Part of a perfume display in the Galeries Lafayette, a popular and chic boutique store in Paris
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
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
Monday, January 01, 2007
Thursday, November 23, 2006
So, I have this crap job
We all know about it. We have all rolled our eyes as I ceaslessly whine about it. But my crap job is one thing. Finishing my crap job and then having to go on to explain to someone else how to do their crap job is more than I can be bothered with.
Enter the local post office.
I have a package, the slip of paper tells me. And because I'm irresponsable enough to have a crap job during the day and can't dally about waiting to receive packages at home, much as I'd like to, I have to move my butt down to the post office, wait in line with the creepy smelly muttering man and get it myself.
Enter the local post office clerk
'I can't find it today, you'll have to come back tomorrow'
'Well, what's the delay?' Impatient stare
'Delay?' Don't know my arse from my elbow expression
'The delay'. Jabs paper pointedly. 'This says I can pick it up today'
Looks at paper ineffectually 'Well, we don't know if it's over here or' waves absently 'over there'
'Over there' obviously being some vague cosmic dimension where parcels and socks sit about in transit.
Well, here's a clue, it's not over here is it...
'Besides, well, there's no follow on. And a 'postal parcel?', I'm not really sure what that might be...'
'At a guess I'd say it might be a PARCEL. That comes from OVERSEAS (he's actually listening with some interest at this point, almost as if he's learning something. Neurons making connections. Parcels come by the post. Genius.) 'Probably AUSTRALIA' (the mere fact that it could be from Australia and there is any possibility that it might be from my best friend and that some clueless moron is standing between me and a parcel from said best friend is making me ever so homocidal and twitchy)
Australia seems to be a clue of some sort, so I stand, drumming fingers, as waves of smelly muttering come festering through my senses, waiting for the arse and elbow man to figure it out.
But he doesn't.
I can say many positive and negative things about France. But their Post Offices suck, period.
Enter the local post office.
I have a package, the slip of paper tells me. And because I'm irresponsable enough to have a crap job during the day and can't dally about waiting to receive packages at home, much as I'd like to, I have to move my butt down to the post office, wait in line with the creepy smelly muttering man and get it myself.
Enter the local post office clerk
'I can't find it today, you'll have to come back tomorrow'
'Well, what's the delay?' Impatient stare
'Delay?' Don't know my arse from my elbow expression
'The delay'. Jabs paper pointedly. 'This says I can pick it up today'
Looks at paper ineffectually 'Well, we don't know if it's over here or' waves absently 'over there'
'Over there' obviously being some vague cosmic dimension where parcels and socks sit about in transit.
Well, here's a clue, it's not over here is it...
'Besides, well, there's no follow on. And a 'postal parcel?', I'm not really sure what that might be...'
'At a guess I'd say it might be a PARCEL. That comes from OVERSEAS (he's actually listening with some interest at this point, almost as if he's learning something. Neurons making connections. Parcels come by the post. Genius.) 'Probably AUSTRALIA' (the mere fact that it could be from Australia and there is any possibility that it might be from my best friend and that some clueless moron is standing between me and a parcel from said best friend is making me ever so homocidal and twitchy)
Australia seems to be a clue of some sort, so I stand, drumming fingers, as waves of smelly muttering come festering through my senses, waiting for the arse and elbow man to figure it out.
But he doesn't.
I can say many positive and negative things about France. But their Post Offices suck, period.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
bookworm gossip
It was with girlish glee that I whipped the latest Susanna Clarke book off the english language section shelf at my local bookstore. And with adult cynicism that I balked at the price and put it right back. For those not in the know, she's the author responsable for the weighty tome Jonathan Strange And Mr Norrell, which you've either read, think it might be a good read, heard about or are totally put out by the excessive weightiness and small printy-ness of the project (go on, read it you chicken). Anyway, it's a book I can recommend (this blogs just full of them lately) for anyone who can deal with excessive footnotes. They're good footnotes, though. There's practically another book hidden in them. It's amazing to believe it was her first work, and you get the impression of someone with a mind so ready to explode with ideas that if she doesn't get as many of them out as possible they'll be scraping her cerebellum off the paintwork.
Anyway, her latest work is 'The Ladies of Grace Adieu', and as soon as I get around to my next online shopping spree, I might be able to actually review the story, rather than its potential super-dooper qualities. 23€ for a medium sized paperback, however, is a whole other story.
Anyway, her latest work is 'The Ladies of Grace Adieu', and as soon as I get around to my next online shopping spree, I might be able to actually review the story, rather than its potential super-dooper qualities. 23€ for a medium sized paperback, however, is a whole other story.
The wonders of modern technology
So in todays wonderful world of advertising...a deodorant that lasts 48 hours. Either aimed at what my ex professor of botany called the 'unwashed masses' (ie anybody generally not studying science and particularly not studying botany, and more particularly arts students) or technology is getting in early for the day when the water shortage is acute enough to prevent our daily Western world ablutions. Alternate theories, anyone?
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Feeling in need of a movie suggestion? Well you've come to the right place. The right place for someone who doesn't mind reading subtitles that is. And if you're one of my regulars (do I have regulars?), I know that you're that sort of person, you dear thing.The Labyrinth of Pan is yet another amazing film to come out of the studios of Mexico (there must be something in the water over there) but the first I've seen in the fantasy genre. There are two stories happening in parallel, the gruesome reality of wartorn Spain during a civil conflict, and the (also somewhat gruesome) fantasy world of a young girl who must pass three tests to return her soul back to the fantasy world that she has been told she belongs.
The whole package is superb, and it would be a shame if it is just a small blip on the foreign film scene, competing against the schlock out of Hollywood. Check out http://www.panslabyrinth.com/ for more info.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Beer and global warming
One Welcome Week Off, and I'm floating happily in my zen bubble, 10 minutes back, and it's 'hand me the spanner Pierre, so that I may beat them all to death'. Aka life in the public service. Except it isn't exactly the public service, it's something vague like 'affiliated public servants'. Only the French could sub categorise government administrative divisions. And be earnest about it.
Did I say I wouldn't rant about work? If so, I must have been on drugs. First day back and I have no desk. Again. I should explain that I have not had a personal desk space since, well, I arrived actually, and have been instead shunted from 'oh (s)he's absent today's ' spot with my sad little intray trailing along behind me every other day. A rubber stamp. A few pens. A stapler. Bear in mind I have a 6 month contract, it's not like they hadn't been warned. Anyway, I almost had a free desk for 6 whole weeks and refused to ever move again. So they waited til I left for a week. And someone nicked Stapley. The Bastards.
So, first day back and not only is my desk gone, but so's all my stuff. No one knows where it is. Typical. But I have a sort of second home, a pseudo work area. It's upstairs. In a draughty corridor. Next to a scan machine. Pressing the green button and scanning hundreds and hundreds of dusty documents. I don't kid myself - there's so many years worth here because I'm the only sucker that they've found to do the job in years. In keeping with job thats only fit for the work experience kid allowances, I've sat by doing the odd puzzle while I wait for the machine to go through periodically painfully long reboots, or sometimes mysteriously short ones...you never know actually. Only to be told off. I flat out read a book in sheer desperation. Only to be told off. So I figured...music. A discrete set of headphones, only my ears are being distracted, I don't have the aura of a person who is avoiding work. But, (and I inhale deep and calming breaths as I think to myself 'only 5 more weeks'), my ears must remain unplugged. I have been categorically informed. To listen to the glorious cacophony that is the workman on the other side of the wall with wailing buzz saws, jack hammers and an idiot who whistles while he work, but doesn't know any tunes.
Anyway, beer.
In the usual time honoured tradion of not planning anything, the day trip to Brussels involved a late start and aimless wandering around some craptacular suburbs to find a particular restaurant listed in some 'a list of good restaurants in Brussels that none of our reviewers have ever actually been to but that look ok from the outside'(that may or may not be open, and may or may not be some covert mafia headquarters). Also went to a brewery - Cantillon, the last brewery in Brussels that still relies on spontaneous fermentation to brew their beer. This was once the standing method before beer production became highly industrialised. As a consequence their beers take years, rather than weeks, to produce. While brewing would normally be underway in late October, the unseasonally mild temperatures meant a delayed start - not only for this year, but many previous years as well. During a month where I've never seen global warming discussed so frequently as a fait accompli, we were witness to yet another small consequence.
Since that warm and balmy heyday of oh, a week ago, winter seems to have recalled who's the boss (and it's not Tony Danza) and temperatures have plummeted to such an extent that Western Europe, as in the entire Western part of Europe, as in - that's a hell of a lot of countries, almost succumbed to an entire power blackout on Saturday night. As in total. I'm having trouble getting my head around that one.
Still, at least you'd have been able to see the stars...
Did I say I wouldn't rant about work? If so, I must have been on drugs. First day back and I have no desk. Again. I should explain that I have not had a personal desk space since, well, I arrived actually, and have been instead shunted from 'oh (s)he's absent today's ' spot with my sad little intray trailing along behind me every other day. A rubber stamp. A few pens. A stapler. Bear in mind I have a 6 month contract, it's not like they hadn't been warned. Anyway, I almost had a free desk for 6 whole weeks and refused to ever move again. So they waited til I left for a week. And someone nicked Stapley. The Bastards.
So, first day back and not only is my desk gone, but so's all my stuff. No one knows where it is. Typical. But I have a sort of second home, a pseudo work area. It's upstairs. In a draughty corridor. Next to a scan machine. Pressing the green button and scanning hundreds and hundreds of dusty documents. I don't kid myself - there's so many years worth here because I'm the only sucker that they've found to do the job in years. In keeping with job thats only fit for the work experience kid allowances, I've sat by doing the odd puzzle while I wait for the machine to go through periodically painfully long reboots, or sometimes mysteriously short ones...you never know actually. Only to be told off. I flat out read a book in sheer desperation. Only to be told off. So I figured...music. A discrete set of headphones, only my ears are being distracted, I don't have the aura of a person who is avoiding work. But, (and I inhale deep and calming breaths as I think to myself 'only 5 more weeks'), my ears must remain unplugged. I have been categorically informed. To listen to the glorious cacophony that is the workman on the other side of the wall with wailing buzz saws, jack hammers and an idiot who whistles while he work, but doesn't know any tunes.
Anyway, beer.
In the usual time honoured tradion of not planning anything, the day trip to Brussels involved a late start and aimless wandering around some craptacular suburbs to find a particular restaurant listed in some 'a list of good restaurants in Brussels that none of our reviewers have ever actually been to but that look ok from the outside'(that may or may not be open, and may or may not be some covert mafia headquarters). Also went to a brewery - Cantillon, the last brewery in Brussels that still relies on spontaneous fermentation to brew their beer. This was once the standing method before beer production became highly industrialised. As a consequence their beers take years, rather than weeks, to produce. While brewing would normally be underway in late October, the unseasonally mild temperatures meant a delayed start - not only for this year, but many previous years as well. During a month where I've never seen global warming discussed so frequently as a fait accompli, we were witness to yet another small consequence.
Since that warm and balmy heyday of oh, a week ago, winter seems to have recalled who's the boss (and it's not Tony Danza) and temperatures have plummeted to such an extent that Western Europe, as in the entire Western part of Europe, as in - that's a hell of a lot of countries, almost succumbed to an entire power blackout on Saturday night. As in total. I'm having trouble getting my head around that one.
Still, at least you'd have been able to see the stars...
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Tripostal
This is actually a composite shot as these statues were further away from each other than this. Part of the Lille 3000 festival at the Tripostal art centre, Lille.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
One for the visitors and expats
I visited a fantastic Mexican restaurant on Friday night, and there must have been something special in that 50 spice sauce that provoked me to write a restaurant critique, and possibly make a habit out of it if I ever figure out how to group posts by theme in the sidebar.
Boulevard Solferino in Lille is one of my favourite areas of the city, and has an abnormally high saturation of neon fronted asian restaurants but, nestled in between and Irish and a Scottish bar, is the kitschy mexican decor that screams central American themed restaurant. Truth be told, I didn't expect much from a resturant called Los Tacos (aye carumba), but the extremely pleasant owner immediately made me kick myself for not having known about this place earlier and reserved beforehand. But, despite the late night Friday crowds, he managed to squeeze us into a free spot. Feeling seriously in the mood to try something completely different to the standard fare, (Mexican or otherwise), I ordered one of their more exotic specialities, the chicken molé (as in olé), a chicken and rice dish drizzled with a serious helping of a 50 spice sauce (to whit, I can't even think of 50 spices). The first bite is kind of a maelstrom in the mouth as one's tastebuds try to go about deciphering something out of the mix. Then the taste mellows out as the mouth gives up on the challenge. Every bite is like this. And topped off with a glass of delicious Chilean merlot (I've a palate more partial to new world wines - especially Chilean) it certainly satisfied my gourmet mood.
The margaritas are a decent size and you can actually distinguish the tequila and lemons (after a recent disappointment in a vieux Lille mexican resto whose margaritas were everything that the Los Tacos version is not - except for the price. They didn't even salt the rim, hello?)But, I rarely make it to the dessert course, generally filling up on entréé and main, so no sweets to add to the mix. As we left the owner, once again making us feel especially privileged, followed us to the front door with well wishes and hopes of seeing us again soon. On the whole, restaurant owners are friendly enough - their business after all depends on a general absence of misanthropic tendencies. But this dear chap had something just a little extra in his smile and in his manner that put me very much in the mood to recommend his restaurant to others
Los Tacos
164 rue Solférino, Lille
Tél: 03.20.77.59.86
Meals range from about 11 - 20€
booking ahead on weekend nights is advisable, we were just lucky
Boulevard Solferino in Lille is one of my favourite areas of the city, and has an abnormally high saturation of neon fronted asian restaurants but, nestled in between and Irish and a Scottish bar, is the kitschy mexican decor that screams central American themed restaurant. Truth be told, I didn't expect much from a resturant called Los Tacos (aye carumba), but the extremely pleasant owner immediately made me kick myself for not having known about this place earlier and reserved beforehand. But, despite the late night Friday crowds, he managed to squeeze us into a free spot. Feeling seriously in the mood to try something completely different to the standard fare, (Mexican or otherwise), I ordered one of their more exotic specialities, the chicken molé (as in olé), a chicken and rice dish drizzled with a serious helping of a 50 spice sauce (to whit, I can't even think of 50 spices). The first bite is kind of a maelstrom in the mouth as one's tastebuds try to go about deciphering something out of the mix. Then the taste mellows out as the mouth gives up on the challenge. Every bite is like this. And topped off with a glass of delicious Chilean merlot (I've a palate more partial to new world wines - especially Chilean) it certainly satisfied my gourmet mood.
The margaritas are a decent size and you can actually distinguish the tequila and lemons (after a recent disappointment in a vieux Lille mexican resto whose margaritas were everything that the Los Tacos version is not - except for the price. They didn't even salt the rim, hello?)But, I rarely make it to the dessert course, generally filling up on entréé and main, so no sweets to add to the mix. As we left the owner, once again making us feel especially privileged, followed us to the front door with well wishes and hopes of seeing us again soon. On the whole, restaurant owners are friendly enough - their business after all depends on a general absence of misanthropic tendencies. But this dear chap had something just a little extra in his smile and in his manner that put me very much in the mood to recommend his restaurant to others
Los Tacos
164 rue Solférino, Lille
Tél: 03.20.77.59.86
Meals range from about 11 - 20€
booking ahead on weekend nights is advisable, we were just lucky
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Watching
A young girl sits on her fathers shoulders and watches the Indian inspired opening performance at the newly created Lille 3000 cultural festival
Friday, October 13, 2006
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
tea, apples and ginger snap biscuits
Are three things I like to consume together. They also sound rather quaint when you put them all in the same sentence like that. I'm reading a book about the heritage of British food, disappearing regional specialties, canny seaweed eating sheep from Orkney, BSE and chicken tikka masala. There seems to be a certain similarity between certain dishes still current in Europe and what the Brits were eating a few generations ago. Before they got scared of germs. And started feeding meat to their cows. Be that as it may, despite the fact that you can buy a bag of powdered oats here easily enough, I can't say for sure who, aside from me and the odd Scottish expat, is actually eating them.
Monsieur has recently put in an offer for an apartment, I think that constitutes grown up news or something. We're moving in at the end of the year if all goes to plan (i.e the bank generously hands us a ball and chain to cart around). It needs some work doing, but doesn't seem to have any resident mould colonies which is quite high on my list of priorities (not damp, not damp, not frigging damp). We'll be slightly (2-3km) removed from the city centre and living in one of the nearby suburbs (Marcq en Baroeul - a name which is likely to screw up more than one of my english speaking friends when it comes time to write their Christmas cards). It's a pretty nice area with some quite amazing residential architecture. Needles to say, we are not going to be living in any examples of this amazingness. It is a first purchase, after all.
Monsieur has recently put in an offer for an apartment, I think that constitutes grown up news or something. We're moving in at the end of the year if all goes to plan (i.e the bank generously hands us a ball and chain to cart around). It needs some work doing, but doesn't seem to have any resident mould colonies which is quite high on my list of priorities (not damp, not damp, not frigging damp). We'll be slightly (2-3km) removed from the city centre and living in one of the nearby suburbs (Marcq en Baroeul - a name which is likely to screw up more than one of my english speaking friends when it comes time to write their Christmas cards). It's a pretty nice area with some quite amazing residential architecture. Needles to say, we are not going to be living in any examples of this amazingness. It is a first purchase, after all.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
I'm in London still
So, London. I'm still all lurgy but I'll battle through with a bit of hot lemon and honey. Just don't be surprised if the sentence constructs are a bit off.
So, as I was saying, London. I really do have a soft spot for the UK, slowly developed over many short visits. My first impression of London is quite possibly the most entertaining first impression I've ever had of a city. As I hesitantly crept out of the underground system somewhere in Hammersmith the first thing I clap my eyes on is a woman sitting spreadlegged on the footpath, torn stockings, crazy hair, talking loudly and obviously into a mobile phone. The message scrawled on a ripped off piece of cardboard in front of her reads 'I am a psychopath'. Welcome to London (though on later reflection I do wonder if it wasn't a 4 non-blondes comedy sketch)
I've found Londoners to be, on the whole, excessively polite people. With the exception of club bouncers and bus drivers. Willing to go well and truely out of their way so that you should not be put out. But then, that's just my experience. And seeing as my experiences in London include door to door scottish fishmongers, it might be exceptional. Or not.
Now I had great intentions of making it out to Portobello AND Camden Town to tour the secondhand bookstores, but hey, who am I kidding right? 4 hours, one foot cramp, 148 photos and about 4 kilos of books later I emergered hot and flustered from the portobello road markets.
The main reason for my visit this time round was for a friends 30th, but with her living in the south in zone 3 and me staying in the north in zone 6, I got to experience much of all that is truely great about the London underground transport system (seriously, you guys are going to have it fixed for the Olympics, right?). It also meant I had to cut my time at her party a bit short to catch the last tube back up to Stanmore. Remember how I said experiencing everything that is good and great about the underground transport system? (insert complete tube meltdown here). So, the only alternative rapid Plan B was taking the bus up to Westminster and running like mad to catch the last Jubilee train. You know that scene in Doctor Who, whey're they're running happily past Big Ben through the night, on some new exciting adventure quest? Well, replace the characters, replace the TARDIS with the tube and replace the impending doom of the living plastic takeover with the impending doom of having the underground grills shut in my face, and you've pretty much got it. Also replace someone who is capable of running with, well, me.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Monday, September 04, 2006
Can I get through this post without saying Crikey?
Looks like not.
So I've been informed by about 17 reliable sources since 9am this morning that the trooper, the little Aussie battler and the all round annoyed the hell out of me for the most part bloke Steve Irwin (aka the Crocodile Hunter) died today. And he allegedly wasn't even physically annoying the animal in question. As you've guessed, this isn't going to be a glowing obituary. Being a bit of an Attenborough freak since the age of 5, I always found Irwins style of 'documentary' to be brash, tawdry and highly invasive for the animals in question. I also thought it sent a very sterotypic and incorrect portrait of the 'aussie bloke' to overseas viewers. And while the 'he who lives by the sword' metaphor is leaking out from my fingertips, I have to at least acknowledge that he was a Dad, and probably a good Dad, and that it's sad for kids to lose a Dad so young. I must be mellowing or something (remembers back to shrieking matches with the television every time she saw his goofy head on screen). Still, my first thought was '60 minutes are going to have a field day with this', Not that mellow.
Well, my first Braderie was an interesting experience - took some groovy pics, got shoved around by a million or so people , about half of whom had crass pseudo ethic African giraffe statues bobbing along with them in the crowd, got hit on, got treated like a no-nothing schmuck who couldn't possibly know the first thing about the fine art of being ripped off by professional secondhand dealers, bought a couple of neat things, 70's plastic orange is the new black in bric a brac land, thought about 6 times 'I should really have bought that', ate a respectable number of plates of 'moules frites' (as you must, by law, consume during a braderie under pain of permanent expulsion), decided I absolutely must own a gramophone at some point in my life, walked about 35km, got sore feet, inspected the car damage this morning (snapped off side view mirror). I think I had what you'd call a very average experience.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Flemish dolls
The Braderie de Lille is a city-wide flea market that takes place every year in September. It's said to have started in the Middle ages when servants were allowed to sell their masters unwanted goods to get a little extra cash.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Stampede!
It's all action in Lille at the moment. This weekend is the nationally famous 'braderie de Lille' (the city basically transforms itself into a giant open air flea market and and about 2 million people show up and expect to be fed)
Its origins lie in tradition - when servants could, once a year, sell their and their masters unwanted belongings on the streets. Nowadays it's a ramshackle mixture of made in TastelessCrap-land, pure bricabrac (ie treasure hunting) and antique dealers (fleecing punters). 200km of random stands means my sneakers and wallet should both get a workout.
And in October kicks off the anticipated 'Lille 3000' festival. A new biannual cultural festival starting this year, sort of like Adelaide Fringe festival, but with a theme - if I'm interpreting things correctly. This years theme is Bollywood and soon, very soon, there will be 12 of these 8 m high elephants to greet me every morning on my way to work.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Lille 3000
In 2006, the city of Lille inaugurated a new biannual cultural festival called Lille 3000. The theme of the first year was India, and the city centre was transformed with giant elephant statues, bollywood facades and hindu gods.
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Friday, August 25, 2006
S'il pleut la Sainte Madeleine
Il pleut durant 6 semaines
According to my Almanac, the saying goes, If it rains on Sainte Madeleine (22 July - and it did), it will continue to rain for 6 weeks. Not so catchy in english, but 6 weeks of rain when you were just getting into the summer sales is never a catchy topic. Most people are resigning themselves to the fact that the 3 weeks of heatwave summer we had back in July is the sum total of whatever summer had to offer.
No great changes in the daily routine, I take my blue regional train out to work every morning, passing by the numerous little garden allotments, watching the months crops change - pumpkins are starting to make an appearance, tomatoes are still ripening despite the lack of summer warmth, the markets are full of the small producer stalls and I've been enjoying new potatoes, freshly picked green beans - so fresh that they squeak a little in your mouth when you eat them, I haven't eaten beans that fresh since I was a kid and my grandad would give us his surplus. He always had surplus. I decided to expand my mushroom repertoire last week and bought a healthy handful of girolles, because I thought the price per 100g was the price per kilo. Those mushrooms better add a couple of years onto my life at that kind of price. It's been a busy month, and I haven't had time for blogging or even much photography (bought a new camera and subsequently went into an inspiration slump), my mother visited the north for the first time in mid August, and it rained solidly. We luckily escaped the rain when we visited the very medieval city of Gent in Northern Belgium. Castles, pure Flemish architecture and omnipresent trams, it felt we were further away from France than the short 70km trip it actually is from Lille. We also finally made the effort to visit the museum of art and industry in the nearby suburb of Roubaix. Formerly a municipal pool done in pure art deco decadent style, it has since been transformed into a museum that showcases work from the general period (1920s to 1940s) as well as textiles. Most of the original structure has been left intact, including the old shower cubicles and changing rooms. And the former swimming pool is now dominated by a long shallow basin which shows off the stunning relection of the dual stained glass semicircual windows at each end to great effect.
Otherwise, time is tripping along at an alarming rate. This public servants exam I'd decided to try out back in June is zooming up at speed and I have not even vaguely begun to prepare myself, not even to the extent of figuring out what there even is to be preparing.
In other events, I temporarily inherited a cat. But the part that made it temporary was of my own choosing and I've been battling an awful lot of guilt since making that choice last night. I had offered to take the animal from a friends apartment block as it had been abandoned during the holiday period and essentially left to starve to death. I had it with me about 4 days in total but it was showing a fair amount of aggressiveness and I was having a pronouced allergic reaction to it. So I called the SPCA to come and collect it. And I've felt awful ever since. I can't even remember the last time I've felt so guilty about something. So I've been mentally beating myself up over that one a lot over the last 24 hours. And probably will for some days to come. To try and alleviate my guilt, I sent off an application form to join the Nord Nature group (local ecological group dealing with habitat, flora and fauna issues relevant to the North). Atonement through a chequebook. It's very Catholic of me.
According to my Almanac, the saying goes, If it rains on Sainte Madeleine (22 July - and it did), it will continue to rain for 6 weeks. Not so catchy in english, but 6 weeks of rain when you were just getting into the summer sales is never a catchy topic. Most people are resigning themselves to the fact that the 3 weeks of heatwave summer we had back in July is the sum total of whatever summer had to offer.
No great changes in the daily routine, I take my blue regional train out to work every morning, passing by the numerous little garden allotments, watching the months crops change - pumpkins are starting to make an appearance, tomatoes are still ripening despite the lack of summer warmth, the markets are full of the small producer stalls and I've been enjoying new potatoes, freshly picked green beans - so fresh that they squeak a little in your mouth when you eat them, I haven't eaten beans that fresh since I was a kid and my grandad would give us his surplus. He always had surplus. I decided to expand my mushroom repertoire last week and bought a healthy handful of girolles, because I thought the price per 100g was the price per kilo. Those mushrooms better add a couple of years onto my life at that kind of price. It's been a busy month, and I haven't had time for blogging or even much photography (bought a new camera and subsequently went into an inspiration slump), my mother visited the north for the first time in mid August, and it rained solidly. We luckily escaped the rain when we visited the very medieval city of Gent in Northern Belgium. Castles, pure Flemish architecture and omnipresent trams, it felt we were further away from France than the short 70km trip it actually is from Lille. We also finally made the effort to visit the museum of art and industry in the nearby suburb of Roubaix. Formerly a municipal pool done in pure art deco decadent style, it has since been transformed into a museum that showcases work from the general period (1920s to 1940s) as well as textiles. Most of the original structure has been left intact, including the old shower cubicles and changing rooms. And the former swimming pool is now dominated by a long shallow basin which shows off the stunning relection of the dual stained glass semicircual windows at each end to great effect.
Otherwise, time is tripping along at an alarming rate. This public servants exam I'd decided to try out back in June is zooming up at speed and I have not even vaguely begun to prepare myself, not even to the extent of figuring out what there even is to be preparing.
In other events, I temporarily inherited a cat. But the part that made it temporary was of my own choosing and I've been battling an awful lot of guilt since making that choice last night. I had offered to take the animal from a friends apartment block as it had been abandoned during the holiday period and essentially left to starve to death. I had it with me about 4 days in total but it was showing a fair amount of aggressiveness and I was having a pronouced allergic reaction to it. So I called the SPCA to come and collect it. And I've felt awful ever since. I can't even remember the last time I've felt so guilty about something. So I've been mentally beating myself up over that one a lot over the last 24 hours. And probably will for some days to come. To try and alleviate my guilt, I sent off an application form to join the Nord Nature group (local ecological group dealing with habitat, flora and fauna issues relevant to the North). Atonement through a chequebook. It's very Catholic of me.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Sunday, August 13, 2006
The museum of art and industry - Roubaix, France.
Once a municipal pool done in extravagant art-deco style, the 'piscine de Roubaix' has since been transformed into a museum although has kept many of the interior features of its former self.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
A vulture's stare
A vulture surveys the world around him from atop a turret on Gravensteen castle, Ghent - Belgium.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Monday, August 07, 2006
fishing cats
Todays moment of zen brought to you by my new Nikon (oh I am so showing off, but I just love this one, love it, love it love it)
Yeah, I'm kind of ripping off Jon Stewart too - he seems like the sort of guy who wouldn't mind though.
Yeah, I'm kind of ripping off Jon Stewart too - he seems like the sort of guy who wouldn't mind though.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Turtle row
It makes for a great cliché nature shot, but these Florida turtles - generally kept as pets - are a nuisance species that have been introduced into the ponds and waterways around the Lille zoo, France
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Sol
For anyone who isn't already in the know, I turned another year older over the weekend. For anyone who should be in the know and is staring wide eyed at the screen thinking 'oh shit, I forgot Nats birthday, again' (I threw the 'again' in for good measure, you slackers), then get those little digits moving and start writing grovelling apologetic emails. Now. Though you can finish reading this first if you like. I probably have something terribly important to say.
So, I asked the bf where madame was to be taken to drown her sorr..er, celebrate the auspicious occasion
'A restaurant - On de game'
'On the Game? What kind of place is that? A sports restaurant?You're taking me to a sports restaurant?' (insert suspicious ready to be pissed off tone here)
'No, not "on the game", on-de-gem' (insert 'what are you, a moron?' look here)
Fast forward to a point in time when I can interrogate someone capable of deciphering this babble into a Flemish village called 'Hondeghem"
Oooh, riiiight...
Just wait until the day he tries to phoenetically translate 'we're going to Coober Pedy'
(cul=arse
beur = north african
p.d = fag)
Well, because I got a digital reflex many monthly payment scheme installed to celebrate, nothing short of world war 3 is going to rate a mention. Sucked into the 'Nikon?Canon? Canon?Nikon?' quandry for the past few weeks (just tell me which one's better you bastards!) , I finally settled on a Canon. Until I changed my mind at the last minute and got a Nikon. While waiting the for the unaccountable inordinately long time it takes to get served in this country when there's actually no-one else but you waiting, I encountered another poor lost soul almost on the verge of mental collapse just waiting for someone to definitively tell him which one to buy. He latched onto my 'Well, I was GOING to get the Canon but....' comment like a prophecy from the Oracle. And was no doubt terribly pleased to hear me quote parrot like what he's been reading on countless online reviews for months now. Strangers asking me for advice. I must look grown up.
So, I asked the bf where madame was to be taken to drown her sorr..er, celebrate the auspicious occasion
'A restaurant - On de game'
'On the Game? What kind of place is that? A sports restaurant?You're taking me to a sports restaurant?' (insert suspicious ready to be pissed off tone here)
'No, not "on the game", on-de-gem' (insert 'what are you, a moron?' look here)
Fast forward to a point in time when I can interrogate someone capable of deciphering this babble into a Flemish village called 'Hondeghem"
Oooh, riiiight...
Just wait until the day he tries to phoenetically translate 'we're going to Coober Pedy'
(cul=arse
beur = north african
p.d = fag)
Well, because I got a digital reflex many monthly payment scheme installed to celebrate, nothing short of world war 3 is going to rate a mention. Sucked into the 'Nikon?Canon? Canon?Nikon?' quandry for the past few weeks (just tell me which one's better you bastards!) , I finally settled on a Canon. Until I changed my mind at the last minute and got a Nikon. While waiting the for the unaccountable inordinately long time it takes to get served in this country when there's actually no-one else but you waiting, I encountered another poor lost soul almost on the verge of mental collapse just waiting for someone to definitively tell him which one to buy. He latched onto my 'Well, I was GOING to get the Canon but....' comment like a prophecy from the Oracle. And was no doubt terribly pleased to hear me quote parrot like what he's been reading on countless online reviews for months now. Strangers asking me for advice. I must look grown up.
Le chat bleu
The first photo I took on the day I got my new digital reflex - a Nikon D50.
Le chat bleu is a very yummy gourmet chocoate shop in Lille, France
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)