so I never had to get off — bought a ticket on board. I shared a six-seat compartment with Robin Kaloc, an art student from the Czech Republic. Our French was about the same, so we talked a bit, then tried our best to sleep. After only a few minutes of lying down, a man burst in yelling at us, first in Italian, then in English: "Two tickets! You pay for two tickets, not six! You only get two seats!" We sat up, and he went away. In a little while we each lay down again across the seats we hadn't paid for, but he never came back to hassle us.
The area of Florence around the train station was just a dirty city, but minutes into my bus ride, the buildings all got centuries older. Florence is in a river basin, and the bus wound up the hillside, pausing at the Piazza Michelangelo. From that piazza, you can see every single rooftop, none more than three stories high; extending above them are a few steeples, neat enough, but dwarfed in size and majesty by Il Duomo. I've seen pictures, but to see it tower over an entire city is something else. Look, you'll have to believe me for now. I'll get a picture and you'll see.
I am now in Nate's little kitchen, chilling with Angelico the cat. In a few hours Nate will be awake again, and we'll head out into Florence.
Friday, May 4, 2007
Tard.
Late.
My train from Montpellier to Nice left twenty minutes late. As a result, I missed my connecting train to Ventimiglia. I should have just hopped on the very next train, which was leaving in a few minutes, and known that it wasn't a big deal. Instead, I fretted, and stood in line for fifteen minutes to be told that, indeed, it wasn't a big deal at all, and that I should just get on the next train. Which now is forty minutes away, not a few. I am a pussy. Not an old, wizened one like those French whores have, but a timid, naïve one.
I hope I make it to Ventimiglia before the last train leaves for Florence. I really don't want to spend the night in a small Italian train station.
My train from Montpellier to Nice left twenty minutes late. As a result, I missed my connecting train to Ventimiglia. I should have just hopped on the very next train, which was leaving in a few minutes, and known that it wasn't a big deal. Instead, I fretted, and stood in line for fifteen minutes to be told that, indeed, it wasn't a big deal at all, and that I should just get on the next train. Which now is forty minutes away, not a few. I am a pussy. Not an old, wizened one like those French whores have, but a timid, naïve one.
I hope I make it to Ventimiglia before the last train leaves for Florence. I really don't want to spend the night in a small Italian train station.
Le Marais.
The Marsh.
(The train is leaving Marseille for Nice, and I figure I will do a little catch-up journaling during the four-hour ride.)
There were two things I saw in Paris last week that I wanted to capture on film but chose not to. I saw them both within 30 minutes of each other on Sunday afternoon. We — Justin, Antonio, and I — had gone to a Segolène Royal rally dans le Marais, which is a very international neighborhood just northeast of Notre Dame. Le Marais also happens to be where the Sarkosy headquarters are. Sarkosy is not at all popular with the immigrant population of France. In the last few blocks before we got to the rally, I noticed an increase in uniformed policeman, which couldn't have been a coincidence. The rally was for non-French Sego supporters; actually, it wasn't so much a rally as a potluck. There was one big poster up about immigration, but mostly it was just about 100 people milling around the food tables, of all ages and colors. We met up with two of Justin and Antonio's friends: Loic, a Parisien, and Brandon, an American. After the potluck the five of us headed a few blocks over for coffee.
Leaving the rally, we came upon an African woman, with two small children in tow, who was yelling at two policemen. We weren't there for whatever got her going, but she had plenty to say. And though she spoke very quickly, I heard pieces: "le couleur de mon peau"... "Vous êtes racistes!" The five of us stood not six feet away, looking at each other and wondering if this would escalate, but too interested to leave. Luckily for everyone, the woman ran out of things to yell, and in a few minutes she dragged her kids away. Later, in discussion, I said that I was impressed with the restraint of the policemen, and that in the States the police would have acted in a more intimidating manner. The rest were not so impressed — Justin said that they probably would have acted better if my camera had been pointed at them — so perhaps the police had said some things that I didn't catch. The reason I didn't start the camera rolling was that I didn't want to become part of the story. And, in retrospect, that scene probably had little to do with the upcoming election — I believe I've seen policemen yelled at and called racist in the States, too. But it does seem like the issue of racism might be closer to the surface here than in the States.
After our coffees, Loic, Brandon, Justin, and I walked south towards Châtelet les Halles. Brandon and I continued our discussion (in English) about technology and design, which was really interesting, though I could have had it back in the States. We passed a large Arch, a picture of which I have included in this post.
Continuing south, Loic stopped to mention that this block was the street for prostitutes. I looked up, and sure enough, there they were. These were not young, "Me so horny" hookers, these were Old French Whores. The one I can remember the best was wearing a black miniskirt, a midriff-baring red shirt, and a black leather jacket. She was probably around sixty years old. She was not attractive. The others were worse. They all unquestionably had so much mileage on them that their odometers had rolled over. They stood still, stationed every ten meters or so on either side of the street, some with cigarettes dangling from a pair of loose lips, leading me to wonder about the other pair. Yes, gross indeed. I can only imagine being lonely or horny enough to seek companionship there, shuffling down the street, revealing through your desperate eyes, being led inside, upstairs to a creaking bed beneath peeling wallpaper and a swinging lightbulb casting harsh yellow light on varicose veins and liver spots as you close your eyes and wonder if, one way or another, this will be the last time.
One block later, things are back to normal — there are shops, CD's and clothes to buy, food to eat, and an ancient church, standing still, inviting you in to pray.
(The train is leaving Marseille for Nice, and I figure I will do a little catch-up journaling during the four-hour ride.)
There were two things I saw in Paris last week that I wanted to capture on film but chose not to. I saw them both within 30 minutes of each other on Sunday afternoon. We — Justin, Antonio, and I — had gone to a Segolène Royal rally dans le Marais, which is a very international neighborhood just northeast of Notre Dame. Le Marais also happens to be where the Sarkosy headquarters are. Sarkosy is not at all popular with the immigrant population of France. In the last few blocks before we got to the rally, I noticed an increase in uniformed policeman, which couldn't have been a coincidence. The rally was for non-French Sego supporters; actually, it wasn't so much a rally as a potluck. There was one big poster up about immigration, but mostly it was just about 100 people milling around the food tables, of all ages and colors. We met up with two of Justin and Antonio's friends: Loic, a Parisien, and Brandon, an American. After the potluck the five of us headed a few blocks over for coffee.
Leaving the rally, we came upon an African woman, with two small children in tow, who was yelling at two policemen. We weren't there for whatever got her going, but she had plenty to say. And though she spoke very quickly, I heard pieces: "le couleur de mon peau"... "Vous êtes racistes!" The five of us stood not six feet away, looking at each other and wondering if this would escalate, but too interested to leave. Luckily for everyone, the woman ran out of things to yell, and in a few minutes she dragged her kids away. Later, in discussion, I said that I was impressed with the restraint of the policemen, and that in the States the police would have acted in a more intimidating manner. The rest were not so impressed — Justin said that they probably would have acted better if my camera had been pointed at them — so perhaps the police had said some things that I didn't catch. The reason I didn't start the camera rolling was that I didn't want to become part of the story. And, in retrospect, that scene probably had little to do with the upcoming election — I believe I've seen policemen yelled at and called racist in the States, too. But it does seem like the issue of racism might be closer to the surface here than in the States.
After our coffees, Loic, Brandon, Justin, and I walked south towards Châtelet les Halles. Brandon and I continued our discussion (in English) about technology and design, which was really interesting, though I could have had it back in the States. We passed a large Arch, a picture of which I have included in this post.
Continuing south, Loic stopped to mention that this block was the street for prostitutes. I looked up, and sure enough, there they were. These were not young, "Me so horny" hookers, these were Old French Whores. The one I can remember the best was wearing a black miniskirt, a midriff-baring red shirt, and a black leather jacket. She was probably around sixty years old. She was not attractive. The others were worse. They all unquestionably had so much mileage on them that their odometers had rolled over. They stood still, stationed every ten meters or so on either side of the street, some with cigarettes dangling from a pair of loose lips, leading me to wonder about the other pair. Yes, gross indeed. I can only imagine being lonely or horny enough to seek companionship there, shuffling down the street, revealing through your desperate eyes, being led inside, upstairs to a creaking bed beneath peeling wallpaper and a swinging lightbulb casting harsh yellow light on varicose veins and liver spots as you close your eyes and wonder if, one way or another, this will be the last time.One block later, things are back to normal — there are shops, CD's and clothes to buy, food to eat, and an ancient church, standing still, inviting you in to pray.
Il ne fait pas beau. Il fait shier.
It [the weather] is not beautiful. It is shitty.
I sit in the Sete train station, waiting for the train, eating some strawberry yoghurt. I use a spoon stolen from the apartment; I plan on having the chance to return it. Predictably, the sun came out fifteen minutes ago, just as my time in Sete is ending. I think I'll go stand outside for a few minutes and imagine I made it to the beach.
Sete was not a complete bust, but it wasn't what I had hoped for. I do feel slightly more recharged than I did on Tuesday night, but not all the way. I can't remember who suggested that simply the constant wave of spoken French all around me might be tiring me out as I try, consciously or not, to understand. If that's the case, then Sete was no better, because, wouldn't you know it, they speak French there, too! I did have two nice conversations in French yesterday. The first was a short one while I was waiting for the bus, with an old lady who asked me something about when it would arrive. We talked a little about where I come from, Sete, the weather — the usual smalltalk. I told her in my halting French that I wished to see the Sete sun before I left on Friday, but she said it would be cloudy until Saturday. I also remarked that there were a lot of cars here, and she said that Sete, a town of 40,000 usually, doubles in size in the summer. She prefers the winter — the weather is still great, and it's a lot quieter.
My second conversation was at the boucherie, with the man who sold me two eggs. We talked for a bit longer, not about much. He said that my French was much better than most Americans he meets, including a family that was in last week. I told him that I had hoped to go to the beach under the sun while I was here, and he said that it would be cloudy until Saturday. These Setois, they're all on the same page when it comes to weather. Young man to young man, he spoke highly of the topless girls on the beach when the sun is out. He also asked me about the girls in California; I said that they were as great as people say. Not topless, though. When I ran out of things to say, I thanked him, and returned to the apartment. I boiled some pasta, and mixed it with sprinkled cheese and diced tomato. It was not very good at all, so I supplemented the meal with yoghurt, chips, and a beer, with a chocolate bar for dessert. I didn't have anything to do, so I let my post-meal fatigue put me down to bed. It was only seven o'clock. I got up a few hours later, drank some water, ate some chocolate, read a little, and went back to sleep; repeated the process sometime in the middle of the night. This morning I made a shitty omelet with the rest of the cheese and the rest of the tomato, did the dishes, put everything away, locked up the apartment, and headed for la gare, stopping to use the internet and buy a demi-baguette. At noon, the market downtown was already packing up. Similarly, yesterday the Tabac at La Corniche was closed by one. The Setois must value their afternoons.
Here now in the Montpellier Gare St. La Roche, I sit next to two new American girls, both from Buffalo, and I reconsider my regret from two days ago. We have talked for only a few minutes out of the hour layover, and there's not much else to say. They are on their way to Nice also, though on a different train, en route from Barcelona. They said Barcelona was okay, and just as rainy as Sete, so I don't regret skipping it either.
I now head overnight to Florence, via Nice and Ventimiglia. Suddenly I'll be unable to speak the language anymore, and I bet I will be thankful for my weak French when I return to Paris.
I sit in the Sete train station, waiting for the train, eating some strawberry yoghurt. I use a spoon stolen from the apartment; I plan on having the chance to return it. Predictably, the sun came out fifteen minutes ago, just as my time in Sete is ending. I think I'll go stand outside for a few minutes and imagine I made it to the beach.
Sete was not a complete bust, but it wasn't what I had hoped for. I do feel slightly more recharged than I did on Tuesday night, but not all the way. I can't remember who suggested that simply the constant wave of spoken French all around me might be tiring me out as I try, consciously or not, to understand. If that's the case, then Sete was no better, because, wouldn't you know it, they speak French there, too! I did have two nice conversations in French yesterday. The first was a short one while I was waiting for the bus, with an old lady who asked me something about when it would arrive. We talked a little about where I come from, Sete, the weather — the usual smalltalk. I told her in my halting French that I wished to see the Sete sun before I left on Friday, but she said it would be cloudy until Saturday. I also remarked that there were a lot of cars here, and she said that Sete, a town of 40,000 usually, doubles in size in the summer. She prefers the winter — the weather is still great, and it's a lot quieter.
My second conversation was at the boucherie, with the man who sold me two eggs. We talked for a bit longer, not about much. He said that my French was much better than most Americans he meets, including a family that was in last week. I told him that I had hoped to go to the beach under the sun while I was here, and he said that it would be cloudy until Saturday. These Setois, they're all on the same page when it comes to weather. Young man to young man, he spoke highly of the topless girls on the beach when the sun is out. He also asked me about the girls in California; I said that they were as great as people say. Not topless, though. When I ran out of things to say, I thanked him, and returned to the apartment. I boiled some pasta, and mixed it with sprinkled cheese and diced tomato. It was not very good at all, so I supplemented the meal with yoghurt, chips, and a beer, with a chocolate bar for dessert. I didn't have anything to do, so I let my post-meal fatigue put me down to bed. It was only seven o'clock. I got up a few hours later, drank some water, ate some chocolate, read a little, and went back to sleep; repeated the process sometime in the middle of the night. This morning I made a shitty omelet with the rest of the cheese and the rest of the tomato, did the dishes, put everything away, locked up the apartment, and headed for la gare, stopping to use the internet and buy a demi-baguette. At noon, the market downtown was already packing up. Similarly, yesterday the Tabac at La Corniche was closed by one. The Setois must value their afternoons.
Here now in the Montpellier Gare St. La Roche, I sit next to two new American girls, both from Buffalo, and I reconsider my regret from two days ago. We have talked for only a few minutes out of the hour layover, and there's not much else to say. They are on their way to Nice also, though on a different train, en route from Barcelona. They said Barcelona was okay, and just as rainy as Sete, so I don't regret skipping it either.
I now head overnight to Florence, via Nice and Ventimiglia. Suddenly I'll be unable to speak the language anymore, and I bet I will be thankful for my weak French when I return to Paris.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Mon premier jour à Paris.
My first day in Paris.
I arrived in Charles deGaulle airport on Thursday, April 26th, at around 10am, which is 1 in the morning Pacific. I slept a little on the second leg of the flight, but not the deep embracing sleep that I love. The night before, like I have mentioned, I was up all night trying to decide what to throw in my bag and what to leave behind. In hindsight, I could have brought my jeans and a few more shirts. The deadline made me decide somewhat rashly, I tossed everything in the car, and Mom drove me the two hours from Davis to SFO; I could barely stay awake to converse, and I felt guilty about being such poor company. Thus the journey to Europe started at 6:30am (Wednesday April 25th) and ended at 3am the following day, with a few hours of light sleep sprinkled in between turbulence and airline meals. Added to my ongoing debt from packing the night before (not to mention my long days the previous weekend as I extracted myself from Portland), this meant that I was probably in a pretty bad way as I climbed the stairs at Place de la Nation, into the Parisian air. But the adrenaline of a new experience is quite a drug – nice and natural – and I forgot that I needed 16 hours of sleep.
Justin wasn't home when I buzzed, as he had warned, so I walked back a block to the Extra Old Café — that is the actual name, not my translation — to sit and wait. Most of the larger cafés here have dozens of tables out front; the extra-wide sidewalks can easily accomodate them. The Extra Old is packed in the evening, but at eleven in the morning last Thursday there were only a handful of patrons. I chose a chair facing la Rue Faubourg St. Antoine. It took a few minutes, but un garçon came up to me and asked in French what I wanted. "Je voudrais une limonade, s'il vous plait." I tried my best to sound French. At 11:30 I ordered a second - "une deuzième, s'il vous plait". This one he brought with ice, and I figured my accent tipped me off, because I had heard that Europeans don't drink their sodas with ice, only Americans. (Every limonade I've had since then has had ice in it, so I don't know anymore.) By the time I went to pay at noon, even though I still hadn't said a word in English, his answer to my "Combien?" was "Six." I realize for you readers that "six" is spelled the same in English and French. Well, he said it in English. Just by reflex, of course, I said "thanks" instead of "merci". So much for trying to blend in.
Justin still wasn't home, but his roommate Antonio was, and let me in. Antonio is from Puebla, Mexico, and speaks better English than French, so it was easy. We hung out until Justin returned at 1. It was a nice slow afternoon - lunch, relaxation, c'est tout. Still, I wasn't crashing. The bright sun and the unfamiliar environs were keeping me going, quietly and subtly, without causing any jitters.
For the evening, Justin proposed that we go to a big flashy cabaret called Bobin'o — his friend Julia worked there and could get us in for free. (Later I found out that tickets + dinner for the show cost upwards of 150 euros. This was no young, struggling artist production. This was Parisian glitz and glamour. Drinks were pricey, too; nous ne bouvons rien.) So at 8:30pm (now 36+ hours sans bed sleep, and feeling grand) Justin and I left for Montparnasse. I was ready for my first Paris outing, and my first conversation in French. At Montparnasse, we met Rose, Julia's younger sister. The double cheek kiss was actually a first for me (now, five days later, it's nothing. However, most of the people I meet who know I'm American offer their hand, I guess for my comfort), but for anyone who needs to get accustomed to kissing strangers on the cheek, I recommend you start with a pretty girl. It makes it much easier. Rose is a very pretty girl.
We didn't talk that much on the way to the show, because we were in a hurry. Julia met us at the door and led us to our seats. The place was intimidating in its poshness, and had I been in the States, I would have felt ridiculously out of place. As a traveler, however, I'm already so far past my comfort zone that I could just enjoy the scene. I think that it was fairly out there for Justin, too; I'm not sure about Rose. Julia had already seen the show 30 times or so, working there. I'm not sure how much it differed from your standard Vegas spectacular – there was a lot of dancing and some singing, some lipsynching by drag queens, a clown, a magician, a few topless girls, bright colors and a lot of sparkly and flashing lights. It was very cheesy, but I warmed up to it quickly, and by the end I was really enjoying it. The only difference, perhaps, from a Vegas show were the inside jokes (by this, I mean the jokes shared between the performers and all of the French people in the room, for example the spot-on drag impersonation of the coach of Miss France) and the second language. They sang three or four songs in English, and a drag queen did an extended Donna Summers/Michael Jackson bit (Last Dance-->Thriller/Bad). That was not even close to the gayest number, either (and by gay, I don't mean lame; I mean flaming) — they actually did The Village People's "In The Navy", performed by four midriff-showing midshipman with tear-away pants and Union Jack speedos, led by a black Adonis dressed all in white: captain's hat, tiny tight blouse, 8-inch pleated skirt, and thigh-high patent leather boots. It was something else. After that, Paris seemed pretty darn heterosexual. (By the way, the French apparently have a term specifically for a black man's six pack. Unfortunately, I can't remember the exact words, but it is ____ du chocolat, and it refers to the chocolate bars, like a Hershey's bar, that are scored.) Lest you start to feel sorry for me, let me assure you that the female dancers did their share of sexy numbers; all of them were gorgeous, except for one who had Marilyn Manson's face. And all of the dancers, male and female, were really good, and danced many different styles – hiphop, salsa, tango, modern, ballet. In addition, the emcee, a fit, black, bald man in a dark blue, sequined, tight-panted tuxedo-thing, was very good. Justin liked the magician with her black tutu and her slightly askew ponytail. I liked most everything. My only criticism, for those of you who are thinking of going, is that it was not very au courant. It was very sanitized and safe — no risks taken — and a bit unoriginal. Still, to take someone else's art, and to package it as tightly, brightly, colorfully, and perfectly as Bobin'o did takes a lot of skill, and I was very impressed.
* An interesting language note: In French, the word for a show, whether it be a play or a cabaret or a concert, I think, is "un spectacle". I found this funny, because the Bobin'o show was definitely enough to be considered a spectacle in English, and I asked what the French word for a spectacle was. Can you guess what they say? They say "un show"! How wonderfully circular!
At the end of the show, tous les nouveau riches can stay at the club and dance and drink. Mais nous, nous sommes les jeunes pauvres, alors nous quittons le club. While the lights were down, we could pretend that we belonged there, but afterwards it was clear that we were not wearing sparkling jewelry or holding $20 drinks carelessly in our hands, so we split. The stroll back to the metro station was nice and slow. Justin and Julia walked in front, and Rose and I followed. Justin had cautioned that Rose spoke practically no English, and he was right. It was fantastic. I guess that when two people are trying communicate, both grasping for the simplest words in their own language that the other can understand, or using the simplest vocabulary of the other's language, all pretension or hidden meanings are dropped. It seems like a purer connection, maybe. We managed to communicate to each other the instruments we played, and what we studied in school, and what we wanted to do with our life, and I can only hope that my halting French was as adorable as her tiny English vocabulary.
Justin and I left the girls at Châtelet les Halles (a major metro hub), and took la ligne 1 back to Nation. Soon after we arrived back at his apartment, all of my energy bled out of me. It had been a full day, and I dropped off to sleep quickly. I dreamt of home.
I arrived in Charles deGaulle airport on Thursday, April 26th, at around 10am, which is 1 in the morning Pacific. I slept a little on the second leg of the flight, but not the deep embracing sleep that I love. The night before, like I have mentioned, I was up all night trying to decide what to throw in my bag and what to leave behind. In hindsight, I could have brought my jeans and a few more shirts. The deadline made me decide somewhat rashly, I tossed everything in the car, and Mom drove me the two hours from Davis to SFO; I could barely stay awake to converse, and I felt guilty about being such poor company. Thus the journey to Europe started at 6:30am (Wednesday April 25th) and ended at 3am the following day, with a few hours of light sleep sprinkled in between turbulence and airline meals. Added to my ongoing debt from packing the night before (not to mention my long days the previous weekend as I extracted myself from Portland), this meant that I was probably in a pretty bad way as I climbed the stairs at Place de la Nation, into the Parisian air. But the adrenaline of a new experience is quite a drug – nice and natural – and I forgot that I needed 16 hours of sleep.
Justin wasn't home when I buzzed, as he had warned, so I walked back a block to the Extra Old Café — that is the actual name, not my translation — to sit and wait. Most of the larger cafés here have dozens of tables out front; the extra-wide sidewalks can easily accomodate them. The Extra Old is packed in the evening, but at eleven in the morning last Thursday there were only a handful of patrons. I chose a chair facing la Rue Faubourg St. Antoine. It took a few minutes, but un garçon came up to me and asked in French what I wanted. "Je voudrais une limonade, s'il vous plait." I tried my best to sound French. At 11:30 I ordered a second - "une deuzième, s'il vous plait". This one he brought with ice, and I figured my accent tipped me off, because I had heard that Europeans don't drink their sodas with ice, only Americans. (Every limonade I've had since then has had ice in it, so I don't know anymore.) By the time I went to pay at noon, even though I still hadn't said a word in English, his answer to my "Combien?" was "Six." I realize for you readers that "six" is spelled the same in English and French. Well, he said it in English. Just by reflex, of course, I said "thanks" instead of "merci". So much for trying to blend in.
Justin still wasn't home, but his roommate Antonio was, and let me in. Antonio is from Puebla, Mexico, and speaks better English than French, so it was easy. We hung out until Justin returned at 1. It was a nice slow afternoon - lunch, relaxation, c'est tout. Still, I wasn't crashing. The bright sun and the unfamiliar environs were keeping me going, quietly and subtly, without causing any jitters.
For the evening, Justin proposed that we go to a big flashy cabaret called Bobin'o — his friend Julia worked there and could get us in for free. (Later I found out that tickets + dinner for the show cost upwards of 150 euros. This was no young, struggling artist production. This was Parisian glitz and glamour. Drinks were pricey, too; nous ne bouvons rien.) So at 8:30pm (now 36+ hours sans bed sleep, and feeling grand) Justin and I left for Montparnasse. I was ready for my first Paris outing, and my first conversation in French. At Montparnasse, we met Rose, Julia's younger sister. The double cheek kiss was actually a first for me (now, five days later, it's nothing. However, most of the people I meet who know I'm American offer their hand, I guess for my comfort), but for anyone who needs to get accustomed to kissing strangers on the cheek, I recommend you start with a pretty girl. It makes it much easier. Rose is a very pretty girl.
We didn't talk that much on the way to the show, because we were in a hurry. Julia met us at the door and led us to our seats. The place was intimidating in its poshness, and had I been in the States, I would have felt ridiculously out of place. As a traveler, however, I'm already so far past my comfort zone that I could just enjoy the scene. I think that it was fairly out there for Justin, too; I'm not sure about Rose. Julia had already seen the show 30 times or so, working there. I'm not sure how much it differed from your standard Vegas spectacular – there was a lot of dancing and some singing, some lipsynching by drag queens, a clown, a magician, a few topless girls, bright colors and a lot of sparkly and flashing lights. It was very cheesy, but I warmed up to it quickly, and by the end I was really enjoying it. The only difference, perhaps, from a Vegas show were the inside jokes (by this, I mean the jokes shared between the performers and all of the French people in the room, for example the spot-on drag impersonation of the coach of Miss France) and the second language. They sang three or four songs in English, and a drag queen did an extended Donna Summers/Michael Jackson bit (Last Dance-->Thriller/Bad). That was not even close to the gayest number, either (and by gay, I don't mean lame; I mean flaming) — they actually did The Village People's "In The Navy", performed by four midriff-showing midshipman with tear-away pants and Union Jack speedos, led by a black Adonis dressed all in white: captain's hat, tiny tight blouse, 8-inch pleated skirt, and thigh-high patent leather boots. It was something else. After that, Paris seemed pretty darn heterosexual. (By the way, the French apparently have a term specifically for a black man's six pack. Unfortunately, I can't remember the exact words, but it is ____ du chocolat, and it refers to the chocolate bars, like a Hershey's bar, that are scored.) Lest you start to feel sorry for me, let me assure you that the female dancers did their share of sexy numbers; all of them were gorgeous, except for one who had Marilyn Manson's face. And all of the dancers, male and female, were really good, and danced many different styles – hiphop, salsa, tango, modern, ballet. In addition, the emcee, a fit, black, bald man in a dark blue, sequined, tight-panted tuxedo-thing, was very good. Justin liked the magician with her black tutu and her slightly askew ponytail. I liked most everything. My only criticism, for those of you who are thinking of going, is that it was not very au courant. It was very sanitized and safe — no risks taken — and a bit unoriginal. Still, to take someone else's art, and to package it as tightly, brightly, colorfully, and perfectly as Bobin'o did takes a lot of skill, and I was very impressed.
* An interesting language note: In French, the word for a show, whether it be a play or a cabaret or a concert, I think, is "un spectacle". I found this funny, because the Bobin'o show was definitely enough to be considered a spectacle in English, and I asked what the French word for a spectacle was. Can you guess what they say? They say "un show"! How wonderfully circular!
At the end of the show, tous les nouveau riches can stay at the club and dance and drink. Mais nous, nous sommes les jeunes pauvres, alors nous quittons le club. While the lights were down, we could pretend that we belonged there, but afterwards it was clear that we were not wearing sparkling jewelry or holding $20 drinks carelessly in our hands, so we split. The stroll back to the metro station was nice and slow. Justin and Julia walked in front, and Rose and I followed. Justin had cautioned that Rose spoke practically no English, and he was right. It was fantastic. I guess that when two people are trying communicate, both grasping for the simplest words in their own language that the other can understand, or using the simplest vocabulary of the other's language, all pretension or hidden meanings are dropped. It seems like a purer connection, maybe. We managed to communicate to each other the instruments we played, and what we studied in school, and what we wanted to do with our life, and I can only hope that my halting French was as adorable as her tiny English vocabulary.
Justin and I left the girls at Châtelet les Halles (a major metro hub), and took la ligne 1 back to Nation. Soon after we arrived back at his apartment, all of my energy bled out of me. It had been a full day, and I dropped off to sleep quickly. I dreamt of home.
Les vacances actuelles.
A real vacation.
My half-brother Eli has keys to a small apartment in a small town called Sete on the French Riviera. I am stopping here for a few days to relax before I continue on to Florence to see my cousin Nate (Justin's brother). It has been less than a week since I arrived in Paris, but by the end of yesterday, I was feeling overwhelmed, and in need of an escape. Hopefully Sete will be my escape.
I woke up on the train, just a few minutes before we arrived in Montpellier, where I would switch trains for Sete. It was wet and gray outside. Up until today, I have enjoyed wonderful French weather — every day in Paris has been sunny and warm. On Sunday, there were stormclouds looming, but by the time they settled over the city, Justin and I had returned to the apartment for the evening, and we watched from the window as the sudden and torrential rain fell on the unlucky few caught outside. At around ten o'clock we walked to the corner pharmacy across already drying sidewalks, with that wonderful damp city smell in our nostrils.
But this afternoon in Montpellier there was a slow and steady rain. I had an hour and change to kill before my train to Sete, and I didn't want to kill it dans la gare, so I headed out into the weather. As I did, a young man approached me and asked me for money. He even had a flyer to hand out that explained his plight, I think. First I shook my head "no", unconvincingly, and he kept asking, so I said "Je ne comprends pas" — "I don't understand." He just stood there and said something about needing to eat something. I really didn't want to, but goddammit if I didn't give him a Euro coin!
Now, let me try to describe this young man. First, I'll describe the panhandlers in the States. They can be young or old, but they all look like shit, right? I mean, they are unshaven, wearing dirty clothes, and clearly have slept outside for at least a few nights in a row. Yet they don't push — they usually are polite, and if you decline to help them, they often say "God Bless" and move on. There are a few rude ones, but it is obvious that they are a little unhinged.
Here in France, the panhandlers are different. They look like everyone else, and they have elaborate pitches. Thursday night on the metro, a woman got on the train, dressed normally, and immediately launched into a loud spiel as she slowly walked down the aisle – "Messieurs et mesdames, s'il vous plait, blah blah blah..." I didn't understand most of the words, but I got the message. As for this young man in Montpellier, he was clean and dressed just fine, wearing a nice black patent leather jacket, with no stubble to hide the slightly smug look on his face as he worked me. A few minutes later I passed him outside la gare, and he grinned at me like he had gotten the best of this sucker. Which he had.
A foul mood was settling. I bought un sandwich crudités (hard-boiled egg, tomato, lettuce, and mayonnaise) and took the local tram two stops to a strange commercial complex called Antigone; it was the only thing I could remember mentioned at the web page I read about Montpellier. The complex is built in a strange faux-Greco-Roman style, with arches and columns, but clearly modern, laid out on both sides of a straight line, with large plazas with names like Place Thessalie or Place Zeus, and ridiculous fountains that do routines with their spouts. I didn't take any pictures of them or of the architecture because they were both silly, but I did take a picture of a hair salon called "Hair Santa", because that is even sillier. I have no idea what "Hair Santa" means to them. I'll have to ask someone. At the end of the complex was an enormous swimming center, with a couple Olympic-sized pools and a big digital display that told, among other things, the current temperature of each pool. I was impressed.
When I got back to la gare, I was behind two American girls on the escalator, and behind them at the ticket counter. After we had bought our tickets, I approached them and asked, in what I assumed was very American English, where they were from. "The United States," they responded in unison. I said "Me too. California." One was from Wisconsin and the other from Minnesota, and they had both just finished semesters in Europe (in Madrid and London). We chatted a little bit before one girl asked me, "When's your train?" They had a few hours to kill before they were off to Cassis, so we got lunch and talked a bit more. I told them that I had an empty apartment in Sete all to myself, and wouldn't they rather spend the night in comfortable, free beds and spend the next day lounging on a beach? So we all journeyed to Sete together, had a nice dinner, went back to the apartment, opened a couple of bottles of wine, and had a grand old time, the kind of time three young Americans have when they are drunk and together in Europe. The next day we flitted off to Rome, where we stayed for a week in the same hotel room. I proposed, she said yes, we bought a little villa outside of Marseille, and we are very happy. The kids are learning French and English equally well, she teaches at the local grade school, and I get by playing in the jazz club in town. It is a simple and wonderful life.
On the train to Sete, alone, I sat and wondered why, when she asked me when my train left, I said "Twenty minutes", instead of eating the 5 euro train ticket and having a second lunch with them. Wisconsin looked slightly disappointed, but she followed Minnesota off to find lunch, and I went to the platform to wait for my train. Oh well. I hope they made it to Cassis.
Sete is a harbor town on a strip of land between the Mediterranean Sea and a small body of water called le Bassin de Thau. A hill bulges up there — the centre de ville is at the east base of the hill, and the apartment is on the south face, in a neighborhood called La Corniche. I took the bus up there, and found the apartment easily. It is modest, unstylish, and perfect. The balcony overlooks the Mediterranean horizon, there is a comfortable bed, and there is plenty of beer and wine to drink. (Unless I find someone to drink with, I doubt I'll uncork any wine, but I had to crack open a beer to drink while I journal and listen to Dave Brubeck. I had to.) I hung my wet clothes out on the balcony, lay down, and drifted off. Three hours later, at seven o'clock, I woke up and found that the rain had followed me from Montpellier to Sete. My clothes were much wetter now.
Up at the main square of La Corniche, all the restaurants were closed. I asked the clerk of the hotel on the square, and he told me that most everyone was home preparing to watch the presidential debate between Nikolas Sarkosy and Segolène Royal, which would begin at nine. People shutting down their businesses to watch a political debate? Absolutely fantastic. We talked for a few minutes about the election. He said that he was going to vote for Sarkosy, while I admitted that most of my friends were supporting Segolène, though I tried to keep myself out of it.
I was getting rather hungry, so he pointed out one restaurant that was open, as well as the casino across the street, and I chose the restaurant. The menu was more difficult than I had expected. Six different kinds of poissons, and I didn't know any of the words except for Thon (Tuna). And I didn't want tuna. I asked for a suggestion, but the waiter only narrowed it down to two: lou et dorade. (Now I can't find the word "lou" in the dictionary, so I think that I am misremembering it. Still.) He actually brought out a plate with two dead fish for me to choose from. They looked pretty much the same; I picked the flatter one. When it came back, it looked the same, but with some vegetables around it. If you are reading this and you are my mother, you know how squibbly I get looking at a whole dead fish on my plate, with its clouded eyeballs and mouth slightly agape, as if it were killed mid-complaint. Give me a filet and let's pretend that this never had a pulse or a thought of what to do. All this to say that the meal was not what I might have chosen, but I ate it and it tasted good. As it turns out, the fish was "dorade". My dictionary tells me now that "dorade" is "goldfish". Goldfish? It certainly didn't look like a goldfish, either a cracker-sized pet in a bowl or a big, whiskered, dappled showpiece in a pond. It definitely wasn't gold. Hmm.
After dinner, I stopped again in the hotel and watched the last hour of the Sarkosy-Royal debate. Frederic the clerk was the only other person who watched more than a minute or two. I actually understood about 10-15% of what they were saying, which was more than I expected. Phrases jumped out at me — nuclear power, education, Darfur. I laughed out loud when Segolène paraphrased Sarkosy's slogan "Ensemble, tous devient possible" ("Together, everything will become possible) to attack him, partially because I've been doing the same thing for the last week in Paris to make jokes ("Avec le chocolat, tous devient possible!"). And Sarkosy kept saying something about the way a president should act, apparently implying that Segolène didn't have the character to fill the role. The rest was just impressions I got from their body language and tone of voice. Honestly, compared to our American politicians, I was impressed with both of them. Of course, if I didn't speak English, Elmer Fudd might sound eloquent. Afterwards, Frederic and I talked a little more about politics, struggling to find words that I understood in French. When my conversation partner has the time to wait for me, I really enjoy trying. Otherwise, I feel like I am holding them up, and it's not so fun. I remember what it's like to clerk at a hotel, though, so I'm sure Frederic was glad to have someone to talk to.
When I judged that we had exhausted the limits of my vocabulary, I excused myself and walked back to the apartment. It is too dark to see the ocean, so I am listening to music, writing this, and finishing my beer. When I have caught up on my journal, or fatigue has caught up to me, I will go to bed. Hopefully when I get up, the sun will be shining like I imagine it does here, and I will stroll along the beach and imagine a time when the world ended just past that horizon.
My half-brother Eli has keys to a small apartment in a small town called Sete on the French Riviera. I am stopping here for a few days to relax before I continue on to Florence to see my cousin Nate (Justin's brother). It has been less than a week since I arrived in Paris, but by the end of yesterday, I was feeling overwhelmed, and in need of an escape. Hopefully Sete will be my escape.
I woke up on the train, just a few minutes before we arrived in Montpellier, where I would switch trains for Sete. It was wet and gray outside. Up until today, I have enjoyed wonderful French weather — every day in Paris has been sunny and warm. On Sunday, there were stormclouds looming, but by the time they settled over the city, Justin and I had returned to the apartment for the evening, and we watched from the window as the sudden and torrential rain fell on the unlucky few caught outside. At around ten o'clock we walked to the corner pharmacy across already drying sidewalks, with that wonderful damp city smell in our nostrils.
But this afternoon in Montpellier there was a slow and steady rain. I had an hour and change to kill before my train to Sete, and I didn't want to kill it dans la gare, so I headed out into the weather. As I did, a young man approached me and asked me for money. He even had a flyer to hand out that explained his plight, I think. First I shook my head "no", unconvincingly, and he kept asking, so I said "Je ne comprends pas" — "I don't understand." He just stood there and said something about needing to eat something. I really didn't want to, but goddammit if I didn't give him a Euro coin!
Now, let me try to describe this young man. First, I'll describe the panhandlers in the States. They can be young or old, but they all look like shit, right? I mean, they are unshaven, wearing dirty clothes, and clearly have slept outside for at least a few nights in a row. Yet they don't push — they usually are polite, and if you decline to help them, they often say "God Bless" and move on. There are a few rude ones, but it is obvious that they are a little unhinged.
Here in France, the panhandlers are different. They look like everyone else, and they have elaborate pitches. Thursday night on the metro, a woman got on the train, dressed normally, and immediately launched into a loud spiel as she slowly walked down the aisle – "Messieurs et mesdames, s'il vous plait, blah blah blah..." I didn't understand most of the words, but I got the message. As for this young man in Montpellier, he was clean and dressed just fine, wearing a nice black patent leather jacket, with no stubble to hide the slightly smug look on his face as he worked me. A few minutes later I passed him outside la gare, and he grinned at me like he had gotten the best of this sucker. Which he had.
A foul mood was settling. I bought un sandwich crudités (hard-boiled egg, tomato, lettuce, and mayonnaise) and took the local tram two stops to a strange commercial complex called Antigone; it was the only thing I could remember mentioned at the web page I read about Montpellier. The complex is built in a strange faux-Greco-Roman style, with arches and columns, but clearly modern, laid out on both sides of a straight line, with large plazas with names like Place Thessalie or Place Zeus, and ridiculous fountains that do routines with their spouts. I didn't take any pictures of them or of the architecture because they were both silly, but I did take a picture of a hair salon called "Hair Santa", because that is even sillier. I have no idea what "Hair Santa" means to them. I'll have to ask someone. At the end of the complex was an enormous swimming center, with a couple Olympic-sized pools and a big digital display that told, among other things, the current temperature of each pool. I was impressed.
When I got back to la gare, I was behind two American girls on the escalator, and behind them at the ticket counter. After we had bought our tickets, I approached them and asked, in what I assumed was very American English, where they were from. "The United States," they responded in unison. I said "Me too. California." One was from Wisconsin and the other from Minnesota, and they had both just finished semesters in Europe (in Madrid and London). We chatted a little bit before one girl asked me, "When's your train?" They had a few hours to kill before they were off to Cassis, so we got lunch and talked a bit more. I told them that I had an empty apartment in Sete all to myself, and wouldn't they rather spend the night in comfortable, free beds and spend the next day lounging on a beach? So we all journeyed to Sete together, had a nice dinner, went back to the apartment, opened a couple of bottles of wine, and had a grand old time, the kind of time three young Americans have when they are drunk and together in Europe. The next day we flitted off to Rome, where we stayed for a week in the same hotel room. I proposed, she said yes, we bought a little villa outside of Marseille, and we are very happy. The kids are learning French and English equally well, she teaches at the local grade school, and I get by playing in the jazz club in town. It is a simple and wonderful life.
On the train to Sete, alone, I sat and wondered why, when she asked me when my train left, I said "Twenty minutes", instead of eating the 5 euro train ticket and having a second lunch with them. Wisconsin looked slightly disappointed, but she followed Minnesota off to find lunch, and I went to the platform to wait for my train. Oh well. I hope they made it to Cassis.
Sete is a harbor town on a strip of land between the Mediterranean Sea and a small body of water called le Bassin de Thau. A hill bulges up there — the centre de ville is at the east base of the hill, and the apartment is on the south face, in a neighborhood called La Corniche. I took the bus up there, and found the apartment easily. It is modest, unstylish, and perfect. The balcony overlooks the Mediterranean horizon, there is a comfortable bed, and there is plenty of beer and wine to drink. (Unless I find someone to drink with, I doubt I'll uncork any wine, but I had to crack open a beer to drink while I journal and listen to Dave Brubeck. I had to.) I hung my wet clothes out on the balcony, lay down, and drifted off. Three hours later, at seven o'clock, I woke up and found that the rain had followed me from Montpellier to Sete. My clothes were much wetter now.
Up at the main square of La Corniche, all the restaurants were closed. I asked the clerk of the hotel on the square, and he told me that most everyone was home preparing to watch the presidential debate between Nikolas Sarkosy and Segolène Royal, which would begin at nine. People shutting down their businesses to watch a political debate? Absolutely fantastic. We talked for a few minutes about the election. He said that he was going to vote for Sarkosy, while I admitted that most of my friends were supporting Segolène, though I tried to keep myself out of it.
I was getting rather hungry, so he pointed out one restaurant that was open, as well as the casino across the street, and I chose the restaurant. The menu was more difficult than I had expected. Six different kinds of poissons, and I didn't know any of the words except for Thon (Tuna). And I didn't want tuna. I asked for a suggestion, but the waiter only narrowed it down to two: lou et dorade. (Now I can't find the word "lou" in the dictionary, so I think that I am misremembering it. Still.) He actually brought out a plate with two dead fish for me to choose from. They looked pretty much the same; I picked the flatter one. When it came back, it looked the same, but with some vegetables around it. If you are reading this and you are my mother, you know how squibbly I get looking at a whole dead fish on my plate, with its clouded eyeballs and mouth slightly agape, as if it were killed mid-complaint. Give me a filet and let's pretend that this never had a pulse or a thought of what to do. All this to say that the meal was not what I might have chosen, but I ate it and it tasted good. As it turns out, the fish was "dorade". My dictionary tells me now that "dorade" is "goldfish". Goldfish? It certainly didn't look like a goldfish, either a cracker-sized pet in a bowl or a big, whiskered, dappled showpiece in a pond. It definitely wasn't gold. Hmm.
After dinner, I stopped again in the hotel and watched the last hour of the Sarkosy-Royal debate. Frederic the clerk was the only other person who watched more than a minute or two. I actually understood about 10-15% of what they were saying, which was more than I expected. Phrases jumped out at me — nuclear power, education, Darfur. I laughed out loud when Segolène paraphrased Sarkosy's slogan "Ensemble, tous devient possible" ("Together, everything will become possible) to attack him, partially because I've been doing the same thing for the last week in Paris to make jokes ("Avec le chocolat, tous devient possible!"). And Sarkosy kept saying something about the way a president should act, apparently implying that Segolène didn't have the character to fill the role. The rest was just impressions I got from their body language and tone of voice. Honestly, compared to our American politicians, I was impressed with both of them. Of course, if I didn't speak English, Elmer Fudd might sound eloquent. Afterwards, Frederic and I talked a little more about politics, struggling to find words that I understood in French. When my conversation partner has the time to wait for me, I really enjoy trying. Otherwise, I feel like I am holding them up, and it's not so fun. I remember what it's like to clerk at a hotel, though, so I'm sure Frederic was glad to have someone to talk to.
When I judged that we had exhausted the limits of my vocabulary, I excused myself and walked back to the apartment. It is too dark to see the ocean, so I am listening to music, writing this, and finishing my beer. When I have caught up on my journal, or fatigue has caught up to me, I will go to bed. Hopefully when I get up, the sun will be shining like I imagine it does here, and I will stroll along the beach and imagine a time when the world ended just past that horizon.
Le "Très Grand Vitesse", vraiment!
"Very Big Speed", indeed!
I am on board the TGV, on my way from Paris to Sete. It is a nice smooth ride, except for when we pass a train heading the opposite direction. Then there is a half-second or so of rumbling, and we are pushed to the side about a centimeter or two by the rush of air. (I assume from Newton that the other train is similarly affected.) It's only a half a second because we are going really fucking fast. For the first five or ten minutes I was not impressed, but then I guess they turned the boosters on, and since then we've been zooming. And I'm glad for that — the French countryside is nice and all, but, at least so far, it's not much to look at. Every once in a while there is a little town where all the buildings appear older than anything in the United States, but they might as well be Hollywood backdrops. There are also sheep, and trees, and cows. All the cows are white, which now leads me to believe that maybe the sheep I saw were cows, too, because since I realized that there were cows, I have not seen any sheep. They also look smaller and fitter than American cows; I guess it's not just us humans. And we must be in Dijon now, because there are a lot mustard fields. The yellow is actually very nice. It does a good job of breaking up the green. But if one color doesn't do it, how much better are two? I suppose if you count the soft blue of the sky we've got three, plus the white of the clouds and contrails, and the royal blue of the interrupting trains, and the mottled gray of the old stone walls buildings, and the rich brownish-red of the church roofs, and the light tan of the exposed dirt and gravel by the tracks. That's about it.
P.S. My seat is facing the rear of the train, so unless I crane my neck, I can only see what we are passing or have already passed. I'd rather sit facing the other direction, but I guess that's the way life is, isn't it?
I am on board the TGV, on my way from Paris to Sete. It is a nice smooth ride, except for when we pass a train heading the opposite direction. Then there is a half-second or so of rumbling, and we are pushed to the side about a centimeter or two by the rush of air. (I assume from Newton that the other train is similarly affected.) It's only a half a second because we are going really fucking fast. For the first five or ten minutes I was not impressed, but then I guess they turned the boosters on, and since then we've been zooming. And I'm glad for that — the French countryside is nice and all, but, at least so far, it's not much to look at. Every once in a while there is a little town where all the buildings appear older than anything in the United States, but they might as well be Hollywood backdrops. There are also sheep, and trees, and cows. All the cows are white, which now leads me to believe that maybe the sheep I saw were cows, too, because since I realized that there were cows, I have not seen any sheep. They also look smaller and fitter than American cows; I guess it's not just us humans. And we must be in Dijon now, because there are a lot mustard fields. The yellow is actually very nice. It does a good job of breaking up the green. But if one color doesn't do it, how much better are two? I suppose if you count the soft blue of the sky we've got three, plus the white of the clouds and contrails, and the royal blue of the interrupting trains, and the mottled gray of the old stone walls buildings, and the rich brownish-red of the church roofs, and the light tan of the exposed dirt and gravel by the tracks. That's about it.
P.S. My seat is facing the rear of the train, so unless I crane my neck, I can only see what we are passing or have already passed. I'd rather sit facing the other direction, but I guess that's the way life is, isn't it?
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