So this whole blog entry started out with the basic principle that I've nothing to say. On a whim, I looked up "writer's block" in French and it turns out it's: Angoisse de la page blanche. Extreme distress at a blank page.
Normally, that seems about right, except I admit that what I felt at having little blog material was not extreme distress. It wouldn't even be fair to call it moderate distress. It was more like ambivalence. Or, as the French say, ambivalence.
I assume that most, if not all, of my readers are friends. And the great thing about friends is that you don't have to entertain them.
At least, not in the sense that you have to amuse them (French: divertir). Sometimes you have to have them over for supper (French: recevoir). But that's not the same thing, now is it, my fellow amateur linguists?
It's nice when foreign languages divide up some English words. I feel it's more accurate. My favorite example of this is the Spanish variations of "I'm sorry." There's perdona me (as in, I just bumped into you on a train and caused you to spill your groceries, my bad) and lo ciento (somebody else just bumped into you on a train, and your groceries are spilt, and I know just how you feel and I'm sorry that happened to you.) It really helps Spanish-speakers avoid those "I'm sorry - oh it's not your fault - of course it's not my fault. why would you even say that? - yeah, i know, sorry - it's okay, i'm sorry,too - about which thing? - the first one, i think, but i don't even know anymore - oh, well, um thanks" conversations.
In French, there is je suis desole, I sympathize, and je regrette, I regret.
Anyway, the reason I have so little to report is not because I am a dull and lifeless person. Nor does it have anything to do with the way I feel about handjobs, Alan, although now that you mention it I guess I feel pretty ambivalent about those, too.
I'm sorry. That was inappropriate. And by that I mean, "lo ciento," your friend is an idiot, I sympathize. It must be so awful to read such crude remarks. I know just how you feel because I'm friends with Alan Suderman. I'm not apologizing here because my comments are a result of my extreme distress at the blank page.
No, but really, the reason there isn't much to report is that I haven't discovered much of Paris this week. Instead, I've been waking up every morning and writing, writing, writing. Obviously not blogs. But short stories. I've had a lot of time on my hands and a lot of story ideas, so...voila! (See previous entry.)
The irony (or, as the French say, ironie) is that when there's a lot to say here it's usually because I haven't been writing there (by there I mean the OTHER part of my computer, where documents are stored), and when there's a lot to say there, the blog suffers. Is that ironic? I don't even know anymore.
Thanks for sticking with it to the end of this blog. I regret that it was so worthless. I look forward to diverting you in the future with a better effort.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Raped Carrots and Oven Instruction Manuals
Today I am staying near my apartment for two reasons: 1.) That's what I usually do anyway, and 2.) There is a city-wide transportation strike today. A strike, or protest, is called a Manif in French, short for manifestation. And they're everywhere - as Lisa said, it's a strike culture.
The work manif, cousin of course to our word manifest, has less of its roots in actual protest, as our word does. Rather, its roots mean, "To show clearly and plainly." I think there's something simple and poetic about that.
I have heard this said of the Parisians: That they are by and large a lazy group. They don't like "exercise," and prefer instead to smoke cigarettes and eat butter. But so much as look at them wrong, and they'll revolt. They will show clearly and plainly that they are displeased. I'm starting to see that there's some truth to this.
For example, in addition to the transportation manif today, there have been several manifs at the intersection just below my apartment. These are to protest the French treatment of Sans Papiers (literally, "Without papers," or illegals immigrants in our terms). My neighborhood is a huge immigrant neighborhood, thank God, which is why everywhere you go there's delicious couscous restaurants and amazing fabric.
But the French government is none too kind to sans papiers, just as ours in none to kind. (Hutto children's prison, anyone?) And apparently, not more than a couple of weeks ago, a Chinese woman was accosted by the immigrant enforcement in her apartment on Blvd. de la Villette (the street off of which my street runs) and in her fear, she threw herself out of the window and died.
So there have been several protests in that area now. Immigrant rights manifs tie in with the theme of the past two movies I've watched. The first, called "This is England," just came out in French theaters last week, and its amazing. Sort of recalls American History X in its intensity, content and incredible pre-teen acting. The other, "Dirty Pretty Things," is older, and just as good.
Interestingly, I am a sans papiers here, as I do not have and have not taken steps to obtain a visa. But for me, if worst comes to worst and I'm actually deported, which I probably won't be seeing as I'm white, then I will be deported to fair Austin, Texas. It's not as though I'm seeking asylum from anything.
The next proximate manif near our house is for my new favorite restaurant, the Rotisserie de Saint Marthe. Now, when I first saw the flyer for this manif, I thought perhaps that manif could also be short for manifesto, which could also be a sort of instruction manual, and that the flyer was really a set of instructions on how to keep your rotisserie oven working.
Not so, friends, not so. The Rotisserie Saint Marthe is a co-op restaurant near my house owned by several progressive associations, who take turns cooking on different evenings. The proceeds of each meal go to the respective association.
We ate there last sunday, and it was amazing. All of us crammed into a little space, eating homemade soup, couscous, and gingerbread. Talking to our tablemates. And the whole meal, everything included, was 8 euro. On top of that, the people were the first Parisians I'd seen in a group who weren't wearing all black and looking fashionably glum.
The associations are now facing eviction, as the owner wants to raise rents. Hence the upcoming manif, to protest their eviction.
Something of interest to note is that the tenant's rights here in Paris are unbelievable. As in Canada, it is illegal to evict any residential tenant during the six months of winter, as doing so would be tantamount to a death sentence (particularly in Canada). Even aside from that, the eviction process can take up to three years.
So the only control landlords really have is before the renter moves in, which actually makes it harder to find a place here than it might otherwise be. And in the case of the Rotisserie Sainte Marthe, tenants rights mean I'll have plenty of opportunities to eat there until the eviction occurs, if it ever does.
Hell, I might make it my first French manif.
As a quick interjection, in keeping with the theme of misunderstood linguistics, there is a street in Paris called the Quai de la Rapee. I thought it had something to do with violated citizens. So imagine my surprise when I came across some delicious carrots rapee. And I wondered, "raped carrots?"
No, friends, no. Rapee means shredded. The carrots were shredded. Although I still can't figure out why they're so delicious. I figured at first that they just don't rape a carrot in the States the way they do here. But now the mystery has returned.
So anyway, back to the present. Here I am, stranded for the day, which makes it a perfect day to pretend I might have gotten out of bed at 7am and spent the day photographing the metros in motion or something. But I can't, alas, because of the manif. I was made plain to me that I was to stay in bed until 11:30 am and then write all morning.
So I'm off to go running. It's my own personal protest against all the butter and cheese - see prior blog entry. And, well, viva la raza!
The work manif, cousin of course to our word manifest, has less of its roots in actual protest, as our word does. Rather, its roots mean, "To show clearly and plainly." I think there's something simple and poetic about that.
I have heard this said of the Parisians: That they are by and large a lazy group. They don't like "exercise," and prefer instead to smoke cigarettes and eat butter. But so much as look at them wrong, and they'll revolt. They will show clearly and plainly that they are displeased. I'm starting to see that there's some truth to this.
For example, in addition to the transportation manif today, there have been several manifs at the intersection just below my apartment. These are to protest the French treatment of Sans Papiers (literally, "Without papers," or illegals immigrants in our terms). My neighborhood is a huge immigrant neighborhood, thank God, which is why everywhere you go there's delicious couscous restaurants and amazing fabric.
But the French government is none too kind to sans papiers, just as ours in none to kind. (Hutto children's prison, anyone?) And apparently, not more than a couple of weeks ago, a Chinese woman was accosted by the immigrant enforcement in her apartment on Blvd. de la Villette (the street off of which my street runs) and in her fear, she threw herself out of the window and died.
So there have been several protests in that area now. Immigrant rights manifs tie in with the theme of the past two movies I've watched. The first, called "This is England," just came out in French theaters last week, and its amazing. Sort of recalls American History X in its intensity, content and incredible pre-teen acting. The other, "Dirty Pretty Things," is older, and just as good.
Interestingly, I am a sans papiers here, as I do not have and have not taken steps to obtain a visa. But for me, if worst comes to worst and I'm actually deported, which I probably won't be seeing as I'm white, then I will be deported to fair Austin, Texas. It's not as though I'm seeking asylum from anything.
The next proximate manif near our house is for my new favorite restaurant, the Rotisserie de Saint Marthe. Now, when I first saw the flyer for this manif, I thought perhaps that manif could also be short for manifesto, which could also be a sort of instruction manual, and that the flyer was really a set of instructions on how to keep your rotisserie oven working.
Not so, friends, not so. The Rotisserie Saint Marthe is a co-op restaurant near my house owned by several progressive associations, who take turns cooking on different evenings. The proceeds of each meal go to the respective association.
We ate there last sunday, and it was amazing. All of us crammed into a little space, eating homemade soup, couscous, and gingerbread. Talking to our tablemates. And the whole meal, everything included, was 8 euro. On top of that, the people were the first Parisians I'd seen in a group who weren't wearing all black and looking fashionably glum.
The associations are now facing eviction, as the owner wants to raise rents. Hence the upcoming manif, to protest their eviction.
Something of interest to note is that the tenant's rights here in Paris are unbelievable. As in Canada, it is illegal to evict any residential tenant during the six months of winter, as doing so would be tantamount to a death sentence (particularly in Canada). Even aside from that, the eviction process can take up to three years.
So the only control landlords really have is before the renter moves in, which actually makes it harder to find a place here than it might otherwise be. And in the case of the Rotisserie Sainte Marthe, tenants rights mean I'll have plenty of opportunities to eat there until the eviction occurs, if it ever does.
Hell, I might make it my first French manif.
As a quick interjection, in keeping with the theme of misunderstood linguistics, there is a street in Paris called the Quai de la Rapee. I thought it had something to do with violated citizens. So imagine my surprise when I came across some delicious carrots rapee. And I wondered, "raped carrots?"
No, friends, no. Rapee means shredded. The carrots were shredded. Although I still can't figure out why they're so delicious. I figured at first that they just don't rape a carrot in the States the way they do here. But now the mystery has returned.
So anyway, back to the present. Here I am, stranded for the day, which makes it a perfect day to pretend I might have gotten out of bed at 7am and spent the day photographing the metros in motion or something. But I can't, alas, because of the manif. I was made plain to me that I was to stay in bed until 11:30 am and then write all morning.
So I'm off to go running. It's my own personal protest against all the butter and cheese - see prior blog entry. And, well, viva la raza!
Friday, October 12, 2007
Bon Appetit!
Literally, it means, "Good Appetite!" but in context it means, essentially, "enjoy your meal!" I like to translate it as, "Good Eatin'!" Point is, you've all heard it before. But unless you've been to France, you've never heard it this much.
Here, it's not just the waiters who wish you good eatin'. Nope. It's everyone. It's friends. It's total strangers on the street. Hardly a day passes without hearing it multiple times. When I first arrived, I'd be walking down the street gnawing on a pastry and three to four passersby would shout out, "Bon Appetit!" I thought surely they were being sarcastic. Perhaps eating on the street was a faux-pas?
But it turns out, no. It's just that here, people wish each other good eatin' the way we wish each other Merry Christmas during the holidays. If not MORE prolifically.
In fact, the French are so eager for you to enjoy your eatin' that they have another phrase, Bon Continuacion, which they use when you're already well into your meal and may have forgotten the original Bon Appetit. For example, if you finished your entree and the waiter took thirty minutes to bring the main course.
Let me clear up confusion. In France, "entree" refers to the appetizer, and "plat" refers to the main course. Actually, this is extremely logical, as the "entree" is the entry to the meal, in the same way that an "entree" can be the entrance to the building. ("Yes,darling, just step into the appetizer and hang your coat on one of the pegs to your left...")
After the entree is the plat. After the plat is the cheese course. After the cheese course is dessert. After dessert is coffee. It's pretty awesome, if you can afford it.
The nice thing is that you don't have to tip, because the waiters are paid much better here, and the tip is generally included in the [admittedly exhorbitant] cost of most meals out. At first I thought this was awesome - I don't have to add anything to the meal!
But then I realized that essentially, the French have worked it out so that their tips are included, no matter what, and the waiters aren't working for tips. They don't care about your good graces. Which is why, though they're incredibly friendly, it can take so long between the entree and the plat that people feel compelled to wish you "Bon Continuacion," knowing that in the three hours that have passed since you first received a "Bon Appetit," surely the blessing has run its course.
If you come to Paris on a budget, don't despair. I've found plenty of ways to eat quite cheaply - cooking at home, making baguette sandwiches, and enjoying veggie couscous at the North African restaurants 'round my house. Veggie couscous, more than one person could possibly consume, 5 euro. If you ever visit Paris on a budget, eat couscous.
French food is, as you'd expect, delicious. Their ideas about "nutrition" are a little different than mine, though, so it took a few weeks to figure out what I was going to eat that wasn't some new version of bread, butter and cheese.
For example, there is a picture on the butter package of a complete breakfast (un petit dejeuner complet), and it is: a bread element, a butter element, and an expresso. And a cigarette, probably, though it isn't pictured, officially.
I have tried very hard to maintain my own, fading, concepts of healthy eating. And yet I find a change has taken place. Since being here, my whole outlook on dessert has changed, in the sense that I now feel I must have it for every meal. It's just so easy to walk down to a little bakery, pop in for a fresh little tart, and consume it.
Ithink to myself, "I've had my bread element. I've had my butter element. I've had my cheese element. What a nice, balanced meal! I shall now have dessert."
Luckily, there's hardly a preservative to be found in Paris restaurants and bakeries. Food here is fresh - there's even a little farmer's market about three steps from my house on wednesdays and saturdays where I can buy veggies, cheese, fish and - if I wanted - watches, alarm clocks, ripoff wallets and underwear.
Michael has discovered that if you hang around the farmer's market as it closes down, you can get free zucchini, pineapple, tomatoes, squash and other such things. It's usually the pieces the vendors consider not quite good enough for saving, and Michael likes to linger with the homeless folks to see what he can grab. We've enjoyed many a freegan meal that way.
And so from this long, rambling treatise on food, I'd like to sum up: It's totally possible to eat cheaply here. I do it all the time. And if you want to spend a little extra, it's totally worth it. Here in France are some of the most delicious combinations of bread, butter and cheese that you've ever tasted in your life. They go great with the pastries.
And no matter what you eat, every last person in France, from your waiter to your friend to that random guy on the street, hopes you enjoy the hell out of your meal.
Here, it's not just the waiters who wish you good eatin'. Nope. It's everyone. It's friends. It's total strangers on the street. Hardly a day passes without hearing it multiple times. When I first arrived, I'd be walking down the street gnawing on a pastry and three to four passersby would shout out, "Bon Appetit!" I thought surely they were being sarcastic. Perhaps eating on the street was a faux-pas?
But it turns out, no. It's just that here, people wish each other good eatin' the way we wish each other Merry Christmas during the holidays. If not MORE prolifically.
In fact, the French are so eager for you to enjoy your eatin' that they have another phrase, Bon Continuacion, which they use when you're already well into your meal and may have forgotten the original Bon Appetit. For example, if you finished your entree and the waiter took thirty minutes to bring the main course.
Let me clear up confusion. In France, "entree" refers to the appetizer, and "plat" refers to the main course. Actually, this is extremely logical, as the "entree" is the entry to the meal, in the same way that an "entree" can be the entrance to the building. ("Yes,darling, just step into the appetizer and hang your coat on one of the pegs to your left...")
After the entree is the plat. After the plat is the cheese course. After the cheese course is dessert. After dessert is coffee. It's pretty awesome, if you can afford it.
The nice thing is that you don't have to tip, because the waiters are paid much better here, and the tip is generally included in the [admittedly exhorbitant] cost of most meals out. At first I thought this was awesome - I don't have to add anything to the meal!
But then I realized that essentially, the French have worked it out so that their tips are included, no matter what, and the waiters aren't working for tips. They don't care about your good graces. Which is why, though they're incredibly friendly, it can take so long between the entree and the plat that people feel compelled to wish you "Bon Continuacion," knowing that in the three hours that have passed since you first received a "Bon Appetit," surely the blessing has run its course.
If you come to Paris on a budget, don't despair. I've found plenty of ways to eat quite cheaply - cooking at home, making baguette sandwiches, and enjoying veggie couscous at the North African restaurants 'round my house. Veggie couscous, more than one person could possibly consume, 5 euro. If you ever visit Paris on a budget, eat couscous.
French food is, as you'd expect, delicious. Their ideas about "nutrition" are a little different than mine, though, so it took a few weeks to figure out what I was going to eat that wasn't some new version of bread, butter and cheese.
For example, there is a picture on the butter package of a complete breakfast (un petit dejeuner complet), and it is: a bread element, a butter element, and an expresso. And a cigarette, probably, though it isn't pictured, officially.
I have tried very hard to maintain my own, fading, concepts of healthy eating. And yet I find a change has taken place. Since being here, my whole outlook on dessert has changed, in the sense that I now feel I must have it for every meal. It's just so easy to walk down to a little bakery, pop in for a fresh little tart, and consume it.
Ithink to myself, "I've had my bread element. I've had my butter element. I've had my cheese element. What a nice, balanced meal! I shall now have dessert."
Luckily, there's hardly a preservative to be found in Paris restaurants and bakeries. Food here is fresh - there's even a little farmer's market about three steps from my house on wednesdays and saturdays where I can buy veggies, cheese, fish and - if I wanted - watches, alarm clocks, ripoff wallets and underwear.
Michael has discovered that if you hang around the farmer's market as it closes down, you can get free zucchini, pineapple, tomatoes, squash and other such things. It's usually the pieces the vendors consider not quite good enough for saving, and Michael likes to linger with the homeless folks to see what he can grab. We've enjoyed many a freegan meal that way.
And so from this long, rambling treatise on food, I'd like to sum up: It's totally possible to eat cheaply here. I do it all the time. And if you want to spend a little extra, it's totally worth it. Here in France are some of the most delicious combinations of bread, butter and cheese that you've ever tasted in your life. They go great with the pastries.
And no matter what you eat, every last person in France, from your waiter to your friend to that random guy on the street, hopes you enjoy the hell out of your meal.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Voila!
This uniquely French phrase, which I'm sure you've all heard, means, literally, something like, "Look! There! It is done! Lo and behold!" But it is very hard to translate it literally, because it really just means, Voila!
And so I am saying this to you: Voila! Some photos! I finally connected my camera to my computer and I'm sharing a few things as a result. See to your right.
Voila!
And so I am saying this to you: Voila! Some photos! I finally connected my camera to my computer and I'm sharing a few things as a result. See to your right.
Voila!
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Viele Feinde viel Ehre!
I learned this phrase at a party in Leipzig, Germany, where Michael and I traveled this past weekend to visit our friend Zane, who's teaching at the University of Leipzig for the semester. The phrase "viele Feinde viel Ehre!" means "More enemies, more honor!" and we learned it in the context of a guy who's friends were angry with him for winning all their card games, which they played, he explained, for honor rather than cash.
Aside from cards, though, I have to say that nothing in the way the Germans acted indicated that they associate enemies with honor. In contrast, everyone was interesting, hospitable and kind. Frank (Zane's friend also teaching at U of L) filled me in on a lot of the 20th century history I seem to have missed during my education. Did you know the last of the allied troops didn't leave Berlin until 1994? That the Stasi (East German Secret Police) preserved people's smells from their clothes and trained dogs to track their presence? That the "Iron Curtain" was so-named because there were lots of ACTUAL walls between communist countries and their Western neighbors?
Where was I? Summer camp, I guess.
And school, but even though I had Texas History for three whole different years of school, but I only spent about three weeks learning about the years from 1930 to 2000, and even those I can sum up in three simple, but grammatically complete, sentences: Hitler was bad. But we are good. And communism is stupid.
But in Germany the story comes alive. We saw Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin (where the West ended at the East began), and saw where the '89 riots began in Leipzig, and spent time at the Stasi museum. My historical imagination was sparked, and I spent most of my time wandering around with a general sense of disbelief at all that's happened there in the past 100 years. That, and how great the people are.
The Stasi museum was some first class spy shit. Little microphones that look like shirt buttons. Long-range photography. Smell preservation. Extraordinarily delicate letter opening machines and stamp forgeries. Disguises. Stuff that makes you think this is a museum for spy films. But no, its actual tools employed during that time. The Stasi museum is home to the few remaining, intact pieces of equipment in Germany. The rest was sold to the Department of Homeland Security during an incredible, once-in-a-lifetime, "everything must go" sale a few years back.
For any readers from the Department of Homeland Security, I kid.
And then, on Sunday, there was the squatters' festival. The municipality of Leipzig owns all these old houses where people can live free of rent and pay what they can amongst themselves for water and electricity. These squatters had a festival, which was actually a stage in back for some hard core punk music and a stage in front for karaoke (hard core pop songs like, "Total Eclipse of the Heart" and "Love is a River"). Lots of people had weird fake blood smeared all over them. Lots of people were incredibly drunk. And some of those drunk, fake-blood-smeared German punks sang the best version of "Barbie World" that I have heard yet to date.
They just don't do punk in the states like they do punk in Germany.
Anyway, I know I'm leaving things out, but I didn't have much of a chance to think. We got in late last night and my mom arrived for a visit early this morning, and she's hungry and we've gotta go eat (foreshadowing for the next blog?...) I only wrote this today because Alan said that blogs are like handjobs and you have to keep them going to get results. Gross, Alan. Gross, but oddly compelling.
So no enemies this trip. And I guess....no honor? I definitely feel I have to return to Germany. This time knowing some actual history. This time for longer. This time with more money to spend in its thrift stores.
Besides, as the Germans also say, "einmal ist keinmal." What happens but once might as well not have happened at all.
Aside from cards, though, I have to say that nothing in the way the Germans acted indicated that they associate enemies with honor. In contrast, everyone was interesting, hospitable and kind. Frank (Zane's friend also teaching at U of L) filled me in on a lot of the 20th century history I seem to have missed during my education. Did you know the last of the allied troops didn't leave Berlin until 1994? That the Stasi (East German Secret Police) preserved people's smells from their clothes and trained dogs to track their presence? That the "Iron Curtain" was so-named because there were lots of ACTUAL walls between communist countries and their Western neighbors?
Where was I? Summer camp, I guess.
And school, but even though I had Texas History for three whole different years of school, but I only spent about three weeks learning about the years from 1930 to 2000, and even those I can sum up in three simple, but grammatically complete, sentences: Hitler was bad. But we are good. And communism is stupid.
But in Germany the story comes alive. We saw Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin (where the West ended at the East began), and saw where the '89 riots began in Leipzig, and spent time at the Stasi museum. My historical imagination was sparked, and I spent most of my time wandering around with a general sense of disbelief at all that's happened there in the past 100 years. That, and how great the people are.
The Stasi museum was some first class spy shit. Little microphones that look like shirt buttons. Long-range photography. Smell preservation. Extraordinarily delicate letter opening machines and stamp forgeries. Disguises. Stuff that makes you think this is a museum for spy films. But no, its actual tools employed during that time. The Stasi museum is home to the few remaining, intact pieces of equipment in Germany. The rest was sold to the Department of Homeland Security during an incredible, once-in-a-lifetime, "everything must go" sale a few years back.
For any readers from the Department of Homeland Security, I kid.
And then, on Sunday, there was the squatters' festival. The municipality of Leipzig owns all these old houses where people can live free of rent and pay what they can amongst themselves for water and electricity. These squatters had a festival, which was actually a stage in back for some hard core punk music and a stage in front for karaoke (hard core pop songs like, "Total Eclipse of the Heart" and "Love is a River"). Lots of people had weird fake blood smeared all over them. Lots of people were incredibly drunk. And some of those drunk, fake-blood-smeared German punks sang the best version of "Barbie World" that I have heard yet to date.
They just don't do punk in the states like they do punk in Germany.
Anyway, I know I'm leaving things out, but I didn't have much of a chance to think. We got in late last night and my mom arrived for a visit early this morning, and she's hungry and we've gotta go eat (foreshadowing for the next blog?...) I only wrote this today because Alan said that blogs are like handjobs and you have to keep them going to get results. Gross, Alan. Gross, but oddly compelling.
So no enemies this trip. And I guess....no honor? I definitely feel I have to return to Germany. This time knowing some actual history. This time for longer. This time with more money to spend in its thrift stores.
Besides, as the Germans also say, "einmal ist keinmal." What happens but once might as well not have happened at all.
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