Built in the late 1800s and named after the then Tsar of Russia. Paris, France
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Dunkerque is not just in Scotland
On a weekend, late in February, I was initiated into my first carnevale, Dunkerque style. First lesson is that too much fluro, fake fur and feathers is never enough . And what a happy coincidence, for the sake of narrative flow, that they all start with ‘F’.
Men dress like women, women dress like, well, caricatures of women. But ultimately, anything goes as pirates and maidens parade through the main streets jeering the onlookers safely watching from above, calling them the ‘cuckolds on the balcony’. Not actually knowing where we’re supposed to be going I placidly follow the two metre high umbrellas and sea of flowered hats.
‘So why are we stopping now’
‘Herring toss’
‘Ok, the what, now?’
Comprehension dawning as I see vacuum sealed packets of smoked herring sailing in gentle arcs overhead. Panic dawning as I realise the crowd , like so many rabid seals, really want the herring. Wanna know another thing that starts with F? (this is where I should mention that, despite being able to deal with pretty much anything bar scuttling giant cockroaches, I have a phobic reaction to anything resembling a mosh pit, to anyone I trampled in my blind panic to get out…move faster next time).
Anyhoo, aside from the mini breakdown, I actually had a pretty good time (assisted by my good friend alcohol). It wasn’t carnevale proper, which happens sometime around mid February, but rather one of the smaller suburban celebrations, which start in the Dunkerque region sometime in early January and finishes at the end of March.
Men dress like women, women dress like, well, caricatures of women. But ultimately, anything goes as pirates and maidens parade through the main streets jeering the onlookers safely watching from above, calling them the ‘cuckolds on the balcony’. Not actually knowing where we’re supposed to be going I placidly follow the two metre high umbrellas and sea of flowered hats.
‘So why are we stopping now’
‘Herring toss’
‘Ok, the what, now?’
Comprehension dawning as I see vacuum sealed packets of smoked herring sailing in gentle arcs overhead. Panic dawning as I realise the crowd , like so many rabid seals, really want the herring. Wanna know another thing that starts with F? (this is where I should mention that, despite being able to deal with pretty much anything bar scuttling giant cockroaches, I have a phobic reaction to anything resembling a mosh pit, to anyone I trampled in my blind panic to get out…move faster next time).
Anyhoo, aside from the mini breakdown, I actually had a pretty good time (assisted by my good friend alcohol). It wasn’t carnevale proper, which happens sometime around mid February, but rather one of the smaller suburban celebrations, which start in the Dunkerque region sometime in early January and finishes at the end of March.
Faces of pont neuf
Pont neuf is the oldest bridge in Paris and these carved faces (mascarons) are caricatures of the tradesmen common to the period when it was built(late 1500s)
Retracing old steps
It was my first time back in Paris since we'd left definitively about a year ago. Whereas once I was cynical enough to be rolling my eyes at the enchanted tourists, I was myself finally able to appreciate it again for the city that it can be. The edges of bad memories of being pushed and shoved about in the metro softened by not riding the peak hour lines or times, by not having to be anywhere at a particular time (except for the train station Anne, except for the train station... :p)
It wasn't only the harsh memories that got a bit fuzzy, but the general layout of several areas also. Doesn't help when you lose your Paris pocket map book either and you're relying on a department store map that thought putting in names of metro stations was less important than inserting very large not to scale images of where their store was located. Still, enough tourists seemed to consider that I looked like I knew where I was going well enough to ask for directions. So the reason for the visit was nothing more than an escape from solo boredom. Ben had a training course (can we say free hotel room with breakfast?) so rather than sitting about bored and pretending to keep busy for a week, I figured I might as well dust off the camera and take a tour. And get free breakfast.
Parfumerie
Part of a perfume display in the Galeries Lafayette, a popular and chic boutique store in Paris
Lafayette dome
The Galerie Lafayette was built in the late 1800s and inspired by Byzantine architecture. Paris, France
Metro
Old style metro entrance designed by Hector Guimard, a famous art nouveau architect. On a gloomy winters day in Paris, France.
Dunkerque is not only in Scotland
So what look was I going for here, in the end ?
On a weekend, late in February, I was initiated into my first carnevale, Dunkerque style. First lesson is that too much fluro, fake fur and feathers is never enough . And what a happy coincidence, for the sake of narrative flow, that they all start with ‘F’.
Men dress like women, women dress like, well, caricatures of women. But ultimately, anything goes as pirates and maidens parade through the main streets jeering the onlookers safely watching from above, calling them the ‘cuckolds on the balcony’. It’s a tame insult alongside the bawdy shanties that would make even a sailor blush. Not actually knowing where we’re supposed to be going I placidly follow the two metre high umbrella and sea of flowered hats.
‘So why are we stopping now’
‘Herring toss’
‘Ok, the what, now?’
Comprehension dawning as I see vacuum sealed packets of smoked herring sailing in gentle arcs overhead. Panic dawning as I realise the crowd , like so many rabid seals, really want the herring. Wanna know another thing that starts with F? (this is where I should mention I have a phobic reaction to anything resembling a mosh pit, to anyone I trampled in my blind panic to get out…move faster next time).
Anyhoo, aside from the mini breakdown, I actually had a pretty good time (assisted by my good friend alcohol). It wasn’t carnevale proper, which happens sometime around mid February, but rather one of the smaller suburban celebrations, which start in the Dunkerque region sometime in early January and finishes at the end of March.
On a weekend, late in February, I was initiated into my first carnevale, Dunkerque style. First lesson is that too much fluro, fake fur and feathers is never enough . And what a happy coincidence, for the sake of narrative flow, that they all start with ‘F’.
Men dress like women, women dress like, well, caricatures of women. But ultimately, anything goes as pirates and maidens parade through the main streets jeering the onlookers safely watching from above, calling them the ‘cuckolds on the balcony’. It’s a tame insult alongside the bawdy shanties that would make even a sailor blush. Not actually knowing where we’re supposed to be going I placidly follow the two metre high umbrella and sea of flowered hats.
‘So why are we stopping now’
‘Herring toss’
‘Ok, the what, now?’
Comprehension dawning as I see vacuum sealed packets of smoked herring sailing in gentle arcs overhead. Panic dawning as I realise the crowd , like so many rabid seals, really want the herring. Wanna know another thing that starts with F? (this is where I should mention I have a phobic reaction to anything resembling a mosh pit, to anyone I trampled in my blind panic to get out…move faster next time).
Anyhoo, aside from the mini breakdown, I actually had a pretty good time (assisted by my good friend alcohol). It wasn’t carnevale proper, which happens sometime around mid February, but rather one of the smaller suburban celebrations, which start in the Dunkerque region sometime in early January and finishes at the end of March.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Friday, February 16, 2007
Picking up the pieces
So, how does one get back into blogging after such a long estrangement?
It's true my neglect has been woefully flagrant, so I prostrate myself at your feet and shed walrus tears and fling pages from my journal (yeah I have one of those, for all the stuff I'd regret saying later) in the air. It's all very dramatic and european cinema-esque. It's in black and white. There are long curtains blowing in the wind. Someone is screaming 'Stelllllla' in the background, there are probably bleak moors and will o' the wisps somewhere off screen. You getting the picture? Good
Flip back to the normality channel, even if the reception is godawful.
I've had an odd sort of time since we were last here together. I've lived in that place where plans and actual events are so far removed from each other that they could safely contemplate having offspring (what would they be called then? Nostalgia?) What lofty plans I had included moving into the new apartment round mid December, getting the first part of the renovations out of the way over the next fortnight, having a jolly good time in London for New Year, getting a temp job as soon as possible to keep the cashflow up, and launching myself back into the job search fray.....
[enter reality]
What ACTUALLY happened went something along the lines of a one month delay before we got the keys to the apartment, being stuck out in the sticks at my boyfriends parents place, my boyfriends mothers sister trying to commit suicide on New Years eve, my boyfriends mother having a mini mental breakdown and deciding to make me the fall guy for many of her little psychological problems (and my aren't there an awful lot of them it would seem), me running off to stay with my gran to get the hell out of the firing line (the fact that my gran is 94 and a little potty herself is another story, but hey, at least it's my own family), having to move into the boyfriends sisters place until key day, no I have not found a job yet thanks very much, we've only just completed the major part of the renovations, and one of our neighbours here practices The.Same.Synthesiser.Piece.At.Full.Volume.Every.Single.Day.
Still, could be worse right?
And I did have a jolly time in England
While I'm on the subject though, let me tell you a little about the realities of the employment market in France. It's in a terrible state. To give you an example, there are about 13 environmental jobs on offer within my region at the moment, 8 of them are for work experience (as part of uni courses here, students have to do a stint of work experience at a related organisation, which is technically a good idea, though it's heavily exploited as free labour by lots of organisations as they basically get free quasi qualified employment for months at a time, I've even seen cheeky 'seeking work experience trainee for one month july-august. Apply within' signs on shop front windows - i.e. retail. In other countries it's called a summer job. And it's paid. And it's how students get beer money.
So we're down to 5 (my mathematical talent is wasted I tell you, wasted). One of those is for a director. One is for a 'youth placement' (there's always some stupid age restriction - and it's never for someone who's 31), so we're down to 3. One needs qualifications I can't fake, the other needs a car. Neither of them tell you how much money they're going to pay (it's 'negotiable'). So that leaves 1. Which is sort of only vaguely related to my qualification. Which I'll send off an application for after I've finished ranting here. But considering the hundreds of applications I have sent and the one interview I've ever got, don't bother crossing your fingers.
'So what are you going to do about this' I hear you ask? (or maybe it's the Greek chorus)
I honestly don't know (sorry, you might have been expecting something more proactive). As a first alternative, I'm applying en masse for a lot of jobs in the UK, which may lead to nothing, but at least they've got a lot more on offer over there, and their applicant profiles more flexible, you can have a 'related degree' in a variety of fields rather than 'you have to have completed a bridging course in Faff module 15/b between August and December 2005 and have 6 years professional experience as a dictator of a small African state and be under 25 on the 6th of June and/or under 30 if you receive a pension for losing a leg in the Crimean war. Not to overstate the point or anything.
It's true my neglect has been woefully flagrant, so I prostrate myself at your feet and shed walrus tears and fling pages from my journal (yeah I have one of those, for all the stuff I'd regret saying later) in the air. It's all very dramatic and european cinema-esque. It's in black and white. There are long curtains blowing in the wind. Someone is screaming 'Stelllllla' in the background, there are probably bleak moors and will o' the wisps somewhere off screen. You getting the picture? Good
Flip back to the normality channel, even if the reception is godawful.
I've had an odd sort of time since we were last here together. I've lived in that place where plans and actual events are so far removed from each other that they could safely contemplate having offspring (what would they be called then? Nostalgia?) What lofty plans I had included moving into the new apartment round mid December, getting the first part of the renovations out of the way over the next fortnight, having a jolly good time in London for New Year, getting a temp job as soon as possible to keep the cashflow up, and launching myself back into the job search fray.....
[enter reality]
What ACTUALLY happened went something along the lines of a one month delay before we got the keys to the apartment, being stuck out in the sticks at my boyfriends parents place, my boyfriends mothers sister trying to commit suicide on New Years eve, my boyfriends mother having a mini mental breakdown and deciding to make me the fall guy for many of her little psychological problems (and my aren't there an awful lot of them it would seem), me running off to stay with my gran to get the hell out of the firing line (the fact that my gran is 94 and a little potty herself is another story, but hey, at least it's my own family), having to move into the boyfriends sisters place until key day, no I have not found a job yet thanks very much, we've only just completed the major part of the renovations, and one of our neighbours here practices The.Same.Synthesiser.Piece.At.Full.Volume.Every.Single.Day.
Still, could be worse right?
And I did have a jolly time in England
While I'm on the subject though, let me tell you a little about the realities of the employment market in France. It's in a terrible state. To give you an example, there are about 13 environmental jobs on offer within my region at the moment, 8 of them are for work experience (as part of uni courses here, students have to do a stint of work experience at a related organisation, which is technically a good idea, though it's heavily exploited as free labour by lots of organisations as they basically get free quasi qualified employment for months at a time, I've even seen cheeky 'seeking work experience trainee for one month july-august. Apply within' signs on shop front windows - i.e. retail. In other countries it's called a summer job. And it's paid. And it's how students get beer money.
So we're down to 5 (my mathematical talent is wasted I tell you, wasted). One of those is for a director. One is for a 'youth placement' (there's always some stupid age restriction - and it's never for someone who's 31), so we're down to 3. One needs qualifications I can't fake, the other needs a car. Neither of them tell you how much money they're going to pay (it's 'negotiable'). So that leaves 1. Which is sort of only vaguely related to my qualification. Which I'll send off an application for after I've finished ranting here. But considering the hundreds of applications I have sent and the one interview I've ever got, don't bother crossing your fingers.
'So what are you going to do about this' I hear you ask? (or maybe it's the Greek chorus)
I honestly don't know (sorry, you might have been expecting something more proactive). As a first alternative, I'm applying en masse for a lot of jobs in the UK, which may lead to nothing, but at least they've got a lot more on offer over there, and their applicant profiles more flexible, you can have a 'related degree' in a variety of fields rather than 'you have to have completed a bridging course in Faff module 15/b between August and December 2005 and have 6 years professional experience as a dictator of a small African state and be under 25 on the 6th of June and/or under 30 if you receive a pension for losing a leg in the Crimean war. Not to overstate the point or anything.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Red house reflected
I walk past this house a lot, it's on my dog walking route. Marcq en Baroeul, France
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