I did fully intend to go to the markets, visit the catacombs AND take a little trip outside of ile de France this weekend. Oh well, one outta three ain't bad.
Visiting damp tunnels full of centuries old skeletons is probably not everyones idea of a great day out, but there's something I rather like about roaming about in tunnels. And if there's one thing that Paris has got a lot of, it's tunnels.
These particular tunnels were originally limestone quarries - some dating back to Roman occupation (of what was then Lutece). During the late 1700s, there were severe problems with overflowing graveyards and poor burials - especially in the region of Les Halles (once a famous marketplace, now a tragically designed commercial district). To combat the disease caused by these unsanitary conditions (becoming even more problematic during the revolution), it was decided to transfer the bodies to the former quarry sites and create mass graves.
I'm not overly squeamish when it comes to bones, skeletons, slimy toads, slithery snakes, dissections, blood and all that sort of stuff - probably my biology training shining through. There's something very anonymous about this sort of experience though. Graveyrads at least give you an indication of who each person was. Lots of plaques with short prose throughout the tour to remind you that this is the fate that awaits us all (cheerful!), and you find yourself wondering, as you looks at the rows and rows of skulls, who they were, how they lived, how they died. Though its sure that these old bones get no rest with all us tourists wandering through day after day.
Here's some other fun info about the catacombs (from Wikipedia)
* The chamber walls are full of graffiti from the 18th century onwards. In the 19th century some families even lived there.
* Victor Hugo used his knowledge about the tunnel system in his novel Les Misérables.
* During World War II, some Parisian cells of French Resistance used the tunnel system.
* The arrangement of the bones, as well as the ominous signs placed here and there, were made specifically for visitors in the 19th century.
* Burial chambers are only a small part of the full amount of galleries under Paris. The total amount of underground tunnels is more than 300 km.
* In theory, entrance to catacombs is restricted. However, enterprising souls can enter the tunnels through certain places in the sewers or the subway system, as well as through manholes in some streets.
* On rare occasions drug dealers, addicts, eccentrics and those who want to keep clandestine meetings or unusual parties frequent catacombs. Most of the explorers who visit the catacombs today are adventurers or urban explorers.
* Legally speaking, going into catacombs has been illegal since November 2, 1955. There is a 100 € fine and a special tunnel police. Some of the most dangerous places, especially in the center of the city, have been closed.
* While most unofficial visits to the quarry are safe, there are still hazards in such activities. The map of the tunnel is complex; while some of them have plaques indicated the name of the streets above, this is not the case of most, and the complexity of their layout can be perplexing. It is thus necessary to have a good map of the tunnels, and possibly the company of people who have made such trips before.
* In September 2004, a hidden chamber with a movie theater run by the Mexican Perforation group (a French artistic movement that seeks to convey their ideas in underground places) was found by the French police in the Catacombs of Paris.
Monday, October 17, 2005
Friday, October 14, 2005
I had my first real proper French job interview today. When I got my temp job I sort of had one, but I had already been referred by the recruiting agency so it was just for show really (though a lot more nerveracking than this one despite that). It's been a very tough slog through the job market this time around compared to when I first arrived here - peppered with (ahem) tempting offers to work on calldesks or doing data entry (I settled for the data entry).
I have sent cvs off to every environmental organisation I can come up with. Part B has involved sending off my resume to quite a few temping agencies, my cv looks in 100% better shape than it did a year ago and my cover letters reek professionalism and reliability. And I haven't heard a single word from anyone.
I almost had a job, a couple of weeks ago, teaching english. That fell through in the most catastrophic way possible. Which was a real shock - and a very stressful period. I could sort of see the entire thing imploding around me since the woman in charge did a 180 in her attitude towards me and NOTHING I could do was capable of changing it. Every phrase I uttered was wrong and subsequently criticised, and saying nothing was equally incorrect. By the end of 10 days my nerves were shattered and I still hadn't seen a work contract. Asking about it, and wanting to know how many hours she was thinking of giving me, only convinced her of my apparent lack of interest in the job and only in the money, and so she fired me. As it were. It was pretty much a no-win situation.
At the moment I feel like I'm existing in a void, and I'm becoming less and less sure where to turn next, what other avenues I could try, who I could speak with. I've canvassed about everyone I can possibly canvass, and I'm missing a crucial support network - the one that's there when you're totally fed up and out of ideas. In about 6 weeks I have no more unemployment benefits and I have no idea what this will mean for my daily life and my relationship if I'm still jobless. If I am even able to stay in Paris. It's not even a question of putting career-relationship in any particular order. But it's true that there is a certain element of pride involved. I have been working fairly average uninspiring jobs since I was 18 (and earlier), all with a view to 'when I finish my studies'. And I have. And I did pretty damn well at them too. If the only job that's ever going to be offered to me in this city is data entry, then there's really not much point.
I won't hear about the outcome of this interview until next week. I'm up against a lot of other applicants, and even if I am selected, there will still be a second interview to get through. But at least its nice to know that someone, somewhere, noticed my CV.
I have sent cvs off to every environmental organisation I can come up with. Part B has involved sending off my resume to quite a few temping agencies, my cv looks in 100% better shape than it did a year ago and my cover letters reek professionalism and reliability. And I haven't heard a single word from anyone.
I almost had a job, a couple of weeks ago, teaching english. That fell through in the most catastrophic way possible. Which was a real shock - and a very stressful period. I could sort of see the entire thing imploding around me since the woman in charge did a 180 in her attitude towards me and NOTHING I could do was capable of changing it. Every phrase I uttered was wrong and subsequently criticised, and saying nothing was equally incorrect. By the end of 10 days my nerves were shattered and I still hadn't seen a work contract. Asking about it, and wanting to know how many hours she was thinking of giving me, only convinced her of my apparent lack of interest in the job and only in the money, and so she fired me. As it were. It was pretty much a no-win situation.
At the moment I feel like I'm existing in a void, and I'm becoming less and less sure where to turn next, what other avenues I could try, who I could speak with. I've canvassed about everyone I can possibly canvass, and I'm missing a crucial support network - the one that's there when you're totally fed up and out of ideas. In about 6 weeks I have no more unemployment benefits and I have no idea what this will mean for my daily life and my relationship if I'm still jobless. If I am even able to stay in Paris. It's not even a question of putting career-relationship in any particular order. But it's true that there is a certain element of pride involved. I have been working fairly average uninspiring jobs since I was 18 (and earlier), all with a view to 'when I finish my studies'. And I have. And I did pretty damn well at them too. If the only job that's ever going to be offered to me in this city is data entry, then there's really not much point.
I won't hear about the outcome of this interview until next week. I'm up against a lot of other applicants, and even if I am selected, there will still be a second interview to get through. But at least its nice to know that someone, somewhere, noticed my CV.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Glass Act
Right, I have a confession to make. I have, in the last year or so since being in France, become a world class glass breaker. It's a nasty little secret I've been keeping to myself for a while, but after tonights latest mishap (er, and the one from two days ago) I thought it was time to come clean.
This condition has changed my life in various subtle ways. Choice of foodstuffs in glass containers is now more frequently based on the becomes-a-glass-when-its-empty factor than actual quality of product (to tell the truth, those nutella and mustard glasses are actually pretty sturdy), I find myself not minding so much that glass sets are sold in threes rather than twos or fours - I know a break will come along soon enough to even things out, I gaze longingly though shop windows at exquisite sets of coloured designer glasses, sigh sadly and move on. Whats worse is that I've had to face the fact that my disease is contagious, my boyfriend also has minor symptoms - which brings our combined average up to 2 or 3 casualties a month. I've tried alterantives - a couple of ceramic goblets, and more recently some wooden ones. The wood makes the wine taste a little strange, and one of them has tiny flaws in the grain which cause the wine to seep through, but I am content in the knowledge, as I tip the funny smelling wine to my lips and drip red wine all over my lap, that THEY WILL NOT CRACK IN THE SINK. Or maybe they will. My disease may cross all material groups for all I know. This never used to happen. I have lovely glass sets back in my stuff-in-boxes in Australia. But the longer this progresses, the more I wonder about the sense in unpacking them at all.
This condition has changed my life in various subtle ways. Choice of foodstuffs in glass containers is now more frequently based on the becomes-a-glass-when-its-empty factor than actual quality of product (to tell the truth, those nutella and mustard glasses are actually pretty sturdy), I find myself not minding so much that glass sets are sold in threes rather than twos or fours - I know a break will come along soon enough to even things out, I gaze longingly though shop windows at exquisite sets of coloured designer glasses, sigh sadly and move on. Whats worse is that I've had to face the fact that my disease is contagious, my boyfriend also has minor symptoms - which brings our combined average up to 2 or 3 casualties a month. I've tried alterantives - a couple of ceramic goblets, and more recently some wooden ones. The wood makes the wine taste a little strange, and one of them has tiny flaws in the grain which cause the wine to seep through, but I am content in the knowledge, as I tip the funny smelling wine to my lips and drip red wine all over my lap, that THEY WILL NOT CRACK IN THE SINK. Or maybe they will. My disease may cross all material groups for all I know. This never used to happen. I have lovely glass sets back in my stuff-in-boxes in Australia. But the longer this progresses, the more I wonder about the sense in unpacking them at all.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Customer relations
While the French are very good at…well, let’s take ‘making stuff’ as one example (pastries, alcohol, atomic bombs), they’re not really so good at, well, selling it. Adding to the paradox are the gleeful tourists who will nevertheless fork over wads of euros for some genuine bought in France articles (often made in Taiwan though). It’s no wonder they havent’t learned their lesson yet. My most recent experience came from todays’ shopping expedition (yes, even almost broke, I can still manage to shop – probably because I never have to buy petrol or cigarettes). Laden down with an armful of fun new autumn wardrobe articles, I politely asked the lady at the cash desk if I could lay them down on an unused side of the counter and keep browsing.
‘No. You can’t. You’ll need to hang onto them. Sorry’
(Personally I think the tacked on ‘sorry’ came in response to the ‘what reality did I just step into ?’ look I gave her).
Normally I’m used to being chased about the store with offers to liberate my puchasing hands if they spot me not weeping profusely and still actually clutching to a saleable article after exiting the change rooms. Once the hands are free, more unbought goods will magically be attracted to them. It’s one of the first basic principles of female shopping. Paris is the fashion capital of the world. EVERY SHOP SHOULD KNOW THIS RULE. Still, stopped me overspending, so I guess I can only be grateful. It’s very difficult to pick things off clothes racks when you’re already drowning under your current selection.
Which brings me to this mornings twilight zone event. My boyfriend decided to start hopping about at around 7am insisting I call our local Tribunal Office today to get an update on my French Nationality dossier, which I’d handed in sometime back in April. I don’t know what put this particular bee in his bonnet, but he was all set to call them himself if I didn’t. Not being able to adequately convince him (because I hadn't had coffee yet) of the sheer futility of attempting to converse with these people (who are not from Earth) I assured him I’d do it myself. I'm perverse like that.
Me : ‘Hi, I’m calling about my French Nationality certificate. I know you can’t transfer me to the person in that office, but I thought you might be able to give me a general idea of how long they might take to process. It’s been quite a while now’
TO : Oh, yes, they can take a long time, up to a year sometimes !
Me : ‘Gee, that IS a long time. Still, thanks for letting me know. Bye !’
Ok, sorry. This is only my fantasy daydream of how this conversation SHOULD have gone if I was not swallowed into the alternate hell-reality that is French administration (note, what follows is a very condensed version)
Me : ‘Hi, I was wondering if you could help, it’s about an application for French nationality I made a while back, I was just wondering how long it usually takes,’
TO : No, sorry, I can’t help you. You’ll need to come in and speak to the person responsable
Me : Um, yes, I realise you can’t put me through to that person by phone, but I only have the one small question – I just wanted to know how long the process generally takes.
TO : I can't put you through to that person by phone. I can’t help you, you’ll need to come in yourself.
Me : Ok, the thing is, it’s quite a long way for me to go there, and to then have to take a number and wait 45 minutes just so I can ask ONE question seems a little bit stupid to me. No offense. Do you know anyone ELSE who can help me ?
TO : Possibly xxxx. You can reach them at xxxx
Me : Right, and they’ll be able to tell me how long I can expect to wait for my paperwork
TO : (what ? Are you stupid ? tone) oh, no way. They have absolutely no idea about that sort of thing. They don’t deal with that stuff at all.
Me : o-kaaaay
TO : (pause) Was that your question ?
Me ; Well, yes.
TO : Well the length of time it takes is HUGELY variable, where you’re from etc, any delay is quite normal
Me : Is longer than 6 months normal ?
TO : Sure, it can even take up to a year.
Woohoo ! I tricked an admin helpdesk person into GIVING ME INFORMATION. Within 5 minutes too. I must be getting the hang of things !!
Note: If anyone is asking naively...'Hey, I thought she was French? What's all this about?'
a) so am I
b) Because I am only a half blood creature born outside of France, and even though I have a passport, and can work here, and pay taxes, and get social security and unemployment, I can't get a simple ID card without going through several thousand hoops. And even though a passport is just as good, you can bet that one day someone will make my life difficult because I don't have an ID card. I'm also fed up with carrying my passport around in my wallet, mostly because it'd be a pain to have to pay for a replacement if it got stolen.
‘No. You can’t. You’ll need to hang onto them. Sorry’
(Personally I think the tacked on ‘sorry’ came in response to the ‘what reality did I just step into ?’ look I gave her).
Normally I’m used to being chased about the store with offers to liberate my puchasing hands if they spot me not weeping profusely and still actually clutching to a saleable article after exiting the change rooms. Once the hands are free, more unbought goods will magically be attracted to them. It’s one of the first basic principles of female shopping. Paris is the fashion capital of the world. EVERY SHOP SHOULD KNOW THIS RULE. Still, stopped me overspending, so I guess I can only be grateful. It’s very difficult to pick things off clothes racks when you’re already drowning under your current selection.
Which brings me to this mornings twilight zone event. My boyfriend decided to start hopping about at around 7am insisting I call our local Tribunal Office today to get an update on my French Nationality dossier, which I’d handed in sometime back in April. I don’t know what put this particular bee in his bonnet, but he was all set to call them himself if I didn’t. Not being able to adequately convince him (because I hadn't had coffee yet) of the sheer futility of attempting to converse with these people (who are not from Earth) I assured him I’d do it myself. I'm perverse like that.
Me : ‘Hi, I’m calling about my French Nationality certificate. I know you can’t transfer me to the person in that office, but I thought you might be able to give me a general idea of how long they might take to process. It’s been quite a while now’
TO : Oh, yes, they can take a long time, up to a year sometimes !
Me : ‘Gee, that IS a long time. Still, thanks for letting me know. Bye !’
Ok, sorry. This is only my fantasy daydream of how this conversation SHOULD have gone if I was not swallowed into the alternate hell-reality that is French administration (note, what follows is a very condensed version)
Me : ‘Hi, I was wondering if you could help, it’s about an application for French nationality I made a while back, I was just wondering how long it usually takes,’
TO : No, sorry, I can’t help you. You’ll need to come in and speak to the person responsable
Me : Um, yes, I realise you can’t put me through to that person by phone, but I only have the one small question – I just wanted to know how long the process generally takes.
TO : I can't put you through to that person by phone. I can’t help you, you’ll need to come in yourself.
Me : Ok, the thing is, it’s quite a long way for me to go there, and to then have to take a number and wait 45 minutes just so I can ask ONE question seems a little bit stupid to me. No offense. Do you know anyone ELSE who can help me ?
TO : Possibly xxxx. You can reach them at xxxx
Me : Right, and they’ll be able to tell me how long I can expect to wait for my paperwork
TO : (what ? Are you stupid ? tone) oh, no way. They have absolutely no idea about that sort of thing. They don’t deal with that stuff at all.
Me : o-kaaaay
TO : (pause) Was that your question ?
Me ; Well, yes.
TO : Well the length of time it takes is HUGELY variable, where you’re from etc, any delay is quite normal
Me : Is longer than 6 months normal ?
TO : Sure, it can even take up to a year.
Woohoo ! I tricked an admin helpdesk person into GIVING ME INFORMATION. Within 5 minutes too. I must be getting the hang of things !!
Note: If anyone is asking naively...'Hey, I thought she was French? What's all this about?'
a) so am I
b) Because I am only a half blood creature born outside of France, and even though I have a passport, and can work here, and pay taxes, and get social security and unemployment, I can't get a simple ID card without going through several thousand hoops. And even though a passport is just as good, you can bet that one day someone will make my life difficult because I don't have an ID card. I'm also fed up with carrying my passport around in my wallet, mostly because it'd be a pain to have to pay for a replacement if it got stolen.
Monday, September 26, 2005
Prague
Sometimes I feel slightly guilty only staying a weekend in a city I've never visited, in a country I've never visited. The backpacker in me wanted a good couple of weeks to follow the roads less travelled in this country I know nothing about, speaking a language I don't understand. That said, I have a pretty good talent for figuring out key foreign words pretty quickly. In this instance, though, I think it was limited to beer, wine, exit and thank you.
More than anything, this trip was an opportunity to catch up with an Australian friend for her birthday. We're old housemates from Darwin, and shared a really amazing 18months living together in a beautiful tropical house (back in 2002-2004), and drinking lots of red wine, griping about boys, having crazy theme parties, the usual stuff.
So, only having Saturday and Sunday to play, my impressions of Prague are quite brief, wooden toys, amazing art, marionnettes, spires galore, cold! I had a great time on a limited budget, even managed to splash out on a few small paintings.
In non-travel related news, things aren't going so brilliantly. Certain plans are unravelling at the seams, and I can't seem to figure out where the loose thread came from. Sorry, that's all a bit vague and metaphorical, but in other words, I don't really want to discuss it at the moment. Mostly work related, before anyone starts thinking up wild scenarios. There's some things I need to sort out before I can go back to enjoying the leisurely pasttime of blogging, however.
More than anything, this trip was an opportunity to catch up with an Australian friend for her birthday. We're old housemates from Darwin, and shared a really amazing 18months living together in a beautiful tropical house (back in 2002-2004), and drinking lots of red wine, griping about boys, having crazy theme parties, the usual stuff.
So, only having Saturday and Sunday to play, my impressions of Prague are quite brief, wooden toys, amazing art, marionnettes, spires galore, cold! I had a great time on a limited budget, even managed to splash out on a few small paintings.
In non-travel related news, things aren't going so brilliantly. Certain plans are unravelling at the seams, and I can't seem to figure out where the loose thread came from. Sorry, that's all a bit vague and metaphorical, but in other words, I don't really want to discuss it at the moment. Mostly work related, before anyone starts thinking up wild scenarios. There's some things I need to sort out before I can go back to enjoying the leisurely pasttime of blogging, however.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Saturday, September 17, 2005
Good luck
John of Nepomuk being thrown into the river for refusing to divulge the secrets of the confessional. He was since made a martyr and if you rub this plaque on Charles bridge it is supposed to bring you luck. Prague, Czech Republic
Prague horses
Carriages leave regularly from in front of the Tynsky cathedral to take tourists on tours through the city. The exposure in this shot is all out, but I like it anyway.
Monday, September 12, 2005
Visitations
The real kind, not the spooky 4th dimension stuff. September looks like it's going to be a social month for me - for a change. A welcome change. I certainly need to do something to get my social life reactivated. Just getting used to not seeing people isn't a really workable solution. So, last week an old friend from New Zealand, now living in London, passed through. Haven't seen him since I was slumming it in London at his place a year ago. Technically my official London residence remains his lovely house near South Kensington. Spent a lovely evening having dinner, talking about new things and old things, and enjoying a grand view towards the Notre Dame on a warm night. Then he gave me his flu, so most of the last week I have been cooped up in the apartment with a head full of pseudoephidrine. This week a friend from Australia (my Adelaide years) will be stopping over in Paris for a couple of days, so I can play tour guide again. Maybe this time I'll put on a better show of pretending to know where I'm going. Then finally, it's a birthday catchup weekend with my old housemate (also now living in London) - though this catchup will be in Prague. A city I've never visited and heard only good things about. So I'm trying to get an online airline ticket definitely purchased before Friday - my first try didn't work for unexplained reasons (unexplained reasons make me nervous when my bankcard is the subject).
Not the best month for purchasing airline tickets - financially. This month is tax month, and the Monsieur has had a whole months salary eaten up by the tax machine (and car repairs, and rent, and night class enrolment). He's even asking to borrow money from me, which is always a bad sign, seeing as I'm generally a half-step away from broke at the best of times. I haven't quite grasped the tax system in this country yet. As far as I can tell you have to pay twice - once out of your periodic salary, and once at the end of the financial year. Tax reimbursement for low income earners does not exist as a concept here either (as it does in Australia). Still, if all goes to plan this year, I too will have a nice big tax debt this time next year (the woman from the English teaching school did get in touch with me in the end, looks like I'll be starting work in October).
Not the best month for purchasing airline tickets - financially. This month is tax month, and the Monsieur has had a whole months salary eaten up by the tax machine (and car repairs, and rent, and night class enrolment). He's even asking to borrow money from me, which is always a bad sign, seeing as I'm generally a half-step away from broke at the best of times. I haven't quite grasped the tax system in this country yet. As far as I can tell you have to pay twice - once out of your periodic salary, and once at the end of the financial year. Tax reimbursement for low income earners does not exist as a concept here either (as it does in Australia). Still, if all goes to plan this year, I too will have a nice big tax debt this time next year (the woman from the English teaching school did get in touch with me in the end, looks like I'll be starting work in October).
Monday, September 05, 2005
Being mean
Metro entrances in Paris have a double barrier entrance. First you pass your ticket through the reader the go through a turnstyle, then you push open a metal door behind it to continue on through. It's a pretty common habit - especially among younger guys - to follow people through and get a free entrance by jumping over the turnstyle behind someone and holding open the metal door before it shuts behind the person who's just passed through it. The turnstyles are pretty easy to jump - if you're not eighty, but once the metal doors are closed, they lock in place.
There's something about being followed through a turnstyle that really gets on my nerves. I hate that someone has used my ticket as a get in free pass. I do let people in who ask to pass through with me, that's not a problem. It's just when you see them sneaking up behind you out of the corner of your eye...argh! it drives me mad, maybe it's a personal space thing, or it's just the arrogance of someone using you to exploit the system, dunno. Anyway, yesterday I'd had it - one guy was mid-leap behind me, I turned around as I passed through the door, raised an eyebrow, said 'you think so?' and slammed the metal door shut. He was stuck. He was pissed. I was amused. I guess being mean can be fun sometimes ;)
There's something about being followed through a turnstyle that really gets on my nerves. I hate that someone has used my ticket as a get in free pass. I do let people in who ask to pass through with me, that's not a problem. It's just when you see them sneaking up behind you out of the corner of your eye...argh! it drives me mad, maybe it's a personal space thing, or it's just the arrogance of someone using you to exploit the system, dunno. Anyway, yesterday I'd had it - one guy was mid-leap behind me, I turned around as I passed through the door, raised an eyebrow, said 'you think so?' and slammed the metal door shut. He was stuck. He was pissed. I was amused. I guess being mean can be fun sometimes ;)
Sunday, September 04, 2005
Picasso Museum
Museums in France are free on the first Sunday of every month. Contrary to the UK where they're free all the time...
Paris, France (3e arrondissment)
Friday, September 02, 2005
Katrina
I think about 80% of the population were able to get out of New Orleans before the hurricane struck. Most of the people that stayed behind probably didn't do so out of choice. People without a car, people too old or infirm to move, people who had no money to pay for a way out. And they expect these same people, who have probably been at the receiving end of lifes' big crappy boot often enough, to play nicely in the aftermath. To encourage them to play nicely, some 'freshly returned from Iraq' soldiers have been ordered up to kill some of their own countries citizens.
Help is on the way? insists The President. Help in the form of US troops with M16s? Where was the help BEFORE the hurricane? They didn't expect the levees to breach? Oh, please...here's an extract from a risk evaluation document dated from 3 years ago;
* Most of the city is below sea level and has an at-risk population of roughly one million people.
* It experiences land subsidence at a rate of 5 mm per year.
* The global sea-level rise is currently 2 mm per year, but is expected to accelerate two- to four-fold in response to global warming.
* There is limited evacuation potential in the area.
* The area is protected by deteriorating coastal defenses that are presently only effective against category 3 hurricanes.
* The city is located in a coastal area that is frequently subjected to large hurricane storm surges. One example is Hurricane Camille in 1969, which made landfall in nearby Mississippi with a 22.4-foot storm tide.
* The area frequently experiences locally heavy rainfall (especially during hurricane landfall) that contributes to flooding.
But I'm really glad the oil is safe though. I was certainly worried about the oil.
"President Bush said he expected Saudi Arabia, a close ally of Washington in the Middle East, to do "everything it can" to provide the US with more oil." (BBC)
Because the increasing hurricane frequency since 1995 certainly couldn't have anything to do with increasing and persistent fossil fuel consumption...
Help is on the way? insists The President. Help in the form of US troops with M16s? Where was the help BEFORE the hurricane? They didn't expect the levees to breach? Oh, please...here's an extract from a risk evaluation document dated from 3 years ago;
* Most of the city is below sea level and has an at-risk population of roughly one million people.
* It experiences land subsidence at a rate of 5 mm per year.
* The global sea-level rise is currently 2 mm per year, but is expected to accelerate two- to four-fold in response to global warming.
* There is limited evacuation potential in the area.
* The area is protected by deteriorating coastal defenses that are presently only effective against category 3 hurricanes.
* The city is located in a coastal area that is frequently subjected to large hurricane storm surges. One example is Hurricane Camille in 1969, which made landfall in nearby Mississippi with a 22.4-foot storm tide.
* The area frequently experiences locally heavy rainfall (especially during hurricane landfall) that contributes to flooding.
But I'm really glad the oil is safe though. I was certainly worried about the oil.
"President Bush said he expected Saudi Arabia, a close ally of Washington in the Middle East, to do "everything it can" to provide the US with more oil." (BBC)
Because the increasing hurricane frequency since 1995 certainly couldn't have anything to do with increasing and persistent fossil fuel consumption...
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Difficulties
My mother wonders why I keep things like 30 year old hand held eggbeaters in storage. Here's why... I've been trying to hunt down an eggbeater for days now - to make a chocolate mousse. Which is, as an aside, one of the first things I learned to make, and was certainly the stuff of legend back in high school if I do modestly say so myself.
So, back to the batteur…After a 3 day succession of shops being closed, shops not stocking the eggbeater attachment for my hand mixer - and requiring a week delay and several forms to order said attachment,shops not stocking old fashioned hand powered ones either, frustrated stomping round the streets of the banlieu...one of those ‘my god this simple task is turning into a Homerian epic’ reached its climax of utter stupidity yesterday.
Finally I found one in a large supermarket, after walking for over 3km checking every plausible shop on the way, picked up a made in China piece of junk practically weeping with relief, and made my way to the checkout. Where it was rung up for a grand total of 28 euros. And herein began the long process of finding someone sensible to do something about it. To cut a long and tediously boring story short, the matter was resolved without the need for me to resort to physical violence, but what really struck me about this little humdrum misadventure was, that of the 7 (SEVEN!) or so people that I had to speak with to get what was clearly a simple pricing error sorted out, half of them tried to convince me that this WAS the actual price. 28 euros. For a junk quality hand powered eggbeater. When electric eggbeaters sold for 23 euros. Because thinking outside the square to ‘there has been a mistake’ was such a great mental leap.
This story in itself is as tedious and urbane as hell, I appreciate that. But sometimes it can be interesting to dissect even the most inconsequential events of daily life, it can tell you a lot about the ingrained attitudes and behaviours of ordinary folk.
So, back to the batteur…After a 3 day succession of shops being closed, shops not stocking the eggbeater attachment for my hand mixer - and requiring a week delay and several forms to order said attachment,shops not stocking old fashioned hand powered ones either, frustrated stomping round the streets of the banlieu...one of those ‘my god this simple task is turning into a Homerian epic’ reached its climax of utter stupidity yesterday.
Finally I found one in a large supermarket, after walking for over 3km checking every plausible shop on the way, picked up a made in China piece of junk practically weeping with relief, and made my way to the checkout. Where it was rung up for a grand total of 28 euros. And herein began the long process of finding someone sensible to do something about it. To cut a long and tediously boring story short, the matter was resolved without the need for me to resort to physical violence, but what really struck me about this little humdrum misadventure was, that of the 7 (SEVEN!) or so people that I had to speak with to get what was clearly a simple pricing error sorted out, half of them tried to convince me that this WAS the actual price. 28 euros. For a junk quality hand powered eggbeater. When electric eggbeaters sold for 23 euros. Because thinking outside the square to ‘there has been a mistake’ was such a great mental leap.
This story in itself is as tedious and urbane as hell, I appreciate that. But sometimes it can be interesting to dissect even the most inconsequential events of daily life, it can tell you a lot about the ingrained attitudes and behaviours of ordinary folk.
Monday, August 22, 2005
Bad blogger!!
Bad!
I've been overly neglectful of my 'let's talk about me some more' site for the last few weeks, mostly having come down with a severe case of can't-be-arsedness. Which is funny, considering I have actually had things more interesting than my local bakers shop changing ownership to talk about. What's with that?
So the down south holidays round the beginning of august were good. Got a tan, saw some great scenery, fulfilled a few smallish life goals, all that sort of thing. The story of what I did and where I went is pretty self evident from my Flickr photo site - I might get more descriptive if I have some procrastinating to get done sometime this week, we'll see...
This past weekend we decided to leave summer behind and head up north again to visit a great aqaurium in Boulogne sur Mer called Nausicaa. Despite the fantastic November all-year-round weather they can get up there, I have a little fondness for the north. Though good sense tells me to head south and look for some sun, I really don't mind Flander-y France.
Nausicaa is a marine aquarium exhibit with a heavy focus on ocean ecology and sustainable use of the world ocean resources. The English language (sometimes a little dodgy) translations on everything were also a treat, though the excessive number of children had me making up involuntary shark food:small annoying children feeding ratios in my head. Yes, I'm brimming with maternal instincts, really.
My dearest other half seems to be going through one of lifes' spring cleaning periods, with a dedicated interest in taking up further study (in something essentially unrelated enough to raise at least one of my eyebrows) and a backburner approach to the idea of buying a property - at least not in the ile-de-France region anymore. The english instructor job is hopefully still in the works, though my repeated phonecalls to get any kind of schedule confirmation haven't met with any success yet...
I've been overly neglectful of my 'let's talk about me some more' site for the last few weeks, mostly having come down with a severe case of can't-be-arsedness. Which is funny, considering I have actually had things more interesting than my local bakers shop changing ownership to talk about. What's with that?
So the down south holidays round the beginning of august were good. Got a tan, saw some great scenery, fulfilled a few smallish life goals, all that sort of thing. The story of what I did and where I went is pretty self evident from my Flickr photo site - I might get more descriptive if I have some procrastinating to get done sometime this week, we'll see...
This past weekend we decided to leave summer behind and head up north again to visit a great aqaurium in Boulogne sur Mer called Nausicaa. Despite the fantastic November all-year-round weather they can get up there, I have a little fondness for the north. Though good sense tells me to head south and look for some sun, I really don't mind Flander-y France.
Nausicaa is a marine aquarium exhibit with a heavy focus on ocean ecology and sustainable use of the world ocean resources. The English language (sometimes a little dodgy) translations on everything were also a treat, though the excessive number of children had me making up involuntary shark food:small annoying children feeding ratios in my head. Yes, I'm brimming with maternal instincts, really.
My dearest other half seems to be going through one of lifes' spring cleaning periods, with a dedicated interest in taking up further study (in something essentially unrelated enough to raise at least one of my eyebrows) and a backburner approach to the idea of buying a property - at least not in the ile-de-France region anymore. The english instructor job is hopefully still in the works, though my repeated phonecalls to get any kind of schedule confirmation haven't met with any success yet...
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Monday, August 15, 2005
Daily Bread
Some new change that's been gnawing away at my daily routine and equilibrium. My favourite baker has shut up shop and her bakery has been taken over by new management.
Bakeries are probably the only establishment to outnumber pharmacies in a country where bread in plastic bags that is designed to last longer than 24 hours is relegated to some obscure back aisle of the supermarket. And choosing the right one is a tricky process. Bakery A does great pain au chocolat, but the croissants are too salty. Bakery B has superb buttery croissants but the chausson pommes is too gluey. Bakery C has lovely crusty baguettes, but their brioche isn't sweet enough. And even when they get it all fairly right, they also have to be NICE. You visit them every other day, so someone a bit more amiable than just tolerable is always welcome. Our last local baker at Saint Ouen was fairly sour, and her pain au chocolats were pathetic (cheap chocolate), so I was chuffed, upon moving, to find a lovely bakery very close to us, with great produce, not too expensive, and a charming funny lady running the place. It was with great dismay that I saw the 'closed - change of ownership' sign up in place a couple of weeks ago. It has recently reopened, and I have popped in once. But everything is more expensive now, the resident cat and kitten have departed, and strangely enough - I feel like a bit of a traitor...
Bakeries are probably the only establishment to outnumber pharmacies in a country where bread in plastic bags that is designed to last longer than 24 hours is relegated to some obscure back aisle of the supermarket. And choosing the right one is a tricky process. Bakery A does great pain au chocolat, but the croissants are too salty. Bakery B has superb buttery croissants but the chausson pommes is too gluey. Bakery C has lovely crusty baguettes, but their brioche isn't sweet enough. And even when they get it all fairly right, they also have to be NICE. You visit them every other day, so someone a bit more amiable than just tolerable is always welcome. Our last local baker at Saint Ouen was fairly sour, and her pain au chocolats were pathetic (cheap chocolate), so I was chuffed, upon moving, to find a lovely bakery very close to us, with great produce, not too expensive, and a charming funny lady running the place. It was with great dismay that I saw the 'closed - change of ownership' sign up in place a couple of weeks ago. It has recently reopened, and I have popped in once. But everything is more expensive now, the resident cat and kitten have departed, and strangely enough - I feel like a bit of a traitor...
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Course camarguaise
A popular sport in the Camargues region. The aim of this sport is to remove a tassle tied between the bulls horns using a 'crochet' in a time limit of fifteen minutes per bull (normally a match involves several bulls). It's a fun sport to watch, lots of action and not at all bloodthirsty like the Spanish equivalent. Arles, France
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Camargues
The wild Camargue horse is found only on the watery plains and salt marshes of southeastern France.
Sunday, August 07, 2005
Friday, August 05, 2005
Lavender field in Provence
Such a cliché image, I couldn't resist. This was actually a field by the roadside and during the few days I was in this region I drove past it several times a day. There was always quite a few cars stopping to take a picture of the field. Maybe the most photographed lavender field in France?
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Aperitif hour
There's something about the lighting in this photo which I really like. Provence, France
Chateau at night
In the town of Groeux les Bains, they have converted this old chateau into an open air cinema. Provence, France
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Au secours j'ai 30 ans!
Yup, that's it. The big three oh. Had to happen eventually right? Well for me, it happened on Friday the 29th. Monsieur decided I should start my new decade half dead and with a severely sore butt, and took me horseriding in a forest by Fontainebleau. I was rather inexperienced, the horse was admirably tolerant (thanks Bill!!) and despite storm warnings, the rain held off long enough for a dry days riding. In the evening there was another surprise in store as I was treated to a dinner at Le Procope. A very stylist café with a very long history, first founded in 1686, and reported to be the oldest café in the world still operating. Originally a literary café with patrons such as Voltaire, Rousseau, Balzac,Hugo, La Fontaine, Diderot, and Benjamin Franklin. During the revolution, Robespierre, Danton and Marat used the cafe as a meeting place. This history does nothing to decrease the price of menu items, let me assure you...
Next week I shall be taking yet another mini-break and heading off to trek the Verdon in Provence, plus a quick visit to the Luberon, Camargues and Mediterranean coast. Leaving a few days after the great holiday changeover weekend should hopefully subject us to less traffic hassles. This weekend is regarded as 'black' on the colour scheme of how bad things can get on the roads, as it is known as the crossover period for the 'Julyists' (juilletistes) and the Augustians (aoûtians) - ie people who holiday in July returning, and people who holiday in August leaving. Only in France would they come up with such a naming concept!
Next week I shall be taking yet another mini-break and heading off to trek the Verdon in Provence, plus a quick visit to the Luberon, Camargues and Mediterranean coast. Leaving a few days after the great holiday changeover weekend should hopefully subject us to less traffic hassles. This weekend is regarded as 'black' on the colour scheme of how bad things can get on the roads, as it is known as the crossover period for the 'Julyists' (juilletistes) and the Augustians (aoûtians) - ie people who holiday in July returning, and people who holiday in August leaving. Only in France would they come up with such a naming concept!
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Monday, July 25, 2005
Ye Olde France
OK, I've done a few things lately, I haven't just been slouching around like an unemployed down and out in Paris type bohemian wannabe.
Ever present on the list was the continuing visits of potential apartments to buy, ever present were the themes of good bad and ugly. Having had to reconsider his upper credit limit after visiting his bank, the Monsieur is looking at a different class of apartment now (ie the 'needs work' sort). My general feeling on this is that he's better to buy a rattier, smaller apartment in a good area (and renovate) rather than a larger, nicer apartment in the middle of WhereTheHellAmI-Ville.
Anyway, we saw a great little place that just screamed extreme bo-ho chic potential. When visiting apartments I've found I not only pay attention to the view, placement, noise (and reasons for selling), but just the unquantifiable vibe that the place gives me. Well, this place certainly needs a fair bit of renovating, but it had all the karma of an early 20th century traveller-writer den. We'll need to do some follow up analysis, so it's another wait and see situation.
Cinema-wise, we decided to take in the latest Tim Burton work - Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Obviously the childhood version was an integral part of my youth cinema memory, but as I'm much more of a fan of Roald Dahl than any interpretations of his work, I wasn't feeling too leery about seeing it. Overall I liked it, I think they developed the family structure much better than the first film, there was a dash of postmodern irony, a critique on society, a healthy serving of cliché, also - the Oompa-Loopas were cool. Though they didn't really need to be as small as they were. The resultantly obvious bluescreening just detracted from the flow. There were also a few unneccesary add-in to the literary storyline, but nothing drastic.
Oh, and still on cinema talk, they've done the Hitch-Hikers Guide Film. The preview looks really good. It always makes me nervous when the preview looks good. It'd better be good dammit. I can live with Star Wars additions being crappy, but the Hitch-Hikers Guide were defining adolescent books. So I'll be most put out if they've not done them justice.
So finally, this weekend, in between the showers (don't get me started on the weather), we popped over to Burgundy (Bourgogne) to check out the chateau of Guédelon, a project that already 8 years in the making to build a 13th century castle using only the skills and technology available in the era. Already feeling like we'd taken a step back in time while trundling through the rural backwaters of the Yonne region, this just added a little extra flavour of medieval authenticity. Being as I am, in such a densely populated area now, I forget how sweet the country air smells. And despite the showers being slightly inconvenient, the smell of damp woodsmoke, damp leaf litter and clean air was worth it.
Ever present on the list was the continuing visits of potential apartments to buy, ever present were the themes of good bad and ugly. Having had to reconsider his upper credit limit after visiting his bank, the Monsieur is looking at a different class of apartment now (ie the 'needs work' sort). My general feeling on this is that he's better to buy a rattier, smaller apartment in a good area (and renovate) rather than a larger, nicer apartment in the middle of WhereTheHellAmI-Ville.
Anyway, we saw a great little place that just screamed extreme bo-ho chic potential. When visiting apartments I've found I not only pay attention to the view, placement, noise (and reasons for selling), but just the unquantifiable vibe that the place gives me. Well, this place certainly needs a fair bit of renovating, but it had all the karma of an early 20th century traveller-writer den. We'll need to do some follow up analysis, so it's another wait and see situation.
Cinema-wise, we decided to take in the latest Tim Burton work - Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Obviously the childhood version was an integral part of my youth cinema memory, but as I'm much more of a fan of Roald Dahl than any interpretations of his work, I wasn't feeling too leery about seeing it. Overall I liked it, I think they developed the family structure much better than the first film, there was a dash of postmodern irony, a critique on society, a healthy serving of cliché, also - the Oompa-Loopas were cool. Though they didn't really need to be as small as they were. The resultantly obvious bluescreening just detracted from the flow. There were also a few unneccesary add-in to the literary storyline, but nothing drastic.
Oh, and still on cinema talk, they've done the Hitch-Hikers Guide Film. The preview looks really good. It always makes me nervous when the preview looks good. It'd better be good dammit. I can live with Star Wars additions being crappy, but the Hitch-Hikers Guide were defining adolescent books. So I'll be most put out if they've not done them justice.
So finally, this weekend, in between the showers (don't get me started on the weather), we popped over to Burgundy (Bourgogne) to check out the chateau of Guédelon, a project that already 8 years in the making to build a 13th century castle using only the skills and technology available in the era. Already feeling like we'd taken a step back in time while trundling through the rural backwaters of the Yonne region, this just added a little extra flavour of medieval authenticity. Being as I am, in such a densely populated area now, I forget how sweet the country air smells. And despite the showers being slightly inconvenient, the smell of damp woodsmoke, damp leaf litter and clean air was worth it.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
belgian beer bubble
Ahhhh, back from the mini break, refreshed, suffering insomnia due to 4 days of broken sleep patterns, missing 9am appointments etc...
So our little jaunt took us up to a tiny town in the Pas de Calais called Bonningues (Bonningues! C'est dingue!)
where we stayed at a friends
mothers place. Quiet (except for the roosters, kill all roosters), bucolic verdant, we set about trying to add some dischord into the harmonious countryside by a series of sun soaked party days, late night bbqs and drinking fests.
Aside from the bbqs and badminton, we also indulged in a little beach jaunt up to Wissant (does the wind EVER stop blowing on the northern coast?!?)
Wissant, as an historical aside, was the beach from where Julius Caesar launched his attack on England. The English, however, can be said to be getting their own back these days.
So in the end, though I was a bit loathe to leave, we had planned a drive up to visit some friends in Brussels - mostly to pick up a tent that we'd left at a friends house last year.
This group of people we know by a different set of circumstances, specifically via a web community. Online encounters make up a small percentage of the people I know, but I have met quite a few cool peple this way. This guy I know in Brussels constructed a Bulletin Board System Web community for francophones, which I joined up on last year a few months before leaving on my travels. My idea was that a) I'd practice french with people my own age, and b) I might also make some contacts and get some free floor space to sleep on during my backpacking (how mercenary). Both of which happened. But in constructing this website, what this guy had done was also create something of a game within it - which one wasn't necessarily obliged to play along with however. So the community actually has a system of hierarchy and power play interwoven within it. Which some people Take.Very.Seriously.
In itself it is an interesting study of human behaviour and the psychology of power, but every time I visit, my friend has a new group of young power hungry hangers on loitering around - the same story with different faces. People who will profess to be 'above' all the banal power hungry psychology, but who - in their very next breath - will extol some virtue of their individual line of online hierarchy. That said, this web community does actually have a lot of positive and interesting aspects, which is why I continue to participate...albeit sporadically.
And in the end, the tent had been commandeered by the Gods of Lost Objects, so it was a bit of a wasted trip.
So our little jaunt took us up to a tiny town in the Pas de Calais called Bonningues (Bonningues! C'est dingue!)
where we stayed at a friends
mothers place. Quiet (except for the roosters, kill all roosters), bucolic verdant, we set about trying to add some dischord into the harmonious countryside by a series of sun soaked party days, late night bbqs and drinking fests.
Aside from the bbqs and badminton, we also indulged in a little beach jaunt up to Wissant (does the wind EVER stop blowing on the northern coast?!?)
Wissant, as an historical aside, was the beach from where Julius Caesar launched his attack on England. The English, however, can be said to be getting their own back these days.
So in the end, though I was a bit loathe to leave, we had planned a drive up to visit some friends in Brussels - mostly to pick up a tent that we'd left at a friends house last year.
This group of people we know by a different set of circumstances, specifically via a web community. Online encounters make up a small percentage of the people I know, but I have met quite a few cool peple this way. This guy I know in Brussels constructed a Bulletin Board System Web community for francophones, which I joined up on last year a few months before leaving on my travels. My idea was that a) I'd practice french with people my own age, and b) I might also make some contacts and get some free floor space to sleep on during my backpacking (how mercenary). Both of which happened. But in constructing this website, what this guy had done was also create something of a game within it - which one wasn't necessarily obliged to play along with however. So the community actually has a system of hierarchy and power play interwoven within it. Which some people Take.Very.Seriously.
In itself it is an interesting study of human behaviour and the psychology of power, but every time I visit, my friend has a new group of young power hungry hangers on loitering around - the same story with different faces. People who will profess to be 'above' all the banal power hungry psychology, but who - in their very next breath - will extol some virtue of their individual line of online hierarchy. That said, this web community does actually have a lot of positive and interesting aspects, which is why I continue to participate...albeit sporadically.
And in the end, the tent had been commandeered by the Gods of Lost Objects, so it was a bit of a wasted trip.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
House and home
Monsieur is back on his idea of property buying in the greater Paris region. So we've done a short round of the good, the bad and the ugly these last few days. First was worst - we took a train to a very faraway suburb (Poissy) to look at a 3 bedroom unit that needed to be demolished from the floor up. Part of a system of HLM buildings (low cost housing residences), the guys mother-in-law had recently died - and no disrespect intended - looking around the state of the place, I wasn't surprised by the news. He was obviously desperate to offload the place onto a poor sucker as quickly as possible. After making the right 'hmmm, yes, interesting' noises, we immediately beat a hasty retreat and marched briskly back up the industrial scenery highway, choking on the dust thrown up by all the passing trucks. Number two was in a high rise village - round Meudon le Foret. The sheer density of high rise apartments was a bit off-putting, though the apartment itself was ok.
'So how about, instead of travelling an hour in every random direction, we concentrate on apartments in our immediate area that we can visit on foot? After all, we quite like it here, and the next door suburb is essentially devoid of high density apartments, and is quite leafy and tranquil' I suggest.
So the last apartment, less than 1km away, utterly utterly charming. I don't think you're meant to find the perfect apartment after the third try though are you?
Anyway, monsieur has 2 job interviews and two financing interviews before Wednesday, so we've decided to take it easy this weekend so he can quietly panic in peace. A proposed trip to Belgium has been postponed till next weekend and I'm just applying for jobs and planning some 'oh crap I'm turning 30!' activities for the end of this month. Thanks to Aussie Lass who put me onto a language school in Paris. There's a possibility that, if I'm still on the jobsearch in September, I may have work with them. Never underestimate the power of female networking!
'So how about, instead of travelling an hour in every random direction, we concentrate on apartments in our immediate area that we can visit on foot? After all, we quite like it here, and the next door suburb is essentially devoid of high density apartments, and is quite leafy and tranquil' I suggest.
So the last apartment, less than 1km away, utterly utterly charming. I don't think you're meant to find the perfect apartment after the third try though are you?
Anyway, monsieur has 2 job interviews and two financing interviews before Wednesday, so we've decided to take it easy this weekend so he can quietly panic in peace. A proposed trip to Belgium has been postponed till next weekend and I'm just applying for jobs and planning some 'oh crap I'm turning 30!' activities for the end of this month. Thanks to Aussie Lass who put me onto a language school in Paris. There's a possibility that, if I'm still on the jobsearch in September, I may have work with them. Never underestimate the power of female networking!
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Sight bites
Funny thing I saw today down in Ye Olde Red Light Districte (Pigalle). I go there every couple of weeks to have a friendly chat with the lady taking charge of my unemployment situation. When you sign up for the dole, you actually have to sign up at two places - one is the Assedic, who are responsible for the payments, the recorded telephone messages to tell you no-one is available to take your call, and the curiously lengthy delays in processing your monthly payment. The other is the ANPE, who are responsable for training, advertising work placement and personal job searching assistance (which is in turn outsourced to another service provider). Are you following? Good.
So I had the option of signing up for personal assistance, which I decided I might as well do than not, especially as the monsieur gets fidgety when I ask him to look over my application letters.
'No, you can't say that', 'What are you trying to say there? I don't understand'
'Oh I don't know, write this instead' (writes some terrifically convoluted passage)
Me: 'er, could you make it shorter and less complex?'
'I give up! I don't know, I can't tell you why you can't write it the way you did, you just can't, can I go now?'
Me: 'Can we at least finish the first paragraph?'
Anyway, I figured someone who was being paid to look at my cv wouldn't develop a sudden need to go and buy a loaf of bread in the middle of our discourse, and the meetings are actually quite cool and laid-back. Today's session, for example, was about 85% chitchat and 15% brass tacks.
Anyway, it was on my way to the red light post office that I saw this amusing transaction. I don't know why this couple caught my eye - maybe because they were speaking English. At first I thought this guy was being led around by a friend who knew the area. Then;
Lady: 'Let's just stop at this club for a minute'
Gent: 'Ummm, well, I'm not really sure'
Lady: 'Don't worry, just for a minute ok?' *Handshake* Look I guarantee you it's fine, we'll just quickly stop here'
Gent: (famous last words) 'ok, but I'm not spending any money'
(Look up: Peep show/ Live Acts/ Kiss your cash goodbye)
Yeah, you show her who's boss tough guy! Ha! I laughed so loud I inadvertently caught the attention of a magnet (you know, the ones that try and draw you into their establishment) - and had to quickly readjust my 'do not mess with me or I will poke you in the eye' makeup.
So this other strange thing I saw, I was walking past a shop on one of my local street when I spied with my little eye, something beginning with 'that's one of my photographs'
The local Kodak guy, doing a bit of 'get your digital camera shots developed here' advertisment had 'borrowed' FOUR
of my pictures (out of a total of five) for his flyer. First off it caught me by surprise, seeing my pictures unexpectedly like that, and I popped in to say 'hey, these are my pictures!'. Though after getting home I did ponder more over the fact that each of those pictures is copyrighted on Flickr, and technically he's taken these pictures without permission and is using them for commercial purposes. But on the other hand it's only a small business and I get my pictures developed there.
So I'm not totally sure about what to do about it - I decided perhaps the next time I go in that I'll let him know that he's used copyrighted images, and to ask permission next time - and to get his assurance not to distribute the images either.
Speaking of disregarding legal responsibility, some moron broke my mobile phone - not actually mine, a friends that was loaned to me that I had intended to return this weekend. It was a Saint Ouen flea market salesmen (I was buying a battery) who dropped it on the pavers, and it's been acting up ever since (and the markets are only open on weekends, and a full of notorious ripoff merchants and 'fell off the truck' salesmen). Between people ripping off my photos, breaking my phone, and the next door cybercafé sleaze who tried to get my phone number when I went to print up my cv, made me wait 20 minutes for a free computer and didn't bother to inform me that his printer had no ink....I'm staring to wear my molars out. Fixed the printer problem buy yelling at my boyfriend ('How am I expected to work under these conditions?!?' ....'er, let's go buy a printer shall we?'), the phone by switching batteries (ingenius), and I'll book a dental appointement next week...
So I had the option of signing up for personal assistance, which I decided I might as well do than not, especially as the monsieur gets fidgety when I ask him to look over my application letters.
'No, you can't say that', 'What are you trying to say there? I don't understand'
'Oh I don't know, write this instead' (writes some terrifically convoluted passage)
Me: 'er, could you make it shorter and less complex?'
'I give up! I don't know, I can't tell you why you can't write it the way you did, you just can't, can I go now?'
Me: 'Can we at least finish the first paragraph?'
Anyway, I figured someone who was being paid to look at my cv wouldn't develop a sudden need to go and buy a loaf of bread in the middle of our discourse, and the meetings are actually quite cool and laid-back. Today's session, for example, was about 85% chitchat and 15% brass tacks.
Anyway, it was on my way to the red light post office that I saw this amusing transaction. I don't know why this couple caught my eye - maybe because they were speaking English. At first I thought this guy was being led around by a friend who knew the area. Then;
Lady: 'Let's just stop at this club for a minute'
Gent: 'Ummm, well, I'm not really sure'
Lady: 'Don't worry, just for a minute ok?' *Handshake* Look I guarantee you it's fine, we'll just quickly stop here'
Gent: (famous last words) 'ok, but I'm not spending any money'
(Look up: Peep show/ Live Acts/ Kiss your cash goodbye)
Yeah, you show her who's boss tough guy! Ha! I laughed so loud I inadvertently caught the attention of a magnet (you know, the ones that try and draw you into their establishment) - and had to quickly readjust my 'do not mess with me or I will poke you in the eye' makeup.
So this other strange thing I saw, I was walking past a shop on one of my local street when I spied with my little eye, something beginning with 'that's one of my photographs'
The local Kodak guy, doing a bit of 'get your digital camera shots developed here' advertisment had 'borrowed' FOUR
of my pictures (out of a total of five) for his flyer. First off it caught me by surprise, seeing my pictures unexpectedly like that, and I popped in to say 'hey, these are my pictures!'. Though after getting home I did ponder more over the fact that each of those pictures is copyrighted on Flickr, and technically he's taken these pictures without permission and is using them for commercial purposes. But on the other hand it's only a small business and I get my pictures developed there. So I'm not totally sure about what to do about it - I decided perhaps the next time I go in that I'll let him know that he's used copyrighted images, and to ask permission next time - and to get his assurance not to distribute the images either.
Speaking of disregarding legal responsibility, some moron broke my mobile phone - not actually mine, a friends that was loaned to me that I had intended to return this weekend. It was a Saint Ouen flea market salesmen (I was buying a battery) who dropped it on the pavers, and it's been acting up ever since (and the markets are only open on weekends, and a full of notorious ripoff merchants and 'fell off the truck' salesmen). Between people ripping off my photos, breaking my phone, and the next door cybercafé sleaze who tried to get my phone number when I went to print up my cv, made me wait 20 minutes for a free computer and didn't bother to inform me that his printer had no ink....I'm staring to wear my molars out. Fixed the printer problem buy yelling at my boyfriend ('How am I expected to work under these conditions?!?' ....'er, let's go buy a printer shall we?'), the phone by switching batteries (ingenius), and I'll book a dental appointement next week...
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
tripe and trivialities
It's been at least a week since I've had a decent nights sleep, the heat had been oppressive, and I have not stopped missing my precious overhead fans. As another Australian has been quick to clarify, it's not the HEAT that we are having trouble tolerating, it's the pollution, the reflected heat off the cement, the stale air that doesn't move. The only thing that makes air circulate in the greater Parisien region is the fumes coming out of exhausts.
So when I woke up on Thursday morning, to the sight of a pinkish brown haze out of my kitchen window, I figured a long weekend out of town might be in the best interests of my lungs.
With the heat and humidity becoming heavier, and a thickening dark cloud covering the sky in a very Mordor like fashion, we got a taste of the flipside of the heatwaves....storms. A decent tropical style storm. Except this isn't the tropics...and the water conduits are not designed for a months rainfall in 40 minutes. Roads flooded, cars became immersed up to their headlights. We were already on the way out of town when all hell broke loose. A combination of peak rainfall and peak hour. Water cascaded down stairs into metro stations. Traffic was blocked in every sense.
Well, onto the North. Where - can you believe it - it was even hotter. 41°C on Saturday. But cleaner at least.
Stayed once again at the pseudo inlaws. Lovely people, really. But Flemish down to their little meat and potato-toes. Call me finicky, but when its 36°C, give me a tomato and a carrot.Do not drown me beneath a barrage of creamy sauces, meat, potatoes and various other stodge.
One night at a restaurant - perfect occasion to order a salad, finally. Now I was the only person at the table that seemed to consider vegetables as a food group - but how did they foil my perfect enjoyment of my luscious salad? They ordered tripe that's what. THREE.OF.THEM.
Really, I'm fairly open minded when it comes to food, but I draw the line at fried pigs intestines. Well, nothing to do but smile weakly, discreetely cover my nose against the wafting sewer odours, and chomp down on my lettuce.
In pursuit of more tasteful cultural activities, we went to see the 'festival of the Giants' in Lille.
Enormous wickerwork creations - every town or village has their local giant personnage, and it's a tradition dating back to the middle ages. Several times a year, they dust themselves down, and participate in any one of several regional cultural events.
But for now, back to repairing the nutritional damage of this past weekend, wait for the next set of storms (later today), and track down a nearby swimming pool.
So when I woke up on Thursday morning, to the sight of a pinkish brown haze out of my kitchen window, I figured a long weekend out of town might be in the best interests of my lungs.
With the heat and humidity becoming heavier, and a thickening dark cloud covering the sky in a very Mordor like fashion, we got a taste of the flipside of the heatwaves....storms. A decent tropical style storm. Except this isn't the tropics...and the water conduits are not designed for a months rainfall in 40 minutes. Roads flooded, cars became immersed up to their headlights. We were already on the way out of town when all hell broke loose. A combination of peak rainfall and peak hour. Water cascaded down stairs into metro stations. Traffic was blocked in every sense.
Well, onto the North. Where - can you believe it - it was even hotter. 41°C on Saturday. But cleaner at least.
Stayed once again at the pseudo inlaws. Lovely people, really. But Flemish down to their little meat and potato-toes. Call me finicky, but when its 36°C, give me a tomato and a carrot.Do not drown me beneath a barrage of creamy sauces, meat, potatoes and various other stodge.
One night at a restaurant - perfect occasion to order a salad, finally. Now I was the only person at the table that seemed to consider vegetables as a food group - but how did they foil my perfect enjoyment of my luscious salad? They ordered tripe that's what. THREE.OF.THEM.
Really, I'm fairly open minded when it comes to food, but I draw the line at fried pigs intestines. Well, nothing to do but smile weakly, discreetely cover my nose against the wafting sewer odours, and chomp down on my lettuce.
In pursuit of more tasteful cultural activities, we went to see the 'festival of the Giants' in Lille.
Enormous wickerwork creations - every town or village has their local giant personnage, and it's a tradition dating back to the middle ages. Several times a year, they dust themselves down, and participate in any one of several regional cultural events.But for now, back to repairing the nutritional damage of this past weekend, wait for the next set of storms (later today), and track down a nearby swimming pool.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
A mind field
It was really great to switch back to speaking english for a bit. Kind of like a vacation for the brain. Rattling on at 100 miles an hour, not wondering when I'd stumble across a missing adjective, awkward sentence construction, whether that was meant to be a feminine or masculine plural (more difficult to disguise than my generic gender 'leh', which, if you say it quick enough and softly enough, can pass for either). Once you get into plural adjectives though, there's less room for bluffing.
While all of that stuff is a bit stressful for the language centre, every now and then it provides a great source of amusement - for others (it's character building to be laughed at right?) This mostly happens with words that SOUND similar, or have an english equivalent which SEEMS logical (faux amis - false friends)
Which has resulted in the following examples:
orteil - toe
ortie - nettle
As in 'toe tea is a good blood purifier'
preservatif - condom
conservateur - preservative
As in 'The amount of condoms in food is really worrying'
(note, said during a date...)
une ride - wrinkle
un rideau - curtain
As in 'we need to buy some wrinkles'
While all of that stuff is a bit stressful for the language centre, every now and then it provides a great source of amusement - for others (it's character building to be laughed at right?) This mostly happens with words that SOUND similar, or have an english equivalent which SEEMS logical (faux amis - false friends)
Which has resulted in the following examples:
orteil - toe
ortie - nettle
As in 'toe tea is a good blood purifier'
preservatif - condom
conservateur - preservative
As in 'The amount of condoms in food is really worrying'
(note, said during a date...)
une ride - wrinkle
un rideau - curtain
As in 'we need to buy some wrinkles'
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
London Calling
So in an effort to get away from my partner for a few days, blow some cash and hang out with a girlfriend (all for the sake of boy-girl diplomatic relations...what with this heat and both of us now loitering round the apartment *teeth grinding*), I decided to take a quick jaunt over the channel and spend the weekend in London.
Ahhh, London. Where people apologise for the mere possibility that they might have almost got in your way, where drivers stop to let you cross the road even if you don't have right of way...Makes a nice change from getting perpetually whacked in the solar plexus by enormous briefcases carried by completely oblivious businessmen, and run down on pedestrian crossings when the walking man is green.
(This could be a gripey post, someone downstairs is renovating an apartment, and I've had a constant whack whack whack whack background noise all day)
London was great though, we had brilliant weather (the start of the latest heatwave), got a sunburn, burnt a hole in my wallet, visited the markets, went to Kew gardens,
watched BBC, went 'how much?!' a lot, spoke nothing but english for 2 and a bit days. Lovely.
Got back, happily exhausted, only to find Ben had locked us out of the apartment (we only have one 'uncopiable' key, and the inevitable 'locking it in the apartment' finally occurred). Ideally I'd have preferred this didn't have to happen after I'd spent 8 hours on a bus though...(post travel serotonin wearing off as need for shower and bathroom facilities becomes more and more pressing).
So after a call to a locksmith, an industrial strength grinder, an annoying downstairs neighbour looking up at us through her door, window, window, door, clutching her child like WWIII was about to start (call it revenge for the number of times the little person has woken us up at 3am), a conversation with the across the hall neighbour whose boyfriend wanted to scale the wall over to our open kitchen window (ie kill himself), and about 2 hours, we finally got inside. Luckily we were able to do the standard 'the burglars tried to get in' declaration and claim it on insurance, because I don't want to scare non francophile readers into knowing how much that sort of business costs. But it's at least as much as a plane ticket to the other side of the world (always a viable plan B if you couldn't face the cost I guess).
The only other major news is that there isn't any. We're still in major indecisiveness territory about where we're going and what we're doing. Toulouse is still an idea, but so are a few other locations - including Bens hometown of Lille (which I also quite like, though the weather isn't exactly south of France). In the end, I probably will refrain from discussing anything more on the subject until we have made a firm decision.
Ahhh, London. Where people apologise for the mere possibility that they might have almost got in your way, where drivers stop to let you cross the road even if you don't have right of way...Makes a nice change from getting perpetually whacked in the solar plexus by enormous briefcases carried by completely oblivious businessmen, and run down on pedestrian crossings when the walking man is green.
(This could be a gripey post, someone downstairs is renovating an apartment, and I've had a constant whack whack whack whack background noise all day)
London was great though, we had brilliant weather (the start of the latest heatwave), got a sunburn, burnt a hole in my wallet, visited the markets, went to Kew gardens,
watched BBC, went 'how much?!' a lot, spoke nothing but english for 2 and a bit days. Lovely.Got back, happily exhausted, only to find Ben had locked us out of the apartment (we only have one 'uncopiable' key, and the inevitable 'locking it in the apartment' finally occurred). Ideally I'd have preferred this didn't have to happen after I'd spent 8 hours on a bus though...(post travel serotonin wearing off as need for shower and bathroom facilities becomes more and more pressing).
So after a call to a locksmith, an industrial strength grinder, an annoying downstairs neighbour looking up at us through her door, window, window, door, clutching her child like WWIII was about to start (call it revenge for the number of times the little person has woken us up at 3am), a conversation with the across the hall neighbour whose boyfriend wanted to scale the wall over to our open kitchen window (ie kill himself), and about 2 hours, we finally got inside. Luckily we were able to do the standard 'the burglars tried to get in' declaration and claim it on insurance, because I don't want to scare non francophile readers into knowing how much that sort of business costs. But it's at least as much as a plane ticket to the other side of the world (always a viable plan B if you couldn't face the cost I guess).
The only other major news is that there isn't any. We're still in major indecisiveness territory about where we're going and what we're doing. Toulouse is still an idea, but so are a few other locations - including Bens hometown of Lille (which I also quite like, though the weather isn't exactly south of France). In the end, I probably will refrain from discussing anything more on the subject until we have made a firm decision.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Don't touch that, you never know where it's been
I caught a shrew!
I just thought I'd share that with everybody.
Actually, someone's pet cat caught it first. I just swooshed in to do some rescuing and exclaim over it's extreme cuteness and pointy noseness and such.
This is about as exciting for French countryside residents as saying you caught a mouse, but it was a shrew, and I'd never seen a real live shrew before.
That is all.
I just thought I'd share that with everybody.
Actually, someone's pet cat caught it first. I just swooshed in to do some rescuing and exclaim over it's extreme cuteness and pointy noseness and such.
This is about as exciting for French countryside residents as saying you caught a mouse, but it was a shrew, and I'd never seen a real live shrew before.
That is all.
Monday, June 13, 2005
June in the Dunes
Feels like I haven't blogged for a while, nothing much to discuss recently. But this past weekend was a fun trip up to the northern coast to hang out at the seaside(ish) apartment in Merlimont (if you can't find it on a map, it's near Touquet - or Boulogne if you can't find Touquet)
After the always-fun exercise of getting Ben out of the apartment and into the car, and removing yet another parking ticket from under the windscreen wiper, and getting onto the highway, getting lost, and after the unfailing interrogation of 'did I pack this and that and the toothbrushes' (and after inevitably turning back because he's forgotten something), and geting lost again, we arrived several hours later at the little town of Merlimont
(which, for all future reference, is where his parents have bought a holiday unit - in one of those detestable model village home affairs that always has an artificial lake in the middle)
We spent a large part of the time in the neighbouring town of Touquet,
a resort town that was once particularly fashionable with the English upper crust (post WWI) and has the dubious honour of being the place where PG Wodehouse was arrested by ze Germans in WWII. Nowadays it's an overpriced tourist resort whose highrise beachside apartments and nighttime flashing neon signs drown out the charming belle epoque style buildings. But it's worth a tour nevertheless.
Our night was spent enjoying a sunset
trek along the dunes, a drink at an overpriced pub playing bad 80's music, and a meal at an overpriced restaurant serving bad italian table wine (which we sent back after failing to find any alcohol content in it whatsoever - the waiter placated us by saying it was a hit with English tourists. Lesson 1 in how to placate French diners; insult the English).
Sunday was more of the same - with more beach and dune exploring and less time in town - oh, and another parking ticket (!!) because contrary to pretty much everywhere else in the Western world, Touquet (who have decided they're not quite rich enough yet), only charge for parking ON THE WEEKENDS, and not on weekdays. And how many people - lured by icecreams and carousel music - get caught out, do you think...?
Oh, and in very mundane yet exiting news, I drove back. My first time behind the wheel in a year (!), and my first time driving on the opposite side of the road. Ben was quite calm (despite being a bit driving instructor-ish, ahem, I have been driving for longer than him, nyarnyanyar) - though driving though Paris' outer districts was a little nerve-racking, I must admit. Still, it's another step towards integration - once I start using my hasard lights as a method to override any illegal double parking manoeuvre and honking my horn at anyone who dares execute a left hand turn into a side road in front of me - even if they're indicating, then, then I'll be the real deal
After the always-fun exercise of getting Ben out of the apartment and into the car, and removing yet another parking ticket from under the windscreen wiper, and getting onto the highway, getting lost, and after the unfailing interrogation of 'did I pack this and that and the toothbrushes' (and after inevitably turning back because he's forgotten something), and geting lost again, we arrived several hours later at the little town of Merlimont
We spent a large part of the time in the neighbouring town of Touquet,
Our night was spent enjoying a sunset
Sunday was more of the same - with more beach and dune exploring and less time in town - oh, and another parking ticket (!!) because contrary to pretty much everywhere else in the Western world, Touquet (who have decided they're not quite rich enough yet), only charge for parking ON THE WEEKENDS, and not on weekdays. And how many people - lured by icecreams and carousel music - get caught out, do you think...?
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Not a lot really
It's actually been a slow few days, and I must shamefully admit I have not been profiting at all from the sunshine nor life in Paris. The thing about living so close to such a famous city is that there's something of a self-imposed 'pressure' to be constantly taking advantage of that fact. Especially when one decides to blog their adventures online...call it performance anxiety.
Even though I have been a hermit, there have been some developments in the works. To answer the Toulouse question (in case you're wondering), Monsieurs job interview didn't bear fruit - pity.
While I don't want to go too much into detail regarding his work and personal life, I will say that here in Paris he works for an IT outsourcing business (ie they post IT professionals to work on temporary projects with other companies). Lately (for the last year), he's been getting the run around - from having no work for quite a long while last year (though he still got his salary) to being posted to a real bitch of a project since January - long hours, stressful workload, no payrise, and not exactly his field of specialty either. The job was starting to have consequences with our relationship also, as the stress of the job had caused changes in his personality - changes that I was having trouble absorbing as I have my own particular issues and worries - those that come with a change of country, lifestyle and language (and limited financial freedom).
Last week he found out he was being taken off the project and replaced with someone else (as was his senior associate, who actually suffered a nervous depression during his 6 months on the job) - which has actually been a great relief for both of us. We're taking the opportunity to make a break with our life here and move to a more regional area - probably Toulouse after all, as we both liked it a lot. Monsieur might go back to studying, and as for me - I'll figure something out.
In the meantime I'm working on my 20th reiteration of my motivation letter...migrainus merdum.
Went to see Star Wars last weekend, here's what I learned;
* Wookies are from Vietnam
* The effects of the incredible instant vacuum caused by a window breaking in a spacecraft can be negated by hanging on real tight
* Darth Vader is actually a cultural metaphor for George Bush ('if you're not with me, you're against me')
* It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be.
Even though I have been a hermit, there have been some developments in the works. To answer the Toulouse question (in case you're wondering), Monsieurs job interview didn't bear fruit - pity.
While I don't want to go too much into detail regarding his work and personal life, I will say that here in Paris he works for an IT outsourcing business (ie they post IT professionals to work on temporary projects with other companies). Lately (for the last year), he's been getting the run around - from having no work for quite a long while last year (though he still got his salary) to being posted to a real bitch of a project since January - long hours, stressful workload, no payrise, and not exactly his field of specialty either. The job was starting to have consequences with our relationship also, as the stress of the job had caused changes in his personality - changes that I was having trouble absorbing as I have my own particular issues and worries - those that come with a change of country, lifestyle and language (and limited financial freedom).
Last week he found out he was being taken off the project and replaced with someone else (as was his senior associate, who actually suffered a nervous depression during his 6 months on the job) - which has actually been a great relief for both of us. We're taking the opportunity to make a break with our life here and move to a more regional area - probably Toulouse after all, as we both liked it a lot. Monsieur might go back to studying, and as for me - I'll figure something out.
In the meantime I'm working on my 20th reiteration of my motivation letter...migrainus merdum.
Went to see Star Wars last weekend, here's what I learned;
* Wookies are from Vietnam
* The effects of the incredible instant vacuum caused by a window breaking in a spacecraft can be negated by hanging on real tight
* Darth Vader is actually a cultural metaphor for George Bush ('if you're not with me, you're against me')
* It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Disposable Society
One thing that gets on my nerves even more than those stupid appliances that are designed so that if one tiny very breakable piece actually breaks then the whole contraption is buggered and not worth or able to be repaired, is that fact that once this inevitably happens, there is often no way to 'ecologically' dispose of it.
By comparison - yesterday, on my way to do the volunteering thing, I came across a couple of shock value posters of strangled dolphins and slaughted leopards as part of a publicity campaign recently started by the Nicolas Hulot Foundation (ecologist) - to startle people into being a little less energy hungry round the house, switching off lights and fixing leaking taps and the like. So I get to stare at an an artists rendition of a dolphin on a living room floor strangled to death by an electrical cord of a light that's not been switched off, while I am crammed into an overcrowded method of public transport, which is taking me to the WWF headquarters to do volunteer work, (where I get to see one of their PAID employees casually flicking her cigarette butt onto the street), and unable to block out the sounds of the squawling baby behind me because a tiny little plastic tab off my walkman which used rechargeable batteries has snapped off, and I have to now chuck it in the bin because big business is unwilling to take responsibility for disposing of the waste it helps create.
So I damn well hope you took the effort to recycle your rubbish today. Grumble grumble. ;p
ps; June 6 is World Environment Day, Be nice!
By comparison - yesterday, on my way to do the volunteering thing, I came across a couple of shock value posters of strangled dolphins and slaughted leopards as part of a publicity campaign recently started by the Nicolas Hulot Foundation (ecologist) - to startle people into being a little less energy hungry round the house, switching off lights and fixing leaking taps and the like. So I get to stare at an an artists rendition of a dolphin on a living room floor strangled to death by an electrical cord of a light that's not been switched off, while I am crammed into an overcrowded method of public transport, which is taking me to the WWF headquarters to do volunteer work, (where I get to see one of their PAID employees casually flicking her cigarette butt onto the street), and unable to block out the sounds of the squawling baby behind me because a tiny little plastic tab off my walkman which used rechargeable batteries has snapped off, and I have to now chuck it in the bin because big business is unwilling to take responsibility for disposing of the waste it helps create.
So I damn well hope you took the effort to recycle your rubbish today. Grumble grumble. ;p
ps; June 6 is World Environment Day, Be nice!
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Who's that hiding in the bushes?
Oh, I nearly forgot, I unknowingly participated in a new and original experience while I was sitting in the Toulouse Botanic Gardens over the weekend.
We were sitting under the sun, enjoying some cool drinks, when I look over and see this guy slowly walking towards us, bandaged head, two bandaged arms - one of them braced directly out in front of him. There he was, inching zombie like along the park garden paths on a Saturday afternoon. He catches my eye and I make an involuntary *thats gotta hurt* type wince before returning my gaze somewhere more discreet. He passes behind me, and I can't help it. The microsecond image of his zombie gait is playing over in my brain like a B grade film, and I turn my head and start silently shaking with laughter. Moments later, I hear shouts of alarm,and then indignation coming from our neighbouring table. I look over and realise the guy is now on the ground. At first I thought he'd fallen over and, I hate to say it, I'm laughing even MORE by now. Though in my defence I'm laughing more at the ridiculousness that someone could actually BE that unlucky. Ok, fine, I'm mean if you prefer. Then it seems that he didn't actually fall, he was pushed! And the culprit is walking gradually away (a little too gradually? a little too casually?) Hmmm, 'something does not compute' I say to myself as I do some tennis match type head turning. Madame at the next table is indignant and sends her husband off to apprehend the evildoer!
Surprise! The guy gets up off the ground, unharmed...
Smile, you're on candid camera ;)
We were sitting under the sun, enjoying some cool drinks, when I look over and see this guy slowly walking towards us, bandaged head, two bandaged arms - one of them braced directly out in front of him. There he was, inching zombie like along the park garden paths on a Saturday afternoon. He catches my eye and I make an involuntary *thats gotta hurt* type wince before returning my gaze somewhere more discreet. He passes behind me, and I can't help it. The microsecond image of his zombie gait is playing over in my brain like a B grade film, and I turn my head and start silently shaking with laughter. Moments later, I hear shouts of alarm,and then indignation coming from our neighbouring table. I look over and realise the guy is now on the ground. At first I thought he'd fallen over and, I hate to say it, I'm laughing even MORE by now. Though in my defence I'm laughing more at the ridiculousness that someone could actually BE that unlucky. Ok, fine, I'm mean if you prefer. Then it seems that he didn't actually fall, he was pushed! And the culprit is walking gradually away (a little too gradually? a little too casually?) Hmmm, 'something does not compute' I say to myself as I do some tennis match type head turning. Madame at the next table is indignant and sends her husband off to apprehend the evildoer!
Surprise! The guy gets up off the ground, unharmed...
Smile, you're on candid camera ;)
Monday, May 30, 2005
No time Tou-louse
ok, that will only be funny if you're a Monty Python fan, but I couldn't resist.
Well, one weekend and a lot of kilometres later, and I can now say I've seen at least a little of southwestern France.
Leaving late on Thursday night, we drove the 700 odd kilometres down to Albi (a town just out of Toulouse where we had a free bed waiting). Arriving at around 2am, we didn't see much of the town, but opening the shutters to a hot southern sunny day, we were greeted with a very green view of the river Tarn, and more than a little jealous that this wasn't OUR daily view!
Albi is a town of about 50,000 people that is known for its massive ancient cathedral, and of being where Toulouse Lautrec is from. When we weren't in Toulouse, we spent time exploring the medieval streets, red brick buildings, restaurants, and surrounding river Tarn (full of fish, frogs and birds).
Monsieur had his job interview Friday, so we'll see what the ensuing days bring, but I'd be happy to move down there. Toulouse (otherwise known as la ville rose) is a vibrant small city - with a large student population (1/4 of the 400,000 residents), rivers, canals, parks and characteristic rose brick buidlings. The atmosphere was a pleasant mix of Barcelona, Nice, Amsterdam and a little of chez moi back in Darwin. Still taking things as they come, I won't pin all my hopes on a move there, but it's definitely on the list of places I could live.
Well, one weekend and a lot of kilometres later, and I can now say I've seen at least a little of southwestern France.
Leaving late on Thursday night, we drove the 700 odd kilometres down to Albi (a town just out of Toulouse where we had a free bed waiting). Arriving at around 2am, we didn't see much of the town, but opening the shutters to a hot southern sunny day, we were greeted with a very green view of the river Tarn, and more than a little jealous that this wasn't OUR daily view!
Albi is a town of about 50,000 people that is known for its massive ancient cathedral, and of being where Toulouse Lautrec is from. When we weren't in Toulouse, we spent time exploring the medieval streets, red brick buildings, restaurants, and surrounding river Tarn (full of fish, frogs and birds).
Monsieur had his job interview Friday, so we'll see what the ensuing days bring, but I'd be happy to move down there. Toulouse (otherwise known as la ville rose) is a vibrant small city - with a large student population (1/4 of the 400,000 residents), rivers, canals, parks and characteristic rose brick buidlings. The atmosphere was a pleasant mix of Barcelona, Nice, Amsterdam and a little of chez moi back in Darwin. Still taking things as they come, I won't pin all my hopes on a move there, but it's definitely on the list of places I could live.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
on yer bike
My boyfriend'€™s been a little bit cursed by the bicycle gods lately. My recent (as of 3 months ago) fancy that I most absolutely have a bike seemed to have an infectious effect on the male party of this couple, and while I was still busy pouting over which week I'd be able to afford the expense, he dashed off and bought himself a nice shiny new two-wheeled transport (just to spite me, according to my own cynical philosophy).
Now, while we both bought our bikes at the same shop, I've had a little more luck with mine (touch wood...dammit, no, that's chipboard...gah! so is that, aha! a wooden elephant statue, whew! lucky...). First off, within about 3 hours of usage, one of the bike pedals came off. Unfortunately because the place of purchase was located in the major business district of La Defense (read my previous bicycle article re the horrors of trying to get in and out of this area on a bike) we had to trickily arrange it into the back of his small car, in much the same manner as those rope and wood puzzles that you buy at markets just so you can taste a little insanity. Two days and 3 hours of bike usage later, the pedal broke again. He had no option but to leave it chained up inside the perimeter of his place of work until he could fetch it with his car. Of course, the obvious ensued, and it was stolen. Karma curse them with a shitty bike I say. So,€“ being a man, he bought a better, flasher, shinier one (with theft insurance) and immediately began beligerently pestering me to join him in trying to kill himself in Parisien traffic.
So this weekend we took a very long hike up to the forest of Saint Germain, which, while being a very lovely forest, involved quite a lot too much road and not nearly enough forest time to make it a calm green destressing kind of experience that a forest visit should be. We actually had to try twice, because on the first day, his chain broke! (really, how much luck can one person get?). But it did mean that we tried a completely unexpected route along the bords of the Seine (a river whose borders change remarkably during its traverse through the greater Parisien region). Finding a small rarely used backwater track through a lot of charming shrubbery, we were soon confronted by a different side of life in the outer districts. That of several gypsy encampments, in disused condemned overgrown buildings, and ramshackle dwellings of their own construction. But what was really an eyeopening experience was arriving at the base of a massive double highway spanning the Seine river. Traffic 24 hours a day; giant concrete pillars and the noise amplified by the natural amphitheatre form of the surrounding land. There, in the middle of these two vast and trunkless legs of stone was a forgotten building, several stories high, whose top stories were mere metres from the base of this colossal double highway bridge. The residents couldn’t have been renting such a rat infested monstrosity in any legal sense of the term, river views or not, and in the end I didn'€™t really know what to make of it at all. Forgotten? Conveniently overlooked? or not worth the effort..., whatever the case, quite a few cars parked around the vicinty were not altogether shabby. It was a bit of a puzzle all round.
Now in other news, my dear Monsieur, while having somehow annoyed the bike dieties, does have a job interview in Toulouse this Friday. So this weekend will be spent in the southwestern part of France, one of the major geographical bits I haven'€™t yet seen, and who knows? Maybe this roving reporter will shortly be changing location...?
Now, while we both bought our bikes at the same shop, I've had a little more luck with mine (touch wood...dammit, no, that's chipboard...gah! so is that, aha! a wooden elephant statue, whew! lucky...). First off, within about 3 hours of usage, one of the bike pedals came off. Unfortunately because the place of purchase was located in the major business district of La Defense (read my previous bicycle article re the horrors of trying to get in and out of this area on a bike) we had to trickily arrange it into the back of his small car, in much the same manner as those rope and wood puzzles that you buy at markets just so you can taste a little insanity. Two days and 3 hours of bike usage later, the pedal broke again. He had no option but to leave it chained up inside the perimeter of his place of work until he could fetch it with his car. Of course, the obvious ensued, and it was stolen. Karma curse them with a shitty bike I say. So,€“ being a man, he bought a better, flasher, shinier one (with theft insurance) and immediately began beligerently pestering me to join him in trying to kill himself in Parisien traffic.
So this weekend we took a very long hike up to the forest of Saint Germain, which, while being a very lovely forest, involved quite a lot too much road and not nearly enough forest time to make it a calm green destressing kind of experience that a forest visit should be. We actually had to try twice, because on the first day, his chain broke! (really, how much luck can one person get?). But it did mean that we tried a completely unexpected route along the bords of the Seine (a river whose borders change remarkably during its traverse through the greater Parisien region). Finding a small rarely used backwater track through a lot of charming shrubbery, we were soon confronted by a different side of life in the outer districts. That of several gypsy encampments, in disused condemned overgrown buildings, and ramshackle dwellings of their own construction. But what was really an eyeopening experience was arriving at the base of a massive double highway spanning the Seine river. Traffic 24 hours a day; giant concrete pillars and the noise amplified by the natural amphitheatre form of the surrounding land. There, in the middle of these two vast and trunkless legs of stone was a forgotten building, several stories high, whose top stories were mere metres from the base of this colossal double highway bridge. The residents couldn’t have been renting such a rat infested monstrosity in any legal sense of the term, river views or not, and in the end I didn'€™t really know what to make of it at all. Forgotten? Conveniently overlooked? or not worth the effort..., whatever the case, quite a few cars parked around the vicinty were not altogether shabby. It was a bit of a puzzle all round.
Now in other news, my dear Monsieur, while having somehow annoyed the bike dieties, does have a job interview in Toulouse this Friday. So this weekend will be spent in the southwestern part of France, one of the major geographical bits I haven'€™t yet seen, and who knows? Maybe this roving reporter will shortly be changing location...?
The regime of the regime*
Mince! si seulement j'étais mince!
One thing the French are very good at doing, is reminding you of how very fat you are and how you should be doing something about it. Which is difficult to reconcile with the other thing they're very good at, which is the art of food. In addition to the fact that they quite shamelessly intersperse ads for chocolate inbetween their multitudinous get slim ads, it's enough to drive anyone barmy.
The directive to slim down is, of course, standard in all westernised countries. What France excels in is the sheer QUANTITY of messages. Coming into summer season, as we shortly will be (tomorrow , so I'm led to believe), the advertising gears have been shifted into overdrive, and ones evening session of telly watching can quickly degenerate into an aggressive display of cellulite free bottoms and inner thighs that know what a breeze feels like. Now, in Australia, the large part of this advertising is directed towards magasine sales, subscribed dietary programs or late night infomercials ('I stuck my finger into this plug socket and lost 58 pounds!' Yes! You too can lose inches off your waistline and years off your life expectancy simply by ordering our special patented finger socket adaptor for the special price of $299 + $75 miscellaneous unexplained charges. Watch those calories fry!)
In France, by contrast, a large part of this marketing is directed towards actual snakeoil products; lotions, potions, creams (try as you like, you will never convince me that rubbing anything short of an organic solvent onto my legs will remove centimetres of diameter off them), and - quite hilariously - water. Diet water. I need to sit down for a moment and mentally digest that one. Most of this overpriced foolishness is what you come across in Australian health food shops, whereas in France it's sold in the first refuge for the hypochondriac - the pharmacy. Now here's another thing I've not yet explained about France - the sheer abundance of pharmacies; green neon crosses flashing signs of a saviour promising sanctuary from the evils of owning a body.
Every year, the health system refunds a staggering amount of presciptive medicine (though they managed to save themselves a packet last year by encouraging people to buy generic medicines) and French citizens happily continue to stock up on any number of remedies, for real or imagined problems. In fact the last time I went to the pharmacy - the sales assistant seemed quite puzzled and irritated by my reluctance to buy only one product and my dogged refusal to buy every single product he was recommending to me. I suspected for a moment that he was going to refuse to sell me my anything at all by way of punishment.
Now if you'll excuse me I have an unexplained urge to go and eat a bar of chocolate.
* regime(fr): What the above sentence expressly forbids one should do.
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Over the borderline
One minute it’s café au lait…and the next you’re in Belgium.
One thing I find startlingly difficult to get the hang of, is not so much the sudden changing of countries (and the fact that all the signs suddenly switch language during a microtime where you've been preoccupied with cleaning your fingernails), but the total absence of fanfare when crossing a border in these parts. In Australia, by contrast, there are many big signs in place to WELCOME YOU TO A DIFFERENT PART OF AUSTRALIA. WHERE THE NUMER PLATES ARE A DIFFERENT COLOUR!!!!AND EVERYTHING IS THE SAME!!! THOUGH OUR POLITICAL PARTIES MIGHT HAVE MORE QUESTIONABLE MORALES THAN YOURS! OR VICE VERSA!! WE MIGHT ALSO HAVE A RIDICULOUS AMOUNT OF GIANT SCULPTURES OF STRANGE OBJECTS FOR NO APPARENT REASON!
That said, if you enter any other country via a major highway (or England via any form of transportation including a flying broomstick) you will be treated to a giant sign that makes you feel special. And if you’re extra lucky, you’ll get sniffed by a customs dog (not the time to play friendly with the puppy, just for some general travellers advice). Which reminds me of that time that we all got hauled off a bus and had to remove our luggage to be ceremoniously sniffed. Not so much an extraordinary event in itself, but you’ve got to wonder how seriously they’re taking their job when you get the following situation:
‘Has your bag been checked by the dog?’
‘Yes’
‘And there was nothing in it, you’re not carrying any drugs?’ (ok so I haven’t washed my hair for a while, but it’s not that serious)
‘No’
‘Really? Are you certain? Because if you’re carrying any drugs you’d better let me know’
‘Well your dog doesn't seem interested'
‘ok, that’s fine, off you go’
(Oh wait hold on, there was that HUGE bag of cocaine, but since my bag has been passed over 3 times and you haven’t bothered to notice that I’m still standing here tapping my foot impatiently, and because you subsequently interrogated me anyway, and because you then simply took my word for it, I’m going to keep that piece of information to myself)
Anyway, where was I before I got sidetracked into pretending I was a drug smuggler..? Ah yes, Belgium. Rattling along through northern rural france, a few fields, some cows, and suddenly you’ve got the Belgian version of, well, exactly the same thing. Except that it’s in Dutch. I find the Dutch language frankly hilarious, and spend ages amusing myself with the similarities between this language and English, the way I imagine it was spoken 800 years ago. Like Warme Drankken, translates to Hot Drinks. Funny no?
Anyway, I went to Belgium to consume some of their caloriffic food and giggle at the menus(Flemish food, for the uninitiated, is mostly various forms of potatoes and dead animal. Vegetarians be warned).
One thing I find startlingly difficult to get the hang of, is not so much the sudden changing of countries (and the fact that all the signs suddenly switch language during a microtime where you've been preoccupied with cleaning your fingernails), but the total absence of fanfare when crossing a border in these parts. In Australia, by contrast, there are many big signs in place to WELCOME YOU TO A DIFFERENT PART OF AUSTRALIA. WHERE THE NUMER PLATES ARE A DIFFERENT COLOUR!!!!AND EVERYTHING IS THE SAME!!! THOUGH OUR POLITICAL PARTIES MIGHT HAVE MORE QUESTIONABLE MORALES THAN YOURS! OR VICE VERSA!! WE MIGHT ALSO HAVE A RIDICULOUS AMOUNT OF GIANT SCULPTURES OF STRANGE OBJECTS FOR NO APPARENT REASON!
That said, if you enter any other country via a major highway (or England via any form of transportation including a flying broomstick) you will be treated to a giant sign that makes you feel special. And if you’re extra lucky, you’ll get sniffed by a customs dog (not the time to play friendly with the puppy, just for some general travellers advice). Which reminds me of that time that we all got hauled off a bus and had to remove our luggage to be ceremoniously sniffed. Not so much an extraordinary event in itself, but you’ve got to wonder how seriously they’re taking their job when you get the following situation:
‘Has your bag been checked by the dog?’
‘Yes’
‘And there was nothing in it, you’re not carrying any drugs?’ (ok so I haven’t washed my hair for a while, but it’s not that serious)
‘No’
‘Really? Are you certain? Because if you’re carrying any drugs you’d better let me know’
‘Well your dog doesn't seem interested'
‘ok, that’s fine, off you go’
(Oh wait hold on, there was that HUGE bag of cocaine, but since my bag has been passed over 3 times and you haven’t bothered to notice that I’m still standing here tapping my foot impatiently, and because you subsequently interrogated me anyway, and because you then simply took my word for it, I’m going to keep that piece of information to myself)
Anyway, where was I before I got sidetracked into pretending I was a drug smuggler..? Ah yes, Belgium. Rattling along through northern rural france, a few fields, some cows, and suddenly you’ve got the Belgian version of, well, exactly the same thing. Except that it’s in Dutch. I find the Dutch language frankly hilarious, and spend ages amusing myself with the similarities between this language and English, the way I imagine it was spoken 800 years ago. Like Warme Drankken, translates to Hot Drinks. Funny no?
Anyway, I went to Belgium to consume some of their caloriffic food and giggle at the menus(Flemish food, for the uninitiated, is mostly various forms of potatoes and dead animal. Vegetarians be warned).
Monday, May 09, 2005
Half Baked Goods
I have a friend (in fact, I luckily have several, all very fascinating and mildly deranged individuals) who, in addition to causing me to run up a huge phonebill this month, used to have a particular habit of asking me to translate random phrases into French. Not regular, useful expressions, mind. Not the sort of things that you would ask an old gent in the street while squinting at a phrasebook. No, they were more along the lines of what you’d say to a judge if you were angling for a ‘clinically insane’ verdict to get you off the hook.
‘What’s French for “Kill the Big Pink Pig?”’
‘What’s French for “Mesopotamian wall hanging?”’
‘What’s French for “Pineapple leaves?”’
(ok, two I made up because my memory’s a little frayed, but the first one is true, I swear)
Which begs the real question;
What’s French for Self-Raising Flour?
(I’m serious)
Honestly, I’m standing there in the baking goods aisle looking at a range of numerically coded flours, with not one of them hinting it might have a trace of bicarb. Do no French recipes call for self-raising flour? (no, not yeast laced flour, that’s different again). I have several recipes that use this product in my startlingly adventurous and anally categorised recipe book. But I do have bicarb, and regular flour. So for the uninformed, 1c flour: 1t bicarb, and Bob’s your transgender aunt.
Because I don’t want to spend any more of this blog entry discussing flour, that would be much too dull, I’ll do my best to make last weeks visit to the dole office sound as interesting as possible. Despite an extreme moral and psychological resistance to the idea of going on the dole, the only other option is not having any more money in a couple of months or going back to doing crappy time wasting work when I need to be working (even for a pittance, or temporarily for free) towards my career.
I was called up to the empty waiting room, nothing but long corridors of blue doors all firmly shut and not a person in sight.
‘You know, this hall of blue doors setup you’ve got here is pretty creepy actually’ I tell the lady who is processing my dossier, after being summoned to her office by a big red number (Standard greetings are just so passé don't you think?)
According to my existing on-file information, I was born in Bulgaria, which is interesting to discover. But on hearing of my actual birthplace, I was peppered with questions throughout my entire appointment (in that rapid-fire, bullet-like, social services sort of way)
‘And have you lived in Australia’
‘What’s it like there?’
‘Is it better than here? It’s better I guess. Is the quality of life better? Do you like it here? Which is better? Is there an agreement between Australia and England? Can you live in England? Have you tried living in England? I’d like to go to Australia, ça fait rever…
‘Do they have unemployment benefit system in Australia? Does it pay well? (eh?) What’s the unemployment system like? ’
(to respond) ‘A dark hole of despair and depression that serves to crumble your morale into a tiny thousand pieces so that you will be grateful for the first underpaid shitty job that comes your way’
‘Oh, that’s bizarre. Well, it’s not like that in France. Still, you won’t be unemployed long, you need to do x, y, and z and make another appointment when you’ve got the rest of your paperwork ready. Good day’
Well, that was that was quick and painless….and…odd
‘What’s French for “Kill the Big Pink Pig?”’
‘What’s French for “Mesopotamian wall hanging?”’
‘What’s French for “Pineapple leaves?”’
(ok, two I made up because my memory’s a little frayed, but the first one is true, I swear)
Which begs the real question;
What’s French for Self-Raising Flour?
(I’m serious)
Honestly, I’m standing there in the baking goods aisle looking at a range of numerically coded flours, with not one of them hinting it might have a trace of bicarb. Do no French recipes call for self-raising flour? (no, not yeast laced flour, that’s different again). I have several recipes that use this product in my startlingly adventurous and anally categorised recipe book. But I do have bicarb, and regular flour. So for the uninformed, 1c flour: 1t bicarb, and Bob’s your transgender aunt.
Because I don’t want to spend any more of this blog entry discussing flour, that would be much too dull, I’ll do my best to make last weeks visit to the dole office sound as interesting as possible. Despite an extreme moral and psychological resistance to the idea of going on the dole, the only other option is not having any more money in a couple of months or going back to doing crappy time wasting work when I need to be working (even for a pittance, or temporarily for free) towards my career.
I was called up to the empty waiting room, nothing but long corridors of blue doors all firmly shut and not a person in sight.
‘You know, this hall of blue doors setup you’ve got here is pretty creepy actually’ I tell the lady who is processing my dossier, after being summoned to her office by a big red number (Standard greetings are just so passé don't you think?)
According to my existing on-file information, I was born in Bulgaria, which is interesting to discover. But on hearing of my actual birthplace, I was peppered with questions throughout my entire appointment (in that rapid-fire, bullet-like, social services sort of way)
‘And have you lived in Australia’
‘What’s it like there?’
‘Is it better than here? It’s better I guess. Is the quality of life better? Do you like it here? Which is better? Is there an agreement between Australia and England? Can you live in England? Have you tried living in England? I’d like to go to Australia, ça fait rever…
‘Do they have unemployment benefit system in Australia? Does it pay well? (eh?) What’s the unemployment system like? ’
(to respond) ‘A dark hole of despair and depression that serves to crumble your morale into a tiny thousand pieces so that you will be grateful for the first underpaid shitty job that comes your way’
‘Oh, that’s bizarre. Well, it’s not like that in France. Still, you won’t be unemployed long, you need to do x, y, and z and make another appointment when you’ve got the rest of your paperwork ready. Good day’
Well, that was that was quick and painless….and…odd
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Heat wave
Wouldn't you know it, I go and buy myself the first bunch of flowers since arriving in France and suddenly we have a mini heat wave. Poor wilty flowers.
I could berate myself for having such poor skills for coping with the heat, for someone who has lived a long time in the tropics, but the sudden jump in temperature by about 10 degrees was enough to make anyone rethink their choice in quilt thickness. But it's a foretaste to how well this apartment will shield us from the summer sun. I'm optimistic that because we have windows on all sides, and are high up enough to get a breeze and be less bothered by radiated traffic and road heat, it should be quite pleasant. Fingers crossed.
So in an effort to get a little pigmentation back into my skin, me and about 16823 like minded individuals (including the gypsies with their postcards) thought it would be a nice idea to wander around Montmartre (where I ate at this restaurant, whose interior is as pleasant as its façade, though the food is only average), the Eiffel tower (too much construction work going on around the base to be worth the effort when one can be choosy about visiting times) and the Palais de Chaillot (that I admit to have never really taken the time to explore before, and this days visit was only brief as my mother had decided to visit me with only NEW shoes in her suitcase and consequently wasn't up to a long walk anywhere).
Right, enough slacking, back to the jobsearch...
I could berate myself for having such poor skills for coping with the heat, for someone who has lived a long time in the tropics, but the sudden jump in temperature by about 10 degrees was enough to make anyone rethink their choice in quilt thickness. But it's a foretaste to how well this apartment will shield us from the summer sun. I'm optimistic that because we have windows on all sides, and are high up enough to get a breeze and be less bothered by radiated traffic and road heat, it should be quite pleasant. Fingers crossed.
So in an effort to get a little pigmentation back into my skin, me and about 16823 like minded individuals (including the gypsies with their postcards) thought it would be a nice idea to wander around Montmartre (where I ate at this restaurant, whose interior is as pleasant as its façade, though the food is only average), the Eiffel tower (too much construction work going on around the base to be worth the effort when one can be choosy about visiting times) and the Palais de Chaillot (that I admit to have never really taken the time to explore before, and this days visit was only brief as my mother had decided to visit me with only NEW shoes in her suitcase and consequently wasn't up to a long walk anywhere).
Right, enough slacking, back to the jobsearch...
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