To see Paris from Montmartre, the hill in the north of Paris is to realize something you’d always suspected: Paris is old and doesn’t care. Looking south was like looking at a Midwestern plain: flat with very occasional bumps. And almost all the bumps were of older cathedrals. What is new is too often boring and everyone stays away—no one really cares about La Defense, for example.
I remember we were walking past le Tour Montparnasse in a group of French students, when we were going to that bar a few nights ago. They pointed it out—there’s the tour (tower), there’s the tour! (this was all in French). The maps also pointed it out. I was intrigued. I asked what was up with it (“Peux-tu l’expliquer?” [Can you explain it?]). One replied that it was a monument. To what, I asked. He was confused. For what goal, I clarified. Oh, he said. He realized, but he did not have the words to communicate that realization. For artistic purposes, he said. Let the record reflect that le Tour Montpanasse is a straight medium-sized black skyscraper that would blend in in Chicago or New York or any metropolis.
Any modern building immediately attracts attention by virtue of its modernity. While going to the laundromat today, my eyes alit on a gleaming glass building. It was one of those buildings that tries to conceal the unpleasant fact that it is made with crude girders by instead showing its perfect curved glass. It was totally out of place in the neighborhood. It would’ve been unexceptional, though aesthetically attractive, in any other city. The only modern buildings that I’ve seen that really work in Paris are the pyramids in the courtyard of the Louvre, the Centre Pompidou and the Opera Bastille. The first works somehow by blending in perfectly with its surroundings: it is grand and so is the palace. The second works by being utterly, flamboyantly ridiculous. It shows off its piping, its escalators. It makes a production out of its modernity. It sits next to a solemn cathedral. Had it been a mere modern building, it would’ve been jarring. But the Centre Pompidou is so jarring that it ceases to be jarring in the first place. It works. As for the third one, it is located on a roundabout. It works because there’s nothing to compare it to.
By contrast, the majority of houses in Paris are exactly the same and yet they never cease to be aesthetically pleasing. They have those rounded roofs and the sandstone exterior. They are invariably perfect for pictures: they are so straight that they direct the eye towards the end of the block and whatever it was you meant to be taking a picture of.
The cathedrals are mostly so tiny in comparing to the gargantuan rambling works of Chartres, for example. Surprisingly, many don’t conform to that whole building must be in the shape of a cross rule. Some are not perfectly symmetrical: the one outside the Louvre has a tower on one side, with no balancing tower to accompany it. And the stained glass is always so beautiful.
One thing that unites the Middle Ages and the modern time against the times in between is the use of glass. The use of glass is inevitable to show off. Think about the number of modern buildings you’ve seen that are made entirely of large panes of glass. It’s become an unremarkable phenomenon; every sketch of a new building seems to include huge amounts of glass. It made sense in the Middle Ages, at least. Glass was absurdly expensive. To be able to afford that much glass for your cathedral was a sign of your means. But it’s not as clear what it means for modern buildings. Here’s my theory: glass in modern buildings shows the supremacy of our building techniques. It’s as if we really can build castles of air.
****
As you might have guessed already, I did my laundry today. I was surprised by how commonplace it was. I understand just enough to get by at this point. In general, the service seemed relatively affordable (more on that later), except for one caveat. The drier. It runs for like ten minutes. It left my clothes damp. Damp enough to be inconvenient, but not damp enough to justify another eighty centimes. They are still vaguely damp now. I think they’ll be dry tomorrow.
Even though I brought entertainment with me (a book), I couldn’t help but watch my laundry at some points. My favorite was when it was going in a spin cycle. The washer was turning so fast that the clothes became mere suggestions, just a blur of color.
****
After that and lunch and a religieuse (a pastry that, after consumption, always has me feeling religious), I went to Montmartre. Which is how the opening paragraph got there. But I’d like to add something about the neighborhood and some other, more general observations.
There’s no getting around the reality that the district is a tourist-trap. It is such a tourist trap that the laundromats are full while charging as much as three euros more per load than my laundromat. The truth, though, in Paris, that touristy exists only a block or so away from authenticity (read: better food and cheaper prices). Sometimes it exists within an island of general cacophony. It is truly odd that I can walk a block and have the average price jump five to ten euros and yet apparent quality stay the same. Tourists are lazy, afraid and desiring comfort most of all. This approach could never work in a rational market.
Sacre-Coeur, the cathedral that all the fuss is about, is worth it. Perched on top of Montmartre, the building echoes the Taj Mahal and has a regal attitude. There’s a good argument that it’s Paris’ most aesthetically pleasing cathedral. And, of course, there is the view, which must be seen.
Descending from the Montmartre, I encountered some cheap eateries. Which was shocking. I could see Montmartre from the restaurants. Ah, irrational markets. At any rate, these two restaurants translated their French menus into English, very clumsily. The most egregious and therefore my favorite was the one for “Glaces Deux Boules.” It doesn’t take a professional digging in archives to suggest that “Two Scoops of Ice Cream” is the best bet here. But the restaurateur made an unconventional choice: “Freeze Two Balls.” No one can be this stupid; my guess is an effort to scare off tourists.
With that, I left the district and went home.
****
Most unfortunate fashion choice of the day: two typical choices fused together. No, sir, a black blazer with white pinstripes and a black-and-white horizontally striped sweater do not work together.
****
The French love their flag. Their affair is not as heavy with PDA as the Americans’, and it’s better than the relatively frosty and schizophrenic relationship of the English. On all buildings, both the Union Jack and the flag of England are displayed. The flag of England, St. George’s Flag, is more obscure to those who have never been to England. It is a red cross on a white field. The Union Jack itself is a combination of the flags of the different constituent nations of the United Kingdom. Of course, it can’t be good that England feels the need to prominently fly both flags at a one-to-one ratio. This fact, among others, leads me to suspect that the frosty and schizophrenic relationship will resolve itself in divorce.
Back to the French. The French display one flag at once, usually a large one. It is displayed on multiple buildings. As regards their flag, they’re proud and don’t derange themselves over their intensity. It’s simple and appropriate.
****
French police officers dress like mailmen. It’s a one-piece navy blue outfit; a jumpsuit, essentially. Perhaps the ridiculousness of their garb explains why they feel it necessary to have POLICE written on so many parts of their clothes.
****
Montmartre’s metro station encapsulates the experience of the neighborhood. The infirm and the tourists take the elevator (and aboveground, the tram). The rest of us hike up the corkscrew stairs, breathing heavy or panting by the fourth flight. The problem with corkscrew stairs is that you never know when they’re going to end. At least the paintings on the side, of Montmartre’s famous sights, are nice to look at.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Saturday, September 29, 2007
The iPod Juggernaut
Starbucks is not the only American cultural/capitalist juggernaut trying to invade France. The iPod is the other. Their dancing silhouette advertisements are everywhere; the actual product is not. It’s not as if the French don’t use music players; they do. I see alternative music players all the time here, and iPods rarely if at all. The problem seems to be that both the Starbucks and the iPod peddle “universal” cool. They are exactly the same in France as they are in the US and everywhere else. Their style is similar: they are both going after a bohemian yuppie cool. You’d think that’d work in France—after all, the word for yuppie in French is “bobo” (bohemian bourgeois, like the David Brooks book)—but no, it doesn’t. The French have a pride in their own particular culture; it’s like a club, and there’s a rigorous application process to become a member.
Not to say that these two institutions won’t pass the test. McDonald’s seems to have been judged acceptable. I see people there all the time, and not just tourists. But McDonald’s has made concessions to the French palate, as indeed they have for the UK. Perhaps these two purveyors of cool will have to do similarly. This seems much easier for Starbucks than for the iPod (what will they do, release a tricolore iPod?), but there you have it.
****
Last night, I missed the last Metro. It closes at 1 AM on every day but Saturday. We had heard that it closed on 2 AM on the weekends. We Americans assumed this included Friday and Sunday as well. There’s a message here, but I’m not sure what it is.
At any rate, before we missed the last Metro, we were sitting around waiting for the train. So were a bunch of other people. It comes infrequently after about 11 or so. Like right before a plane flight, there was a coiled tenseness in the air. This was ridiculous, clearly: it was going to be empty; we would have our choice of seats. But it was what it was. A train pulled up on the opposite side of the station. Amongst a young group of males, many of whom were clutching bags of chips, one particular male with a yellow-and-orange horizontally striped sweater shouted. There was some hubbub as two others from the group joined him and they leapt into the center of the train tracks (keeping careful not to land on the rails themselves) and began, with sharpies, to graffiti the side of the train. One of them never relinquished his bag of Doritos. The meaning of the graffiti was inscrutable to me. They stopped once the warning blare sounded. Glancing at the sign that indicated the time until the next train would arrive, they strutted across the train bed then struggled up the wall and over the lip. They were received to congratulatory noises (I couldn’t translate the French), then everything reverted to that earlier anticipatory tension.
We ended up walking to our respective homes. I walked the most. But I had it easiest upon arrival; the others presumably had to explain what they were doing, arriving after 2 AM. The keycode doesn’t care what time it is.
****
I had chores to do today, involving buying the necessities: detergent and toothpaste. I’m not entirely sure that I’ve purchased the right things. The explanatory diagrams on the back of my detergent and stain remover are the correct images, but I’ve still got a nervousness about a bottle which has certain unknown words. The trouble with words is that the smallest one can bite you. “Always read the fine print” is fine advice except for foreign languages, where you will derange yourself over one phrase. Thankfully, “Colgate” is a universal. Brands are really comforting for the traveler. I can imagine why someone would go to a McDonald’s or Hard Rock Café. I don’t agree with that decision, but I understand why. Toothpaste is toothpaste, though; I can’t imagine getting the local flavor of toothpaste will measurably improve my experience.
I went to a supermarket-like store in my arrondisement. I say supermarket-like store because I have seen several stores advertise themselves as such but not be worthy of the name. If your store is the size of a 7-11, I’m sorry, you aren’t a supermarket. In fact, I haven’t noticed any stores that really deserve the name supermarket.
Stores in France instead have absurd specialization, to the point of overlap. I’m still not sure what role un brasserie or un epicerie serves in the general store system. Nor am I sure you need a specific store for sausages, but in Paris, there are several. Because of this overspecialization, I was expecting to go to one or two different stores to get everything (which was ridiculous to think).
The particular store that I went to seemed fine for most purposes, though. Unlike the harsh white bright fluorescent lights of most supermarkets, the light in this Marche Franprix was muted yellow. The toothpaste got a small shelf near the cashiers’; wine could be found in three different locations, in prices ranging from the humble (2 euro) to the opulent (75 euro). Cheese’s presence was similarly dominant and French cheese dominated, of course. Once you check out, you have to bag your own groceries—service, really? The operation is low-tech, unlike the Sainsbury’s in Oxford which had self check-out (this sounds better than it is; it was extremely flaky).
The Parisians mostly carry their own transport for groceries. It looks like a duffel bag mounted on wheels. The best of these roll on two wheels but have two others on reserve, all of them rotating on a wheel within the wheel, so that when the user traverses stairs, the three outer wheels flip around the inner wheel and make travel easier. There are also packs of people and their bags around the market. I didn’t know where the market was, but I found it by tracing the hordes of these bags back to their sources.
****
One of the consequences of staying in a city that’s a fashion capital is seeing people try to dress fashionably. Whatever the results of the attempt, it’s bound to be entertaining: either they dress well, and it’s aesthetically pleasing, or they don’t, and the effect is hilarious. All ages and races play the game. Just today I saw a group of older French. There were two women: one who looked like Cruella De Ville, all in white furs, except for red square wraparound glasses; the other who was elegantly dressed with a black leather jacket. There’re the two extremes for you.
****
The French emergency sirens are not that convincing. They are too intermittent and sonorous. So drivers tend to ignore them a little more than other cities. They only produce the intended effect when a convoy of police cars charge down the street. Their sirens harmonize perfectly. It’s always a mix of large vans and smaller sedans. I’ve seen this four or five times so far. I always wonder what deserves the big fuss, then realize that no one else seems to.
****
Americans, please, please stop wearing fanny packs.
****
People have begun asking me for directions. In French. Good French. I’ve never been so proud to not be able to help: if I can’t know things like a native, I at least look like I do.
Not to say that these two institutions won’t pass the test. McDonald’s seems to have been judged acceptable. I see people there all the time, and not just tourists. But McDonald’s has made concessions to the French palate, as indeed they have for the UK. Perhaps these two purveyors of cool will have to do similarly. This seems much easier for Starbucks than for the iPod (what will they do, release a tricolore iPod?), but there you have it.
****
Last night, I missed the last Metro. It closes at 1 AM on every day but Saturday. We had heard that it closed on 2 AM on the weekends. We Americans assumed this included Friday and Sunday as well. There’s a message here, but I’m not sure what it is.
At any rate, before we missed the last Metro, we were sitting around waiting for the train. So were a bunch of other people. It comes infrequently after about 11 or so. Like right before a plane flight, there was a coiled tenseness in the air. This was ridiculous, clearly: it was going to be empty; we would have our choice of seats. But it was what it was. A train pulled up on the opposite side of the station. Amongst a young group of males, many of whom were clutching bags of chips, one particular male with a yellow-and-orange horizontally striped sweater shouted. There was some hubbub as two others from the group joined him and they leapt into the center of the train tracks (keeping careful not to land on the rails themselves) and began, with sharpies, to graffiti the side of the train. One of them never relinquished his bag of Doritos. The meaning of the graffiti was inscrutable to me. They stopped once the warning blare sounded. Glancing at the sign that indicated the time until the next train would arrive, they strutted across the train bed then struggled up the wall and over the lip. They were received to congratulatory noises (I couldn’t translate the French), then everything reverted to that earlier anticipatory tension.
We ended up walking to our respective homes. I walked the most. But I had it easiest upon arrival; the others presumably had to explain what they were doing, arriving after 2 AM. The keycode doesn’t care what time it is.
****
I had chores to do today, involving buying the necessities: detergent and toothpaste. I’m not entirely sure that I’ve purchased the right things. The explanatory diagrams on the back of my detergent and stain remover are the correct images, but I’ve still got a nervousness about a bottle which has certain unknown words. The trouble with words is that the smallest one can bite you. “Always read the fine print” is fine advice except for foreign languages, where you will derange yourself over one phrase. Thankfully, “Colgate” is a universal. Brands are really comforting for the traveler. I can imagine why someone would go to a McDonald’s or Hard Rock Café. I don’t agree with that decision, but I understand why. Toothpaste is toothpaste, though; I can’t imagine getting the local flavor of toothpaste will measurably improve my experience.
I went to a supermarket-like store in my arrondisement. I say supermarket-like store because I have seen several stores advertise themselves as such but not be worthy of the name. If your store is the size of a 7-11, I’m sorry, you aren’t a supermarket. In fact, I haven’t noticed any stores that really deserve the name supermarket.
Stores in France instead have absurd specialization, to the point of overlap. I’m still not sure what role un brasserie or un epicerie serves in the general store system. Nor am I sure you need a specific store for sausages, but in Paris, there are several. Because of this overspecialization, I was expecting to go to one or two different stores to get everything (which was ridiculous to think).
The particular store that I went to seemed fine for most purposes, though. Unlike the harsh white bright fluorescent lights of most supermarkets, the light in this Marche Franprix was muted yellow. The toothpaste got a small shelf near the cashiers’; wine could be found in three different locations, in prices ranging from the humble (2 euro) to the opulent (75 euro). Cheese’s presence was similarly dominant and French cheese dominated, of course. Once you check out, you have to bag your own groceries—service, really? The operation is low-tech, unlike the Sainsbury’s in Oxford which had self check-out (this sounds better than it is; it was extremely flaky).
The Parisians mostly carry their own transport for groceries. It looks like a duffel bag mounted on wheels. The best of these roll on two wheels but have two others on reserve, all of them rotating on a wheel within the wheel, so that when the user traverses stairs, the three outer wheels flip around the inner wheel and make travel easier. There are also packs of people and their bags around the market. I didn’t know where the market was, but I found it by tracing the hordes of these bags back to their sources.
****
One of the consequences of staying in a city that’s a fashion capital is seeing people try to dress fashionably. Whatever the results of the attempt, it’s bound to be entertaining: either they dress well, and it’s aesthetically pleasing, or they don’t, and the effect is hilarious. All ages and races play the game. Just today I saw a group of older French. There were two women: one who looked like Cruella De Ville, all in white furs, except for red square wraparound glasses; the other who was elegantly dressed with a black leather jacket. There’re the two extremes for you.
****
The French emergency sirens are not that convincing. They are too intermittent and sonorous. So drivers tend to ignore them a little more than other cities. They only produce the intended effect when a convoy of police cars charge down the street. Their sirens harmonize perfectly. It’s always a mix of large vans and smaller sedans. I’ve seen this four or five times so far. I always wonder what deserves the big fuss, then realize that no one else seems to.
****
Americans, please, please stop wearing fanny packs.
****
People have begun asking me for directions. In French. Good French. I’ve never been so proud to not be able to help: if I can’t know things like a native, I at least look like I do.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Professional Smiles
David Foster Wallace only gave a name to something we all experience: the Professional Smile. The Professional Smile occurs when someone smiles at you in a professional circumstance when they otherwise wouldn’t. Wallace has some great comments on the Professional Smile amongst other things in his essay on his cruise boat trip, “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again.”
For that reason, I won’t attempt to reprise his comments, but expand on them. There are no Professional Smiles in France. The waiters and cashiers simply serve you without pretense: to be honest, no one cares about you that much, and that’s not a problem at all. Why should they? But, for me thus far, it’s one of those things that makes intellectual sense but hasn’t seeped down to the emotional level. So I find myself smiling out of instinct after transactions, then hitting myself in the head mentally. Try not to be so obvious, I think. Just blend in. You even think it’s a good idea, so why can’t you go along with it? The culture, it is too strong.
****
Vacation ended officially today. Our first class, bright and early, 9:30. I could’ve avoided it, but I decided to shop it. Who can’t get up out of bed for Cathedrals, I ask you? Well, I can.
After an invigorating beignet (non-shocking fact: New Orleans’ are better. Still, not bad at all.), I found myself in the class. It’s taught by an older French woman. She started by taking roll, and trying to match up people to the faces.
There was some confusion at that point. Not so much because of language issues, but more because of cultural issues. Every American identified him- or herself by first name. This confused the teacher somewhat; she seemed to be expecting our last names. It didn’t help that three Sarahs were all sitting in a row. The French place more importance on last names, I’ve noticed. This is how my name is written on an official document in the US: Darius Tahir. By comparison, in France: Darius TAHIR. The very words for one’s name confirm the relative importance of last name over first. The word for last name in French is nom; for first name is prenom. In other words, your given name is “before” your last name, your proper name. I don’t have a compelling theory as to why this would be case, but perhaps the relative importance of the last name emphasizes community and heritage versus the individuality of a first name? I don’t know, but that’s a stab at the question.
****
French advertisements represent different products. For one, theater advertisements are everywhere. I would guess that plays are the majority of advertisements in the Metro. And, unlike the advertisements for plays in New York and London, there seem to be an unusual number of new plays being advertised.
Switching gears, one commonality in movie advertising in London and Paris is the promotion of screenwriters. I’ve never seen a movie trailer in America mention the screenwriter, and the only screenwriters I can identify are the ones who’ve also written books. Screenwriter is, as a profession, largely collaborative and low-profile. At least in America. But in the movie theater in France, amongst the movie trailers shown, a number mentioned the screenwriter. A few mentioned the screenwriter in conjunction with another film he/she wrote, (“i.e. From _____, the writer of _____.”) but just as many simply mentioned the same on its own. The latter is important; it means we’re expected to simply know who the screenwriter is. Which would mean that screenwriter receives much more credit in France. Meaning that the Nouvelle Vauge ain’t so Nouvelle any more. Whatever you think about the issue of whether the director is the most important person in the film (well, almost everyone seems to think he/she is), I enjoy the mention of the screenwriters. It takes away from the producers, whom I truly don’t care about. For me, only one producer matters: Jerry Bruckheimer, and that’s because I know exactly what kind of film I’ll be getting when I hear, “A Jerry Bruckheimer Production.” The rest? I’m sure they exercise great influence over the film, but I don’t see it.
Moving even more generally, French advertisements are quite different than in the United States. England, on the other hand, has very similar advertisements, to the extent that many of them are exactly the same except with British voice-overs. With France, though, it’s not a matter of the content being literally different but thematically similar, as it is with England (when they aren’t taking advertisements whole cloth). The style somehow seems older, more primitive. And what does look modern looks very peppy and enthusiastic. At least three company’s logos are nearly indistinguishable due to the similarity of their subjects: a jumping happy androgynous human being drawn from circles and imbued with color. France just isn’t as advertising-saturated as the US or England, which is a good thing.
****
The beggars and the homeless of Paris are never long out of sight. But they are rarely heard. A few ask explicitly, but this is rare in my experience. The model appears to be a woman I saw in the subway: she had a penitent posture, almost as if in prayer, with a white cup placed in front of her. The beggars and the homeless have a nearly even gender balance, unlike the US, where the vast majority are men, in my experience. However, the men generally have a more raggedy, unkempt appearance, which earns them more centimes. The women, nearly all Muslim, dress to well to be condescended to and hence get no money.
Despite their numbers, the indigent are not nearly as much a problem in Paris as elsewhere. The beggars of New York are frequently mentally unbalanced and unstable. Neither appear to be the case in Paris. On the other hand, New York beggars are noticed; in Paris, beggars are part of the landscape. Just tonight, as I was coming home rather late, I saw a number of homeless people sleeping. One slept in the car; many others slept on the benches in the station. No one seemed to find this unusual except me.
****
It’s been raining the past few days in Paris. If it were Rochester or Stanford, this would be a problem. Whether showering or merely drizzling, the rain is unpleasant and soaks your bones over there. Here in Paris, the rain seems as if it were created for a movie set: it evokes the feeling of rain at night but none of the uncomfortable side effects. You feel like Humphrey Bogart tramping about in his slicker or something.
****
France hosts the Rugby World Cup this year. People are excited about it. Actually the second most common advertisement is for the event. Interesting, this, because one generally thinks of soccer dominating all other sports in Europe, but I see a number of people wearing rugby jerseys, so it’s not just a media creation. I haven’t watched a ton of rugby, but it seems less interesting to watch than football. Watching football is like watching a formalized baroque battle—you can almost see generals pushing about their troops on some map in the situation room. That’s why fans obsess over football strategy in a way that they don’t about basketball or baseball strategy. Rugby, though a close relative, doesn’t seem to have the same grand strategy to it.
For that reason, I won’t attempt to reprise his comments, but expand on them. There are no Professional Smiles in France. The waiters and cashiers simply serve you without pretense: to be honest, no one cares about you that much, and that’s not a problem at all. Why should they? But, for me thus far, it’s one of those things that makes intellectual sense but hasn’t seeped down to the emotional level. So I find myself smiling out of instinct after transactions, then hitting myself in the head mentally. Try not to be so obvious, I think. Just blend in. You even think it’s a good idea, so why can’t you go along with it? The culture, it is too strong.
****
Vacation ended officially today. Our first class, bright and early, 9:30. I could’ve avoided it, but I decided to shop it. Who can’t get up out of bed for Cathedrals, I ask you? Well, I can.
After an invigorating beignet (non-shocking fact: New Orleans’ are better. Still, not bad at all.), I found myself in the class. It’s taught by an older French woman. She started by taking roll, and trying to match up people to the faces.
There was some confusion at that point. Not so much because of language issues, but more because of cultural issues. Every American identified him- or herself by first name. This confused the teacher somewhat; she seemed to be expecting our last names. It didn’t help that three Sarahs were all sitting in a row. The French place more importance on last names, I’ve noticed. This is how my name is written on an official document in the US: Darius Tahir. By comparison, in France: Darius TAHIR. The very words for one’s name confirm the relative importance of last name over first. The word for last name in French is nom; for first name is prenom. In other words, your given name is “before” your last name, your proper name. I don’t have a compelling theory as to why this would be case, but perhaps the relative importance of the last name emphasizes community and heritage versus the individuality of a first name? I don’t know, but that’s a stab at the question.
****
French advertisements represent different products. For one, theater advertisements are everywhere. I would guess that plays are the majority of advertisements in the Metro. And, unlike the advertisements for plays in New York and London, there seem to be an unusual number of new plays being advertised.
Switching gears, one commonality in movie advertising in London and Paris is the promotion of screenwriters. I’ve never seen a movie trailer in America mention the screenwriter, and the only screenwriters I can identify are the ones who’ve also written books. Screenwriter is, as a profession, largely collaborative and low-profile. At least in America. But in the movie theater in France, amongst the movie trailers shown, a number mentioned the screenwriter. A few mentioned the screenwriter in conjunction with another film he/she wrote, (“i.e. From _____, the writer of _____.”) but just as many simply mentioned the same on its own. The latter is important; it means we’re expected to simply know who the screenwriter is. Which would mean that screenwriter receives much more credit in France. Meaning that the Nouvelle Vauge ain’t so Nouvelle any more. Whatever you think about the issue of whether the director is the most important person in the film (well, almost everyone seems to think he/she is), I enjoy the mention of the screenwriters. It takes away from the producers, whom I truly don’t care about. For me, only one producer matters: Jerry Bruckheimer, and that’s because I know exactly what kind of film I’ll be getting when I hear, “A Jerry Bruckheimer Production.” The rest? I’m sure they exercise great influence over the film, but I don’t see it.
Moving even more generally, French advertisements are quite different than in the United States. England, on the other hand, has very similar advertisements, to the extent that many of them are exactly the same except with British voice-overs. With France, though, it’s not a matter of the content being literally different but thematically similar, as it is with England (when they aren’t taking advertisements whole cloth). The style somehow seems older, more primitive. And what does look modern looks very peppy and enthusiastic. At least three company’s logos are nearly indistinguishable due to the similarity of their subjects: a jumping happy androgynous human being drawn from circles and imbued with color. France just isn’t as advertising-saturated as the US or England, which is a good thing.
****
The beggars and the homeless of Paris are never long out of sight. But they are rarely heard. A few ask explicitly, but this is rare in my experience. The model appears to be a woman I saw in the subway: she had a penitent posture, almost as if in prayer, with a white cup placed in front of her. The beggars and the homeless have a nearly even gender balance, unlike the US, where the vast majority are men, in my experience. However, the men generally have a more raggedy, unkempt appearance, which earns them more centimes. The women, nearly all Muslim, dress to well to be condescended to and hence get no money.
Despite their numbers, the indigent are not nearly as much a problem in Paris as elsewhere. The beggars of New York are frequently mentally unbalanced and unstable. Neither appear to be the case in Paris. On the other hand, New York beggars are noticed; in Paris, beggars are part of the landscape. Just tonight, as I was coming home rather late, I saw a number of homeless people sleeping. One slept in the car; many others slept on the benches in the station. No one seemed to find this unusual except me.
****
It’s been raining the past few days in Paris. If it were Rochester or Stanford, this would be a problem. Whether showering or merely drizzling, the rain is unpleasant and soaks your bones over there. Here in Paris, the rain seems as if it were created for a movie set: it evokes the feeling of rain at night but none of the uncomfortable side effects. You feel like Humphrey Bogart tramping about in his slicker or something.
****
France hosts the Rugby World Cup this year. People are excited about it. Actually the second most common advertisement is for the event. Interesting, this, because one generally thinks of soccer dominating all other sports in Europe, but I see a number of people wearing rugby jerseys, so it’s not just a media creation. I haven’t watched a ton of rugby, but it seems less interesting to watch than football. Watching football is like watching a formalized baroque battle—you can almost see generals pushing about their troops on some map in the situation room. That’s why fans obsess over football strategy in a way that they don’t about basketball or baseball strategy. Rugby, though a close relative, doesn’t seem to have the same grand strategy to it.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Starbucks and Mama DiBelli's Family Restaurant
While Americans are told to practice defensive driving, I’m pretty sure Parisian drivers adhere to offensive driving. I think they conform to that joke Jerry Orbach told in Law & Order, “My dad told me that the first rule of driving is to make the other guy miss.” But I hear that the Parisian drivers have calmed down in recent years. If so, I would scarcely have wanted to go to Paris in the eighties or early nineties. They generally accelerate randomly and tear off to wherever they’re going.
The motorcyclists are the worst. Because of their compact size, they can scoot in between lanes. I’ve even seen a few canter down sidewalks. To be honest, I’m more worried about some businessman on a motorcycle creaming me than some working class stiff getting to me. Judging by the clothes worn, it’s the pinstriped businessmen riding the cycles and the blue-collar guys driving the cars. It’s fairy egalitarian though: I’ve seen a number of women opting for motorcycles over cars. I’ve even seen a family with two young boys travel by motorcycles. They all had matching red and yellow helmets. They cut a dashing figure as they zipped around the stalled cars.
French cars, even those produced by American companies, have subtle differences that are dramatic to see. The same basic prototypes exist in France. So you’ve got your trucks and minivans and sedans and the like. But the whole design is different. First the lines are all curved. Everything is a curve and the trunks are all hatchbacks. Second, the taller cars have become small. Almost everything is the height of a sedan. Last, cars are slightly less wide than American cars. The effect is one of vague recall but not total recognition, like when you see a cousin who likes somewhat like the friend you know.
You see many cars that are older in Paris. It’s not uncommon to see some real clunkers with rust spreading gently like moss. Also there are fewer luxury cars. In comparison to London, where a Bentley or Rolls-Royce is a not uncommon sight, I can’t recall the last super high-end car I’ve seen.
I get the impression that cars are far more functional for Parisians. No one seems to be having fun driving (although between the traffic and the aggressive drivers, who would?). I never hear music from the cars. Cars never sport decorations. The bumper sticker, “I’d rather be _____ing” would be perfect for Parisians if they deigned to put such a decoration on their cars.
****
There was more orientation events today. Even when small components of information are interesting, the sum is overwhelming. Combine that with the need for perfect attention for the French, and orientation is truly wasted time for many of us.
We got a break for lunch. Instead of traveling to a touristy area or area I’ve already been to, I looked at the Metro map and chose a stop that was relatively close to Paris randomly. I chose Chateau d’Eau in the tenth arrondisement.
To be honest I thought I made a mistake when I left the station. A crowd of African males ringed the Metro exit. One of them shouted something at me. I ignored him. Then I glanced at the other exit for the Metro, on the other side of the street. There was another group of Africans, likewise grouped about the exit and also harassing the stoic exiters about something-or-other.
The neighborhood surrounding the Chateau d’Eau station looks exactly the same as any black neighborhood in the States, except with French Africans of course. On the street with the Metro exits, there were perhaps eight or nine barbers catering to black people. You can tell by the pictures that are displayed in the windows.
The people hanging around were much different than other Frenchmen. For one, many were dressed in stereotypical African-American “hip-hop” attire. A lot of Yankees caps in alternate colors, baggy jeans (but not baggy shirts!), all that jazz. The ones who weren’t were very snappily attired, though, more so than the average Frenchmen. Many wore suits. Also, people were much more familiar with one another than in most residential neighborhoods.
Each street’s shops had a theme. I started in barber shop street. I moved on to cheap clothes street. Unlike most French stores, the bargain basement prices were prominently advertised. If I were in the market, I would’ve pounced—but I wanted food, not leather shoes (cheap!...err…pas trop cher). After the cheap clothes street came sports street, with various sporting apparel and equipment sold. And, most bizarrely of all, children’s clothing street. There appears to be a market for children’s formal clothes, as there were three within a three-block walk on one street.
But I was here for food, and thankfully, a food area awaited me. Different types of restaurants were clustered together: Turkish, Greek, Italian, and the like. I chose an Italian place, because it advertised a Five Cheese Pizza (with camembert…mozzarella…provolone…and more!) for a good price.
The Italian restaurant was, like the neighborhood I had just left, reminiscent in décor and attitude to a certain type of American restaurant. If this restaurant operated in America, it would be called something like Mama DiBella’s Family Restaurant. The décor was very minimalistic: one or two paintings but not much more. The clientele was surprisingly mixed, with different ages, races, and professions represented. Even more, the different demographic groups within clientele mixed, so that there were quite a few tables with older white French people and younger African-French people, or whatever permutation. To add to the oddness, the two waiters seemed to know everyone and greeted many, whether in denim or suit, with handshakes or bises (the cheek-to-cheek kissing) as appropriate. Even more strange, the two waiters must have been brothers, as they wore similar hairstyles and facial hair. Their sartorial choices were similar. Their walks had the same rhythm. I for one was often confused, but none of the diners seemed to be.
To top it all off the Five Cheese Pizza was excellent. The cheeses mixed together well. The crust was thin, even thinner than what Americans would call thin-crust pizza, and also surprisingly soft. Nevertheless it was quite good and I was quite satisfied, both because of the food and the unique environment.
*****
More orientation after lunch, of course. We are not quite done with the whole thing—there’s still one or two more events, depending on how things work out personally.
*****
After orientation, me and one of my Stanford friends from the Fondation, Tim Edmond, grabbed dinner and then went to see the Brave One, the Jodi Foster film. But first we had to go through the subway and kill some time in the Odeon area.
We had reached our stop and were walking up the escalator stairs when we saw an interesting thing in front of us. It was a man, dressed in a blue pinstriped blazer. He had dark curly hair. We couldn’t see his face or front yet. To his right was a girl with blond hair. From the back, she appeared pretty.
Because our collective comprehension of French is not perfect, and gets weaker in emotional situations (people speak faster and less clearly), neither of us knew what they were saying. But it was something important. The taller French man had his arm around the girl’s shoulders and was leaning close to her. He was agitated and yet he seemed, somehow, from his posture, to want to kiss her. Occasionally he would lunge with his lips only for the girl to lean slightly away. As for the girl, she was also agitated, judging from her tone. But there was a joking quality to the exchange. In discussing this later, we both agreed on this point. Something about the tones of their voices indicated a good-natured flight.
Then we reached the top of the escalator. They had done so firstIn this particular area of the Metro stop we were at, one of those conveyor belts for pedestrians that you see in airports was running. But it was running towards us and away from the exit. At any rate, the pair were speaking with one another near the conveyor belt. We could see their faces now. The man’s had a narrow, mean quality about it, while the woman was less pretty from the front than the back. Part of this was probably due to her emotional state: she appeared panicked and this did not improve the beauty of her somewhat mismatched face. Something about the discussion had boiled over. The man still embraced her, but it was rigid rather than relaxed. As for the woman, she was trying to escape. We had no choice but to pass them by. But we discussed it because it was fairly strange: something had run from joke to anger in a few seconds.
We went to the theater, and because we were quite early, Tim decided to get a Frappucino from Starbucks. Starbucks is very, very similar in France as it is in America. The atmosphere and décor is exactly the same. This particular Starbucks serves fresh-squeezed orange juice from an orange juicer that appears intense. It is a metal box with a transparent window, where one can see the oranges being squeezed. The top of the box is apparently a funnel of some sort, because it is filled with oranges that periodically drop down into an assembly line in a box, that peels and squeezes and dispenses juice from a spout.
The other differences are those of drink sizes. The sizes are Moyen, Grand, Venti. I.e. Medium, Large and whatever Venti means. This is the only concession I’ve seen in drink names to the local culture. The other difference is drink sizes: they are smaller, and they even sell the shots of coffee that are so common in French cafes. In general, it is absurdly overpriced: cookies are two euros each when I could go next door and save eighty centimes. The only patrons appear to be Americans who sit around for a while and French who use it as a hit-and-run fast food restaurant.
Speaking of French who use the Starbucks as a hit-and-run stop, guess who we saw? That’s right, the pair from the metro! They appeared to be a generic couple now. How strange.
Anyway, after that we went to the movie. Because Tim was not done with his Frappucino, I attempted to smuggle it into the movie theater. We quickly ran into trouble: there were three ushers who blocked the entrance. In other words, one could not simply slip past them and continue on one’s merry way. I attempted to play it cool until one of the ushers asked what’s in my jacket, when I played the stupid tourist who doesn’t know French. This, too, was unsuccessful, but instead of throwing it away, Tim was allowed to drink it in the lobby.
This led to another odd incident. We were speaking in English to one another, leaning against various things near the food concession as we did so. Two tourists speaking English come up (they had American-sounding accents), and ask Tim, “Do you work here?” Fact: Tim is black. Fact: Tim was dressed in a purple velvet blazer. Fact: All other employees of the movie theater dressed in white dress shirts. Draw your own conclusions. I will note that the excuse proffered was: “Well you guys were hanging out in the worker area.” Ah yes, because workers just hang out in France, chatting in English. This makes perfect sense to me.
It was time to go into the theater. We were confronted by an inordinately long commercial experience. There was a half-an-hour of commercials and trailers! It was remarkable, though, considering the lack of literal understanding that I had, that I could follow the gist of most of the trailers simply from the music and the images. France appears to be capitulating to Hollywood filmmaking techniques, because I was guessing the next image even before it came up. Hmm…Serious War Film…We’re going to have the conflicted hero philosophizing about war…booom! Hmm…Serious Relationship Film…We need kissing in the rain…there it is! Also interesting were the commercials. There are cigarette-style warnings for most of them now. For example, the one for M&Ms warned viewers to avoid too much sugar and fat.
Then came the movie
******
MOVIE REVIEW: THE BRAVE ONE.
Some of the best moments in crime dramas, which The Brave One is a member of, come from the subtle confrontation between cop and criminal. There are only so many things one can do with guns, really. But when two characters really collide, that’s something. That’s why the Al Pacino-Robert DeNiro scene in Heat is so justifiably celebrated. There’s one of those moments in The Brave One, between Jodi Foster, a radio show host turned vigilante after her boyfriend’s brutal murder, and Terence Howard, the good detective.
They both know that Jodi Foster is a vigilante, and must be brought to justice. But because of the gray area, it was hard to say—Foster has killed someone who Howard had wanted to get, somehow. But they both know that the other knows and they play it well.
What the scene brings out is common to most revenge films: the system cannot deal with my needs; I must act out for my own needs. And yet, Foster’s character acts beyond a narrow conception of her own needs and visits mayhem on many petty criminals of New York. She begins to seek out the killing. There’s a moral ambiguity in her actions that the film feints at but never fully explores—there’s a great visual motif of Foster cleaning herself after her killings that is simply discarded.
Unfortunately, the obvious visual motifs are used like a balpeen hammer. Foster muses again and again how she’s become a stranger to herself and, then, lo and behold! entering through Stranger’s Gate in Central Park (I presume it’s Central Park) becomes a crucial plot point. The camera work is beyond shoddy and oftentimes some strange choices are made. A particularly egregious example is a tilting camera, back and forth, that reminds one of a ship tilting at sea. The music is, if possible, worse than the choices of shot: thanks, Director, for providing me with those sad chords—I would’ve never guessed that Jodi Foster was feeling sad about her boyfriend’s brutal beating otherwise. Certainly not through her very expressive face; no, the music must do the job there.
It’s too bad that the ham-fisted moments (don’t get me started on the ending) must outweigh Jodi Foster and Terence Howard’s work through the bulk of the film. But it does. Ultimately the ideology of the film—the uncaring system that is uncaring by necessity—is interesting. Unfortunately, the film is more interesting than good.
The motorcyclists are the worst. Because of their compact size, they can scoot in between lanes. I’ve even seen a few canter down sidewalks. To be honest, I’m more worried about some businessman on a motorcycle creaming me than some working class stiff getting to me. Judging by the clothes worn, it’s the pinstriped businessmen riding the cycles and the blue-collar guys driving the cars. It’s fairy egalitarian though: I’ve seen a number of women opting for motorcycles over cars. I’ve even seen a family with two young boys travel by motorcycles. They all had matching red and yellow helmets. They cut a dashing figure as they zipped around the stalled cars.
French cars, even those produced by American companies, have subtle differences that are dramatic to see. The same basic prototypes exist in France. So you’ve got your trucks and minivans and sedans and the like. But the whole design is different. First the lines are all curved. Everything is a curve and the trunks are all hatchbacks. Second, the taller cars have become small. Almost everything is the height of a sedan. Last, cars are slightly less wide than American cars. The effect is one of vague recall but not total recognition, like when you see a cousin who likes somewhat like the friend you know.
You see many cars that are older in Paris. It’s not uncommon to see some real clunkers with rust spreading gently like moss. Also there are fewer luxury cars. In comparison to London, where a Bentley or Rolls-Royce is a not uncommon sight, I can’t recall the last super high-end car I’ve seen.
I get the impression that cars are far more functional for Parisians. No one seems to be having fun driving (although between the traffic and the aggressive drivers, who would?). I never hear music from the cars. Cars never sport decorations. The bumper sticker, “I’d rather be _____ing” would be perfect for Parisians if they deigned to put such a decoration on their cars.
****
There was more orientation events today. Even when small components of information are interesting, the sum is overwhelming. Combine that with the need for perfect attention for the French, and orientation is truly wasted time for many of us.
We got a break for lunch. Instead of traveling to a touristy area or area I’ve already been to, I looked at the Metro map and chose a stop that was relatively close to Paris randomly. I chose Chateau d’Eau in the tenth arrondisement.
To be honest I thought I made a mistake when I left the station. A crowd of African males ringed the Metro exit. One of them shouted something at me. I ignored him. Then I glanced at the other exit for the Metro, on the other side of the street. There was another group of Africans, likewise grouped about the exit and also harassing the stoic exiters about something-or-other.
The neighborhood surrounding the Chateau d’Eau station looks exactly the same as any black neighborhood in the States, except with French Africans of course. On the street with the Metro exits, there were perhaps eight or nine barbers catering to black people. You can tell by the pictures that are displayed in the windows.
The people hanging around were much different than other Frenchmen. For one, many were dressed in stereotypical African-American “hip-hop” attire. A lot of Yankees caps in alternate colors, baggy jeans (but not baggy shirts!), all that jazz. The ones who weren’t were very snappily attired, though, more so than the average Frenchmen. Many wore suits. Also, people were much more familiar with one another than in most residential neighborhoods.
Each street’s shops had a theme. I started in barber shop street. I moved on to cheap clothes street. Unlike most French stores, the bargain basement prices were prominently advertised. If I were in the market, I would’ve pounced—but I wanted food, not leather shoes (cheap!...err…pas trop cher). After the cheap clothes street came sports street, with various sporting apparel and equipment sold. And, most bizarrely of all, children’s clothing street. There appears to be a market for children’s formal clothes, as there were three within a three-block walk on one street.
But I was here for food, and thankfully, a food area awaited me. Different types of restaurants were clustered together: Turkish, Greek, Italian, and the like. I chose an Italian place, because it advertised a Five Cheese Pizza (with camembert…mozzarella…provolone…and more!) for a good price.
The Italian restaurant was, like the neighborhood I had just left, reminiscent in décor and attitude to a certain type of American restaurant. If this restaurant operated in America, it would be called something like Mama DiBella’s Family Restaurant. The décor was very minimalistic: one or two paintings but not much more. The clientele was surprisingly mixed, with different ages, races, and professions represented. Even more, the different demographic groups within clientele mixed, so that there were quite a few tables with older white French people and younger African-French people, or whatever permutation. To add to the oddness, the two waiters seemed to know everyone and greeted many, whether in denim or suit, with handshakes or bises (the cheek-to-cheek kissing) as appropriate. Even more strange, the two waiters must have been brothers, as they wore similar hairstyles and facial hair. Their sartorial choices were similar. Their walks had the same rhythm. I for one was often confused, but none of the diners seemed to be.
To top it all off the Five Cheese Pizza was excellent. The cheeses mixed together well. The crust was thin, even thinner than what Americans would call thin-crust pizza, and also surprisingly soft. Nevertheless it was quite good and I was quite satisfied, both because of the food and the unique environment.
*****
More orientation after lunch, of course. We are not quite done with the whole thing—there’s still one or two more events, depending on how things work out personally.
*****
After orientation, me and one of my Stanford friends from the Fondation, Tim Edmond, grabbed dinner and then went to see the Brave One, the Jodi Foster film. But first we had to go through the subway and kill some time in the Odeon area.
We had reached our stop and were walking up the escalator stairs when we saw an interesting thing in front of us. It was a man, dressed in a blue pinstriped blazer. He had dark curly hair. We couldn’t see his face or front yet. To his right was a girl with blond hair. From the back, she appeared pretty.
Because our collective comprehension of French is not perfect, and gets weaker in emotional situations (people speak faster and less clearly), neither of us knew what they were saying. But it was something important. The taller French man had his arm around the girl’s shoulders and was leaning close to her. He was agitated and yet he seemed, somehow, from his posture, to want to kiss her. Occasionally he would lunge with his lips only for the girl to lean slightly away. As for the girl, she was also agitated, judging from her tone. But there was a joking quality to the exchange. In discussing this later, we both agreed on this point. Something about the tones of their voices indicated a good-natured flight.
Then we reached the top of the escalator. They had done so firstIn this particular area of the Metro stop we were at, one of those conveyor belts for pedestrians that you see in airports was running. But it was running towards us and away from the exit. At any rate, the pair were speaking with one another near the conveyor belt. We could see their faces now. The man’s had a narrow, mean quality about it, while the woman was less pretty from the front than the back. Part of this was probably due to her emotional state: she appeared panicked and this did not improve the beauty of her somewhat mismatched face. Something about the discussion had boiled over. The man still embraced her, but it was rigid rather than relaxed. As for the woman, she was trying to escape. We had no choice but to pass them by. But we discussed it because it was fairly strange: something had run from joke to anger in a few seconds.
We went to the theater, and because we were quite early, Tim decided to get a Frappucino from Starbucks. Starbucks is very, very similar in France as it is in America. The atmosphere and décor is exactly the same. This particular Starbucks serves fresh-squeezed orange juice from an orange juicer that appears intense. It is a metal box with a transparent window, where one can see the oranges being squeezed. The top of the box is apparently a funnel of some sort, because it is filled with oranges that periodically drop down into an assembly line in a box, that peels and squeezes and dispenses juice from a spout.
The other differences are those of drink sizes. The sizes are Moyen, Grand, Venti. I.e. Medium, Large and whatever Venti means. This is the only concession I’ve seen in drink names to the local culture. The other difference is drink sizes: they are smaller, and they even sell the shots of coffee that are so common in French cafes. In general, it is absurdly overpriced: cookies are two euros each when I could go next door and save eighty centimes. The only patrons appear to be Americans who sit around for a while and French who use it as a hit-and-run fast food restaurant.
Speaking of French who use the Starbucks as a hit-and-run stop, guess who we saw? That’s right, the pair from the metro! They appeared to be a generic couple now. How strange.
Anyway, after that we went to the movie. Because Tim was not done with his Frappucino, I attempted to smuggle it into the movie theater. We quickly ran into trouble: there were three ushers who blocked the entrance. In other words, one could not simply slip past them and continue on one’s merry way. I attempted to play it cool until one of the ushers asked what’s in my jacket, when I played the stupid tourist who doesn’t know French. This, too, was unsuccessful, but instead of throwing it away, Tim was allowed to drink it in the lobby.
This led to another odd incident. We were speaking in English to one another, leaning against various things near the food concession as we did so. Two tourists speaking English come up (they had American-sounding accents), and ask Tim, “Do you work here?” Fact: Tim is black. Fact: Tim was dressed in a purple velvet blazer. Fact: All other employees of the movie theater dressed in white dress shirts. Draw your own conclusions. I will note that the excuse proffered was: “Well you guys were hanging out in the worker area.” Ah yes, because workers just hang out in France, chatting in English. This makes perfect sense to me.
It was time to go into the theater. We were confronted by an inordinately long commercial experience. There was a half-an-hour of commercials and trailers! It was remarkable, though, considering the lack of literal understanding that I had, that I could follow the gist of most of the trailers simply from the music and the images. France appears to be capitulating to Hollywood filmmaking techniques, because I was guessing the next image even before it came up. Hmm…Serious War Film…We’re going to have the conflicted hero philosophizing about war…booom! Hmm…Serious Relationship Film…We need kissing in the rain…there it is! Also interesting were the commercials. There are cigarette-style warnings for most of them now. For example, the one for M&Ms warned viewers to avoid too much sugar and fat.
Then came the movie
******
MOVIE REVIEW: THE BRAVE ONE.
Some of the best moments in crime dramas, which The Brave One is a member of, come from the subtle confrontation between cop and criminal. There are only so many things one can do with guns, really. But when two characters really collide, that’s something. That’s why the Al Pacino-Robert DeNiro scene in Heat is so justifiably celebrated. There’s one of those moments in The Brave One, between Jodi Foster, a radio show host turned vigilante after her boyfriend’s brutal murder, and Terence Howard, the good detective.
They both know that Jodi Foster is a vigilante, and must be brought to justice. But because of the gray area, it was hard to say—Foster has killed someone who Howard had wanted to get, somehow. But they both know that the other knows and they play it well.
What the scene brings out is common to most revenge films: the system cannot deal with my needs; I must act out for my own needs. And yet, Foster’s character acts beyond a narrow conception of her own needs and visits mayhem on many petty criminals of New York. She begins to seek out the killing. There’s a moral ambiguity in her actions that the film feints at but never fully explores—there’s a great visual motif of Foster cleaning herself after her killings that is simply discarded.
Unfortunately, the obvious visual motifs are used like a balpeen hammer. Foster muses again and again how she’s become a stranger to herself and, then, lo and behold! entering through Stranger’s Gate in Central Park (I presume it’s Central Park) becomes a crucial plot point. The camera work is beyond shoddy and oftentimes some strange choices are made. A particularly egregious example is a tilting camera, back and forth, that reminds one of a ship tilting at sea. The music is, if possible, worse than the choices of shot: thanks, Director, for providing me with those sad chords—I would’ve never guessed that Jodi Foster was feeling sad about her boyfriend’s brutal beating otherwise. Certainly not through her very expressive face; no, the music must do the job there.
It’s too bad that the ham-fisted moments (don’t get me started on the ending) must outweigh Jodi Foster and Terence Howard’s work through the bulk of the film. But it does. Ultimately the ideology of the film—the uncaring system that is uncaring by necessity—is interesting. Unfortunately, the film is more interesting than good.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
No, We're So Right
Tonight we went to a bar with a bunch of students from ISEP. This was for an event with our language partners, with whom we talk and do events and stuff of that nature. This was a mixer, I guess you could say. Anyway, so after conversation about various topics, one question was asked by the Parisians: “What do Americans think of French people?”
I contended that we have three images:
1) Intellectual dude quoting Foucault, etc.
2) Romantic dude stealing your girlfriend.
3) Some Leftist
The first two did not strike the group that we were sitting with as particularly offensive or noteworthy. There was some grousing about them, but overall it wasn’t anything to get agitated about. But the third, man, I might as well have suggested that the popular image of Frenchmen is goat-raping or something.
“We are so not leftist!” and much along these lines…there were many complaints about Sarkozy and his administration—the vehemence is interesting; it seems so early for that. Of course, it underscores the idea of relative rightness and leftness: the proposals of the left in America are pretty tame. It's the spirit, the ideal society, that is most important in our categorizations (this is why Hilary is left in the popular imagination). And then came the words that chill any tourist in Paris’ soul: “general strike” on October 18th. Of course, whenever one is in a bar, one is obliged by the general din and ingested liquid to speak as loudly and quickly as possible, so I did not catch many of the relevant details, like: what the hell should I do? Needless to say, the 18th of October is on my list as days to avoid.
Of course, the companion question “What do French people think of Americans?” was asked. This was considerably less interesting to me. Because it’s apparent to me that the French are not in any meaningful sense anti-American. No, what the French are is anti-Bush, and that’s just a sane sober opinion.
This raises (certainly not begs) the question of why the perception exists. One possibility is that the perception of French anti-Americanism is similar to the idea that criticizing the military or the President is anti-American. Aside from the obvious flaws in this ideas, it is clear that the origins of the meme of French anti-Americanism date back earlier and separately than that other idea. The French anti-Americanism, of course, has its roots in the Federalist/Democratic-Republican party split and also the Napoleon III invasion of Mexico as the older roots; the more recent roots probably have to do with Charles de Gaulle and his foreign policy.
So the origin of the idea is not quite political in nature, although the myth is invigorated by politics—I only have to say the phrase “freedom fries” for you, the reader, to understand. But the reason you understand the exact incident “freedom fries” is because there was a pre-existing mythos, a pre-existing story.
“Freedom fries” is only apparently serious. It is actually somewhat ironically insulting. “Freedom fries” as an epithet is meant to remove the taint of Frenchness from the name of the food. Why’s that so important? Not so much because the two nations are opposed, but because of the popular image of the French wanting to expunge American culture. Take for instance a Jim Rome (a sports radio personality) rant on the French Academy’s adoption of the word courriel for e-mail. Rome railed against the idea that the French Academy could decide the word and hence replace the American word, the proper word (Of course, no French person uses courriel. Everyone uses e-mail.). That’s the meta-joke behind “Freedom Fries,” and therein lies the origin of the idea of French anti-Americanism. Charitably, the Americans believe that people should choose their own culture, whatever the results; uncharitably, Americans expect capitulation to American culture, no matter the place or time. Probably a mix of both motives is present. So Americans believe that the French are against American culture itself, not just specific manifestations like the President.
In truth, I don’t believe the French have much to worry about. The officials have their own expectations; witness the law that mandates a certain percentage of French songs on the radio. But the French people themselves have an attitude of adaptation to their own ends. So it is quite interesting to see an American good used slightly differently, in a French way. Clothes are the best example. Even with the American clothes, they are somehow worn in a French way. I know it when I see it, but I couldn’t tell you why. But these worries about purity from French officials, where they exist, are misplaced and foolish—culture only succeeds from borrowing from other cultures and using it for its own purposes. If you take a cultural good, and see only the final product, and not the sum of influences that compose it, then you do yourself a disservice.
*****
Vocabulary lesson (without accents):
Ca Craindre—literally “that scares me”, i.e., sketchy, every Stanford student’s favorite word.
Joyeux; Pompete; Bourre; Gris—the stages of drunkenness, tipsy, more tipsy, drunk, hungover. Whenever one is with a French person, and the idea is to learn about both English and French, the conversation inevitably turns to what words represent what situation, i.e., being at a bar.
*****
We went to Notre Dame today, for a visit. I’ve been before, of course. But it was nice to go again. Seeing it again, I was struck by the incredible straightness and uprightness and height of the edifice. It is as if the builders determined that everything should be with perfect right angles and perfect lines.
It’s also surprising somehow that Notre Dame is outfitted for worships. The confessional booths, behind thick glass, are the best example of this. They are bubbles in a sea surrounded by detritus. To change metaphors, they have the appearance of interrogation rooms in cop procedurals on TV. They are very spare. Also, watching pilgrims amongst tourists like myself is incredibly strange. All we’re here for is vacation; we gabber, we snap photos. They’re here for their souls. But I guess you can find that dichotomy in life in general. Rarely is it so obvious.
Also interesting are the tourists themselves. Some take guides, others take pictures of every intricate detail (which would take years), others like myself soak everything in. Or that’s what I say now. I’m getting the general sense, the forest not the trees. But there’s a danger of forgetting and being unable to remember the wonder. There are some people, I think, in the opposite side, there are those who insist on recording every single event in their lives via camera. I have the inflated picture count on Facebook to prove it. Taken to extremes, however, the record-every-moment interrupts the flow so often it’s impossible to get anywhere.
****
French restaurants do something interesting. Rarely do they play the radio. Instead, they play entire albums straight through. When I know the album and enjoy it, I prefer the latter approach. Otherwise the radio suffices. But it’s an interesting choice.
****
In conversations, the French rely more on their hands. When simply speaking, their hands harmonize with the voice for the tone. When speaking about someone, they touch the person they’re speaking about.
****
The décor of restaurants often confuses. Café Indiana, with its Native American emblem, is (what else?) a Tex-Mex restaurant. The creperie we ate at for lunch combines pueblo-type walls with vaguely Greco-Roman pottery. One of the Greek restaurants of the Latin quarter features statues in the nude. Instead of a fig leaf, a scarf or menu suffices.
Sometimes the décor amazes. One café possesses Napoleon’s hat.
****
There are some topics two people use to get to know one another. Preferences in books, movies, music are perennial favorites. “What do you do?” or “What are you studying?” is the all-time classic. At any rate, with French people, the topic to avoid is movies. All the titles are tragically different and you spend minutes trying to figure out what Hitchcock movie you both like until you realize that Vertigo is it. You can’t help the anti-climax: “Good film, huh?”
If one could avoid anti-climax for an entire life, that person would have it made.
I contended that we have three images:
1) Intellectual dude quoting Foucault, etc.
2) Romantic dude stealing your girlfriend.
3) Some Leftist
The first two did not strike the group that we were sitting with as particularly offensive or noteworthy. There was some grousing about them, but overall it wasn’t anything to get agitated about. But the third, man, I might as well have suggested that the popular image of Frenchmen is goat-raping or something.
“We are so not leftist!” and much along these lines…there were many complaints about Sarkozy and his administration—the vehemence is interesting; it seems so early for that. Of course, it underscores the idea of relative rightness and leftness: the proposals of the left in America are pretty tame. It's the spirit, the ideal society, that is most important in our categorizations (this is why Hilary is left in the popular imagination). And then came the words that chill any tourist in Paris’ soul: “general strike” on October 18th. Of course, whenever one is in a bar, one is obliged by the general din and ingested liquid to speak as loudly and quickly as possible, so I did not catch many of the relevant details, like: what the hell should I do? Needless to say, the 18th of October is on my list as days to avoid.
Of course, the companion question “What do French people think of Americans?” was asked. This was considerably less interesting to me. Because it’s apparent to me that the French are not in any meaningful sense anti-American. No, what the French are is anti-Bush, and that’s just a sane sober opinion.
This raises (certainly not begs) the question of why the perception exists. One possibility is that the perception of French anti-Americanism is similar to the idea that criticizing the military or the President is anti-American. Aside from the obvious flaws in this ideas, it is clear that the origins of the meme of French anti-Americanism date back earlier and separately than that other idea. The French anti-Americanism, of course, has its roots in the Federalist/Democratic-Republican party split and also the Napoleon III invasion of Mexico as the older roots; the more recent roots probably have to do with Charles de Gaulle and his foreign policy.
So the origin of the idea is not quite political in nature, although the myth is invigorated by politics—I only have to say the phrase “freedom fries” for you, the reader, to understand. But the reason you understand the exact incident “freedom fries” is because there was a pre-existing mythos, a pre-existing story.
“Freedom fries” is only apparently serious. It is actually somewhat ironically insulting. “Freedom fries” as an epithet is meant to remove the taint of Frenchness from the name of the food. Why’s that so important? Not so much because the two nations are opposed, but because of the popular image of the French wanting to expunge American culture. Take for instance a Jim Rome (a sports radio personality) rant on the French Academy’s adoption of the word courriel for e-mail. Rome railed against the idea that the French Academy could decide the word and hence replace the American word, the proper word (Of course, no French person uses courriel. Everyone uses e-mail.). That’s the meta-joke behind “Freedom Fries,” and therein lies the origin of the idea of French anti-Americanism. Charitably, the Americans believe that people should choose their own culture, whatever the results; uncharitably, Americans expect capitulation to American culture, no matter the place or time. Probably a mix of both motives is present. So Americans believe that the French are against American culture itself, not just specific manifestations like the President.
In truth, I don’t believe the French have much to worry about. The officials have their own expectations; witness the law that mandates a certain percentage of French songs on the radio. But the French people themselves have an attitude of adaptation to their own ends. So it is quite interesting to see an American good used slightly differently, in a French way. Clothes are the best example. Even with the American clothes, they are somehow worn in a French way. I know it when I see it, but I couldn’t tell you why. But these worries about purity from French officials, where they exist, are misplaced and foolish—culture only succeeds from borrowing from other cultures and using it for its own purposes. If you take a cultural good, and see only the final product, and not the sum of influences that compose it, then you do yourself a disservice.
*****
Vocabulary lesson (without accents):
Ca Craindre—literally “that scares me”, i.e., sketchy, every Stanford student’s favorite word.
Joyeux; Pompete; Bourre; Gris—the stages of drunkenness, tipsy, more tipsy, drunk, hungover. Whenever one is with a French person, and the idea is to learn about both English and French, the conversation inevitably turns to what words represent what situation, i.e., being at a bar.
*****
We went to Notre Dame today, for a visit. I’ve been before, of course. But it was nice to go again. Seeing it again, I was struck by the incredible straightness and uprightness and height of the edifice. It is as if the builders determined that everything should be with perfect right angles and perfect lines.
It’s also surprising somehow that Notre Dame is outfitted for worships. The confessional booths, behind thick glass, are the best example of this. They are bubbles in a sea surrounded by detritus. To change metaphors, they have the appearance of interrogation rooms in cop procedurals on TV. They are very spare. Also, watching pilgrims amongst tourists like myself is incredibly strange. All we’re here for is vacation; we gabber, we snap photos. They’re here for their souls. But I guess you can find that dichotomy in life in general. Rarely is it so obvious.
Also interesting are the tourists themselves. Some take guides, others take pictures of every intricate detail (which would take years), others like myself soak everything in. Or that’s what I say now. I’m getting the general sense, the forest not the trees. But there’s a danger of forgetting and being unable to remember the wonder. There are some people, I think, in the opposite side, there are those who insist on recording every single event in their lives via camera. I have the inflated picture count on Facebook to prove it. Taken to extremes, however, the record-every-moment interrupts the flow so often it’s impossible to get anywhere.
****
French restaurants do something interesting. Rarely do they play the radio. Instead, they play entire albums straight through. When I know the album and enjoy it, I prefer the latter approach. Otherwise the radio suffices. But it’s an interesting choice.
****
In conversations, the French rely more on their hands. When simply speaking, their hands harmonize with the voice for the tone. When speaking about someone, they touch the person they’re speaking about.
****
The décor of restaurants often confuses. Café Indiana, with its Native American emblem, is (what else?) a Tex-Mex restaurant. The creperie we ate at for lunch combines pueblo-type walls with vaguely Greco-Roman pottery. One of the Greek restaurants of the Latin quarter features statues in the nude. Instead of a fig leaf, a scarf or menu suffices.
Sometimes the décor amazes. One café possesses Napoleon’s hat.
****
There are some topics two people use to get to know one another. Preferences in books, movies, music are perennial favorites. “What do you do?” or “What are you studying?” is the all-time classic. At any rate, with French people, the topic to avoid is movies. All the titles are tragically different and you spend minutes trying to figure out what Hitchcock movie you both like until you realize that Vertigo is it. You can’t help the anti-climax: “Good film, huh?”
If one could avoid anti-climax for an entire life, that person would have it made.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Listen for the Sense of the Paragraph...Or Sentence...Or Word
No man is an island, except on the Paris Metro. There, the diametrical opposite holds true: every man is an island. People often bandy about this hypothetical question: what ______ (book, CD, DVD, etc.) would you bring with you if you were stranded on a desert island? The Metro is a perfect demonstration of that. Older people generally choose thick paperbacks or newspapers. Younger individuals catch up on their pressing business with their cell phones, or else stare off into space, carefully avoiding other people’s space, as if looking at it will cause it to wilt and shrivel. Small children climb all over the upholstery. Everyone keeps to themselves. This happens even in the most stressful times. For example, traveling home tonight from dinner, a man began to mutter loudly (you know a stage whisper? This was a stage mutter) to himself. I whipped my head about, as did some other individuals who were clearly also tourists or foreigners. We, the foreigners, soon returned to whatever we were doing previously when we realized that our Parisian counterparts were not paying the man much mind. Then, at the next stop, he made his way to the door, said “Excusez-moi” and “Au revoir” in much louder tones than any sane Frenchman would. Still no one paid him any heed.
The only force that can cause Metro travelers to abandon their islands is Metro performers. I myself find them annoying, but they often receive applause and change. But Parisians in general appear well-disposed to street performers. When I saw a trio of street performers today without an audience, I wondered whether I was going insane: could only I see them? Then I realized they were awful and that was why.
Not that I should be too contemptuous. I couldn’t perform to an audience, nor could I fulfill the hype man function. Every street-performing troupe has a hype man, who gets the crowd enthusiastic. My French is so awful I’m afraid I couldn’t communicate in the effusive banalities that the hype men revel in.
The awfulness of my French was reinforced with our orientation session today. It was hours upon hours of information force-fed to us. I had to pay perfect attention in order to really follow along, but once you’re dealing with four, five hours of one-way talking, your attention wanes—it’s natural. Fortunately they repeated all the important information in English.
We were taken on a tour of the building where our classes will be held. It’s in ISEP, Institut Superieur D’Electronique de Paris, which is an engineering school. Anyway, we’re somewhat integrated into the school—we can play sports with them, etc. (basketball!)—so, during our tour, we would often meet up with people who were the heads of various offices and branches. And the most amusing thing was how softly everyone spoke. For nearly every person to speak, the entire American group leaned forward in unison.
To go back on a zag. Basketball, and height. There was a theory, back in the day, that the buildings one lived and worked in would determine your height. So the reason kings grew tall was because of their massive castles. Paris confirms this long dead theory: it’s not the tallest of cities (I’ve seen very few tall people), and all of the Metro stations have distressingly short ceilings. I would hate to be 6’3” and above in Paris Metro. Which means, of course, that I’ll do great in basketball! This is a lie. I will not be great or even good, because that’s my skill level. I’m just making myself feel better.
Two major chores confronted me after the marathon orientation session. First, a cell phone. Second, a “plan de Paris,” a booklet that contains detailed maps of every arrondisement of Paris.
The first task was partially completed for me because of my previous purchase of a cell phone from a Stanford student who left fall quarter. The cell phone, in of itself, is fine. Minor complaints: it was not charged and several numbers are programmed in the SIM card already, and for whatever reason, one can’t delete numbers off the SIM card. The instruction manual does not mention the possibility, so I will assume it does not exist.
The major problem to solve about the cell phone is the plan. Shockingly, I don’t want to sign a two-year contract. So that means I have to pre-pay for a plan. After some awkward interactions with the salesman, involving much garbled French and pointing at a piece of paper, I had bought my plan. At least I didn’t speak English with the salesman, as some other individuals did. I’m, uh, going through a trial by fire. Anyway, once you buy the plan, one must then call a number and input a code. Simple enough, right? Of course not; otherwise I wouldn’t be telling the story, now would I? So after I call said number, I listen to the prerecorded message. The message goes by at a speed that implies that the speaker has somewhere else to be, so I had to listen to it again. Then I punch in the code. But it rejects it. Not only must one tap in the code accurately, but also quickly—if you pause at all, it rejects the code. After a few tries, it gives me a success message. I wish I could tell you exact words or phrases, but I was listening for the sense of the paragraph, thanks. Then comes some stuff about texts. I listen to it again. It costs money, and I couldn’t figure out what was being sold. So I rejected it. I think. No, I’m pretty sure I did.
The other major task—actually quite minor—was to purchase a “plan de Paris.” This was surprisingly difficult. The common claim is that every tabac and supermarket and newspaper stand and souvenir stand and lemonade stand sells these things. This is untrue. Some of all of these sell them. At any rate, I purchased mine. It fits comfortably in my jacket pocket, less so in my jeans.
Interestingly, the space that the actual maps of France occupy is less than the space of the index for the maps. This provides proof for a pet theory of mine. Because of the superabundance of information nowadays, it is difficult to know what stuff is important and what isn’t. How can one know if this newspaper story about, say, the culture of suburban China is important, or whether this street in Paris is relevant? If you’re a novice, you don’t. So more important than information is the interpretation of it for the uninformed. I generally prefer interpreted information, which is why the fake-objectivity of the media, pretending that their information is unfiltered and unbiased, bugs me so much. The value’s all in the interpretation if it’s good. Of course, it would be terrifying to see the media to unleash its interpretations on us—generally what we see is pretty knuckle-headed—but you get my point, I think.
Anyway, we have another day of orientation tomorrow, and then yet another the day after that, so I’d better settle in for the long haul.
*****
Paris has perhaps the best cheap food of any city I’ve been to. Any big city is bound to have at least decent cheap food, because of the demand. But in its variety and quality, I’ve not seen the city that beats Paris. At the same time, one can get food for amazingly cheap as well, even at a high quality (for cheap food). I’d take the crepe stands alone, guys, you don’t have to spoil me with more options.
*****
It should go without saying that Starbucks operates in Paris. Starbucks probably serves aliens, so it’s no shock to see it in Paris. But it’s been curiously empty whenever I’ve seen it. I asked some of the Parisian students whether it was popular. They replied that it was fairly popular, not a huge thing. But after passing Starbucks a few things, I’ve realized this: Starbucks does business, but people treat it like a fast food restaurant rather than a café.
On the general subject of chains, McDonald’s appears to be quite popular. It’s always been quite full whenever I see one. They have free wifi. Their menu is more upscale than the US’. So I suppose it’s no surprise. Also, I saw a Royale With Cheese. I feel as if a movie rite of passage has occurred for me; so, in terms of my Paris movie checklist:
1) After a long police chase, lie motionless on the ground and mutter “c’est degueulasse” (it’s disgusting) at a French girl, who will, due to a nefarious police office, misinterpret the phrase as “tu es degueulasse” (you’re disgusting)
2) Write a letter explaining La Vie en Rose while it plays in the background, after having attended cooking school, where my soufflés will be awful initially.
3) Fight in Eiffel Tower
4) Miss someone at a Paris train; later, exclaim, “We’ll always have Paris.”
5) Get in fight with singing friendly gargoyles as allies against evil priest at Notre Dame
Back to chains. KFC, McDonald’s, Starbucks and Pizza Hut are the major American chains. There are actually a few London chains here as well, including the surprisingly omnipresent Pizza Express. I swear Pizza Express had Starbucks-level ubiquity in London.
Anyway, a few chains seem to model themselves after American chains. For example, there’s one ice cream place that, décor-wise, seems influenced by Coldstone (it serves gelato, however). Or a fast-food restaurant that serves burgers, shakes, fries, etc. There’re a surprising number of chains, but unlike London, the small places are, in terms of numbers, holding their own.
*****
So in many Metro cars, there is an advertisement to improve your English. Its name is Wall Street English. Just goes to show you, no matter what ridiculousness, Brangelina or Bush, that you add to America, the business of America’s still business.
The only force that can cause Metro travelers to abandon their islands is Metro performers. I myself find them annoying, but they often receive applause and change. But Parisians in general appear well-disposed to street performers. When I saw a trio of street performers today without an audience, I wondered whether I was going insane: could only I see them? Then I realized they were awful and that was why.
Not that I should be too contemptuous. I couldn’t perform to an audience, nor could I fulfill the hype man function. Every street-performing troupe has a hype man, who gets the crowd enthusiastic. My French is so awful I’m afraid I couldn’t communicate in the effusive banalities that the hype men revel in.
The awfulness of my French was reinforced with our orientation session today. It was hours upon hours of information force-fed to us. I had to pay perfect attention in order to really follow along, but once you’re dealing with four, five hours of one-way talking, your attention wanes—it’s natural. Fortunately they repeated all the important information in English.
We were taken on a tour of the building where our classes will be held. It’s in ISEP, Institut Superieur D’Electronique de Paris, which is an engineering school. Anyway, we’re somewhat integrated into the school—we can play sports with them, etc. (basketball!)—so, during our tour, we would often meet up with people who were the heads of various offices and branches. And the most amusing thing was how softly everyone spoke. For nearly every person to speak, the entire American group leaned forward in unison.
To go back on a zag. Basketball, and height. There was a theory, back in the day, that the buildings one lived and worked in would determine your height. So the reason kings grew tall was because of their massive castles. Paris confirms this long dead theory: it’s not the tallest of cities (I’ve seen very few tall people), and all of the Metro stations have distressingly short ceilings. I would hate to be 6’3” and above in Paris Metro. Which means, of course, that I’ll do great in basketball! This is a lie. I will not be great or even good, because that’s my skill level. I’m just making myself feel better.
Two major chores confronted me after the marathon orientation session. First, a cell phone. Second, a “plan de Paris,” a booklet that contains detailed maps of every arrondisement of Paris.
The first task was partially completed for me because of my previous purchase of a cell phone from a Stanford student who left fall quarter. The cell phone, in of itself, is fine. Minor complaints: it was not charged and several numbers are programmed in the SIM card already, and for whatever reason, one can’t delete numbers off the SIM card. The instruction manual does not mention the possibility, so I will assume it does not exist.
The major problem to solve about the cell phone is the plan. Shockingly, I don’t want to sign a two-year contract. So that means I have to pre-pay for a plan. After some awkward interactions with the salesman, involving much garbled French and pointing at a piece of paper, I had bought my plan. At least I didn’t speak English with the salesman, as some other individuals did. I’m, uh, going through a trial by fire. Anyway, once you buy the plan, one must then call a number and input a code. Simple enough, right? Of course not; otherwise I wouldn’t be telling the story, now would I? So after I call said number, I listen to the prerecorded message. The message goes by at a speed that implies that the speaker has somewhere else to be, so I had to listen to it again. Then I punch in the code. But it rejects it. Not only must one tap in the code accurately, but also quickly—if you pause at all, it rejects the code. After a few tries, it gives me a success message. I wish I could tell you exact words or phrases, but I was listening for the sense of the paragraph, thanks. Then comes some stuff about texts. I listen to it again. It costs money, and I couldn’t figure out what was being sold. So I rejected it. I think. No, I’m pretty sure I did.
The other major task—actually quite minor—was to purchase a “plan de Paris.” This was surprisingly difficult. The common claim is that every tabac and supermarket and newspaper stand and souvenir stand and lemonade stand sells these things. This is untrue. Some of all of these sell them. At any rate, I purchased mine. It fits comfortably in my jacket pocket, less so in my jeans.
Interestingly, the space that the actual maps of France occupy is less than the space of the index for the maps. This provides proof for a pet theory of mine. Because of the superabundance of information nowadays, it is difficult to know what stuff is important and what isn’t. How can one know if this newspaper story about, say, the culture of suburban China is important, or whether this street in Paris is relevant? If you’re a novice, you don’t. So more important than information is the interpretation of it for the uninformed. I generally prefer interpreted information, which is why the fake-objectivity of the media, pretending that their information is unfiltered and unbiased, bugs me so much. The value’s all in the interpretation if it’s good. Of course, it would be terrifying to see the media to unleash its interpretations on us—generally what we see is pretty knuckle-headed—but you get my point, I think.
Anyway, we have another day of orientation tomorrow, and then yet another the day after that, so I’d better settle in for the long haul.
*****
Paris has perhaps the best cheap food of any city I’ve been to. Any big city is bound to have at least decent cheap food, because of the demand. But in its variety and quality, I’ve not seen the city that beats Paris. At the same time, one can get food for amazingly cheap as well, even at a high quality (for cheap food). I’d take the crepe stands alone, guys, you don’t have to spoil me with more options.
*****
It should go without saying that Starbucks operates in Paris. Starbucks probably serves aliens, so it’s no shock to see it in Paris. But it’s been curiously empty whenever I’ve seen it. I asked some of the Parisian students whether it was popular. They replied that it was fairly popular, not a huge thing. But after passing Starbucks a few things, I’ve realized this: Starbucks does business, but people treat it like a fast food restaurant rather than a café.
On the general subject of chains, McDonald’s appears to be quite popular. It’s always been quite full whenever I see one. They have free wifi. Their menu is more upscale than the US’. So I suppose it’s no surprise. Also, I saw a Royale With Cheese. I feel as if a movie rite of passage has occurred for me; so, in terms of my Paris movie checklist:
1) After a long police chase, lie motionless on the ground and mutter “c’est degueulasse” (it’s disgusting) at a French girl, who will, due to a nefarious police office, misinterpret the phrase as “tu es degueulasse” (you’re disgusting)
2) Write a letter explaining La Vie en Rose while it plays in the background, after having attended cooking school, where my soufflés will be awful initially.
3) Fight in Eiffel Tower
4) Miss someone at a Paris train; later, exclaim, “We’ll always have Paris.”
5) Get in fight with singing friendly gargoyles as allies against evil priest at Notre Dame
Back to chains. KFC, McDonald’s, Starbucks and Pizza Hut are the major American chains. There are actually a few London chains here as well, including the surprisingly omnipresent Pizza Express. I swear Pizza Express had Starbucks-level ubiquity in London.
Anyway, a few chains seem to model themselves after American chains. For example, there’s one ice cream place that, décor-wise, seems influenced by Coldstone (it serves gelato, however). Or a fast-food restaurant that serves burgers, shakes, fries, etc. There’re a surprising number of chains, but unlike London, the small places are, in terms of numbers, holding their own.
*****
So in many Metro cars, there is an advertisement to improve your English. Its name is Wall Street English. Just goes to show you, no matter what ridiculousness, Brangelina or Bush, that you add to America, the business of America’s still business.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Don't Be So Loud...You're Such a Tourist
If New Yorkers walk as if walking were a contact sport, and Londoners walk as if walking were a business (quick yet polite), then Parisians walk as if it were a pastime. They walk like Californians, really. Slow. Not a strut, but a stroll. The pace is mandatory; within minutes of my walking in Paris today, I had forgotten my old utilitarian mentality, of walking as a way from point A to point B, with all the speed that that implies. A walk in Paris implies looking at everything and chatting.
Not that the appearance of the buildings and the surroundings has such grandeur. The great buildings possess it, to be sure, as do the parks. Some of the cafes also have that je ne sais quoi. Generally, though, there’s a grittiness and a dirtiness to many of the French buildings that is not grand.
So the reason that Paris demands this walking pace is environmental. It’s an attitude. Everyone else is doing it, so you should too.
I slept in quite late, the first time in a while. That was very pleasant. Rolling out of bed, taking a shower and then going to lunch with no break in between is quite the schedule, and one that everyone should adhere to for a time. The confusing thing, though, about the French bathrooms is their controls. I haven’t seen two toilets use the same flushing system (one uses the tried-and-true toilet handle, another uses a rubber cork that you pull out, and a third has a plastic board that you press to flush). Furthermore, the showers in the Fondation are the definition of authoritarianism. When I entered the shower, I searched in vain for the controls, for the hot and cold faucets. Then I discovered the button. You see, the dictatorial shower system decides how hot your shower is going to be (just hotter than lukewarm, a good temperature) and how long you want to take it (thirty seconds). This had the effect of making me take a much shorter shower than usual, probably a good thing.
After all that, I went to lunch with two other Stanford students and a French student who is the French student advisor for the program in general. As is the pattern with any interaction between a Frenchman and non-Frenchmen, we oscillated between French and English, oftentimes within sentences. The restaurant we went to was in the 6th Arrondisement, on the Left Bank. It was a good sandwich place. Upon reflection, we decided that because we were being reimbursed for the meal, we clearly should have found a more expensive restaurant.
And yet the experience was not so bad. Where else can you go that has abstract art with such titles as, “Contradiction” (a red piece with black streaks), “Movement No. 1” (grey with red), “Movement No. 2” (grey, with white and red daubs of paint) and so on? And, at this same restaurant, where else would Parisians attempt to bring their dogs up to the eating area on the second floor? One woman tried to get her dog to walk up the stairs, but that was a futile effort.
After the lunch, we wandered about the Seine, then walked the Champs Elysees. It’s a grand route. The scale of the Louvre really dwarfs any Palace I’ve seen before, and it was wonderful to be reminded of its scope. Our French student departed us at that point, and soon we returned to the Cite Universitaire.
We (the Stanford students) agreed to meet up for dinner. I spent the intervening time napping, then exploring the neighborhood. It is rarely fair to a neighborhood to judge it on just nighttime or just daytime, so I walked around.
There is a Park, the Park Montsouris just across from the Fondation. I’ve written earlier that London views its park in a utilitarian fashion; Paris constructs its park with aesthetic as well as functional considerations. So yes, there’s a basketball court (quick interpolation: England doesn’t have basketball courts. Instead, there are basketball hoops with squares of asphalt surrounding it that are insufficient for one person, let alone a game), but there’s also an artificial lake with verdant trees surrounding it. The constituency of this park appears to be joggers, families and couples. Single people walking around were in a distinct minority.
Speaking of families, Paris is crawling with children. Parisian parents appear to be far more indulgent of their children than parents of other nationalities, especially England’s. In Paris, the parents are like the nucleus of the atom, with the electrons, the children, flitting about it. In England, the walking family is like the old model of the atom: the electrons are buried inside the nucleus. All the children are very nattily attired. Scooters seem to be very popular amongst the Parisian children. I barely noticed small children in London at all; when I did, they were inevitably a part of school and outfitted in their matching uniforms.
After that interlude, I met up with the other two people and went to dinner. We went to the Latin Quarter, the student hangout on the Left Bank. The Latin Quarter is stuffed with restaurants and places to eat. Each one advertises its wares and prix fixe menus. Many of them display cooked examples of their food. The seafood restaurants have iced examples of “les fruits de mer” outside. The fast food restaurants show pictures of their food. Many restaurants have hawkers, people talking up their food. Lights flood the vision. The claps and crashes from street performers invade the ears. The combination creates a gibbering energy, a totality of experience.
We sat down at this one place because it had a good prix fixe menu, and we recognized an actor outside. Well, we knew it was an actor. We didn’t know who he was. I thought he resembled Sean Penn, but clearly wasn’t. No one else had any ideas. At any rate, this actor was on a date. He was talking about himself. “…it’s my publisher’s job to make sure I’m in magazines…” was an overheard snippet. Things like that were typical, from what I could tell. I couldn’t see the woman’s expression, so I couldn’t tell whether he was boring her or she was truly interested in his glamorous life.
As for our meal, it was solid but not spectacular. I love the prix fixe menu. For those who are unfamiliar with the concept, one orders, at a fixed price (ten euros for me), three courses: a starter, an entrée, and a dessert. Oftentimes, it’s cheaper to purchase a prix fixe than to order your entrée alone!
Anyway, after dinner, we wanted to finish off with a coffee, so we did. And that was our day.
*****
The Paris Metro system is an odd mélange of highbrow and low. On one hand, it is frequently stuffy and smelly. On the other hand, the stations themselves are high-concept. Many of them are decorated to a theme: Franklin D. Roosevelt has an art-deco theme, Louvre something-or-other has art (we were unable from our metro car to reach a consensus as to whether or not these were reproductions). Whenever you move towards the exit, you can immediately feel the draft of fresh air.
*****
French businessmen require a level of conversation no other nation requires. One must say, “bon soir,” chat and order and then leave. It’s really quite a change from the hit-and-run interactions with the dude at the Kwik-E-Mark.
*****
French people frequently wear clothes exclusively in English writing.
*****
Learning is an odd thing. Consciously, the French words elude me. But sometimes, in a situation, the correct things will find themselves and tumble out of their own accord. And I just stand back and think, not bad, huh? Then I go and butcher the final consonant of some word or another.
*****
Irony alert: “Le Choc Culturel” (The Cultural Shock), an orientation event, is on the last day of orientation. Am I alone in finding this somewhat ironic?
*****
One interesting difference between Paris and London is the way each city treats its street performers. In London, street performers are carefully sequestered to the south bank of the Thames, where almost nobody and almost nothing is. I saw police officers evict street performers from their spots from time to time. On the other hand, I’ve seen street performers in the shadow of the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. Also, the quality of street performer is far higher and far less eccentric in Paris. I saw a xylophone performance in London, for example. I also saw that dude butcher “She Loves You.” On the other hand, I haven’t seen a truly awful street performance yet in Paris.
*****
So apparently I’m too loud and seem like a tourist. I do this regardless of nation, and, regardless of nation, whether at home or abroad, people believe I am too loud. I’m sorry to everyone in advance.
Not that the appearance of the buildings and the surroundings has such grandeur. The great buildings possess it, to be sure, as do the parks. Some of the cafes also have that je ne sais quoi. Generally, though, there’s a grittiness and a dirtiness to many of the French buildings that is not grand.
So the reason that Paris demands this walking pace is environmental. It’s an attitude. Everyone else is doing it, so you should too.
I slept in quite late, the first time in a while. That was very pleasant. Rolling out of bed, taking a shower and then going to lunch with no break in between is quite the schedule, and one that everyone should adhere to for a time. The confusing thing, though, about the French bathrooms is their controls. I haven’t seen two toilets use the same flushing system (one uses the tried-and-true toilet handle, another uses a rubber cork that you pull out, and a third has a plastic board that you press to flush). Furthermore, the showers in the Fondation are the definition of authoritarianism. When I entered the shower, I searched in vain for the controls, for the hot and cold faucets. Then I discovered the button. You see, the dictatorial shower system decides how hot your shower is going to be (just hotter than lukewarm, a good temperature) and how long you want to take it (thirty seconds). This had the effect of making me take a much shorter shower than usual, probably a good thing.
After all that, I went to lunch with two other Stanford students and a French student who is the French student advisor for the program in general. As is the pattern with any interaction between a Frenchman and non-Frenchmen, we oscillated between French and English, oftentimes within sentences. The restaurant we went to was in the 6th Arrondisement, on the Left Bank. It was a good sandwich place. Upon reflection, we decided that because we were being reimbursed for the meal, we clearly should have found a more expensive restaurant.
And yet the experience was not so bad. Where else can you go that has abstract art with such titles as, “Contradiction” (a red piece with black streaks), “Movement No. 1” (grey with red), “Movement No. 2” (grey, with white and red daubs of paint) and so on? And, at this same restaurant, where else would Parisians attempt to bring their dogs up to the eating area on the second floor? One woman tried to get her dog to walk up the stairs, but that was a futile effort.
After the lunch, we wandered about the Seine, then walked the Champs Elysees. It’s a grand route. The scale of the Louvre really dwarfs any Palace I’ve seen before, and it was wonderful to be reminded of its scope. Our French student departed us at that point, and soon we returned to the Cite Universitaire.
We (the Stanford students) agreed to meet up for dinner. I spent the intervening time napping, then exploring the neighborhood. It is rarely fair to a neighborhood to judge it on just nighttime or just daytime, so I walked around.
There is a Park, the Park Montsouris just across from the Fondation. I’ve written earlier that London views its park in a utilitarian fashion; Paris constructs its park with aesthetic as well as functional considerations. So yes, there’s a basketball court (quick interpolation: England doesn’t have basketball courts. Instead, there are basketball hoops with squares of asphalt surrounding it that are insufficient for one person, let alone a game), but there’s also an artificial lake with verdant trees surrounding it. The constituency of this park appears to be joggers, families and couples. Single people walking around were in a distinct minority.
Speaking of families, Paris is crawling with children. Parisian parents appear to be far more indulgent of their children than parents of other nationalities, especially England’s. In Paris, the parents are like the nucleus of the atom, with the electrons, the children, flitting about it. In England, the walking family is like the old model of the atom: the electrons are buried inside the nucleus. All the children are very nattily attired. Scooters seem to be very popular amongst the Parisian children. I barely noticed small children in London at all; when I did, they were inevitably a part of school and outfitted in their matching uniforms.
After that interlude, I met up with the other two people and went to dinner. We went to the Latin Quarter, the student hangout on the Left Bank. The Latin Quarter is stuffed with restaurants and places to eat. Each one advertises its wares and prix fixe menus. Many of them display cooked examples of their food. The seafood restaurants have iced examples of “les fruits de mer” outside. The fast food restaurants show pictures of their food. Many restaurants have hawkers, people talking up their food. Lights flood the vision. The claps and crashes from street performers invade the ears. The combination creates a gibbering energy, a totality of experience.
We sat down at this one place because it had a good prix fixe menu, and we recognized an actor outside. Well, we knew it was an actor. We didn’t know who he was. I thought he resembled Sean Penn, but clearly wasn’t. No one else had any ideas. At any rate, this actor was on a date. He was talking about himself. “…it’s my publisher’s job to make sure I’m in magazines…” was an overheard snippet. Things like that were typical, from what I could tell. I couldn’t see the woman’s expression, so I couldn’t tell whether he was boring her or she was truly interested in his glamorous life.
As for our meal, it was solid but not spectacular. I love the prix fixe menu. For those who are unfamiliar with the concept, one orders, at a fixed price (ten euros for me), three courses: a starter, an entrée, and a dessert. Oftentimes, it’s cheaper to purchase a prix fixe than to order your entrée alone!
Anyway, after dinner, we wanted to finish off with a coffee, so we did. And that was our day.
*****
The Paris Metro system is an odd mélange of highbrow and low. On one hand, it is frequently stuffy and smelly. On the other hand, the stations themselves are high-concept. Many of them are decorated to a theme: Franklin D. Roosevelt has an art-deco theme, Louvre something-or-other has art (we were unable from our metro car to reach a consensus as to whether or not these were reproductions). Whenever you move towards the exit, you can immediately feel the draft of fresh air.
*****
French businessmen require a level of conversation no other nation requires. One must say, “bon soir,” chat and order and then leave. It’s really quite a change from the hit-and-run interactions with the dude at the Kwik-E-Mark.
*****
French people frequently wear clothes exclusively in English writing.
*****
Learning is an odd thing. Consciously, the French words elude me. But sometimes, in a situation, the correct things will find themselves and tumble out of their own accord. And I just stand back and think, not bad, huh? Then I go and butcher the final consonant of some word or another.
*****
Irony alert: “Le Choc Culturel” (The Cultural Shock), an orientation event, is on the last day of orientation. Am I alone in finding this somewhat ironic?
*****
One interesting difference between Paris and London is the way each city treats its street performers. In London, street performers are carefully sequestered to the south bank of the Thames, where almost nobody and almost nothing is. I saw police officers evict street performers from their spots from time to time. On the other hand, I’ve seen street performers in the shadow of the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. Also, the quality of street performer is far higher and far less eccentric in Paris. I saw a xylophone performance in London, for example. I also saw that dude butcher “She Loves You.” On the other hand, I haven’t seen a truly awful street performance yet in Paris.
*****
So apparently I’m too loud and seem like a tourist. I do this regardless of nation, and, regardless of nation, whether at home or abroad, people believe I am too loud. I’m sorry to everyone in advance.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Anxiety? Stress? C'est normal. (Is that good french?)
I started today with a certain sense of anxiety, as I always do before any flight. What’s my route? Where’s my passport? Have I packed everything? When should I leave? I have packed everything, right?
Adding to these usual worries were the worries of changing countries. It seems to me that one of two things will invariably happen when you leave a country: either you will run out of money, or you will have more than you need. I never have exactly enough. I thought I was in the latter category, until I opened my wallet earlier tonight, in France, and discovered a 5 pound note. Oh well, I’ll have a layover in Heathrow.
Besides the pre-flight jitters, I also had time to burn between check-out, at 10 AM, and my flight, at 2:50 PM. Serendipitously, the Portobello Road Market was open in Notting Hill, a quick walk from the hostel (the hostel might even technically be in Notting Hill, but who knows?). I had never heard of the Portobello Road Market, but who can refuse a street fair, especially one that bills itself, “The world’s largest antiques fair?” I can’t, that’s for sure.
The Portobello Road Market is, in its particulars, exactly the same as every other street fair. There is a line of stalls, each selling different goods at cheap prices. The usual suspects were on sale: clothing, vintage clothing, music, food, books, marijuana-themed goods (excuse me, hemp), etc. But the Market distinguishes itself in scale. It is probably six or seven blocks long, full to the gills. When I saw cars trying to muscle their way through, I wondered what bonehead was placed on this earth, to try and get his way through this. You can’t go some other way, buddy?
As I hiked up the road, I noticed an old man in a tweed blazer, simply standing in an empty parking space, holding pamphlets. He was entreating us, in a soft, timid voice, in the name of Jesus Christ. No one paid him much mind, not even to politely refuse.
By contrast, the Scientologist up the road got more attention. He had an actual stall, mounted with that doo-hickey machine and “Dianetics,” L. Ron Hubbard’s masterpiece. It made for a stirring sight with its raging volcano on the front. The Scientologist was younger, and had a Spanish accent, and so people at least politely refused him. On a whim, I allowed my stress levels to be tested. I suspected that this test, which is supposed to convince me to join up, would be rigged. Shockingly! I would be found to be needing the comfort of Scientology.
A few moments after I consented, people began watching. The majority were walkers, customers. One, however, was not. A large Indian man, he stood a few feet behind the table with arms crossed. He seemed to be supervising the test.
The test began with the Scientologist asking me to grasp two hollow metal bars which were connected to a machine reminiscent of a seismograph. He explained that when I felt stress, the needle would jump to the right; otherwise, it would stay level on my natural level of stress. Mine at that moment was, apparently, about a sixth or so from the leftmost position.
Then he asked me to think of friends. The needle didn’t budge. With an air of a man checking off steps on a list (because it is the way), he asked that I think about stressful incidents in my life. And, shockingly(!), when I thought of stressful things, my stress meter went up! That, my friends, is why you should convert to Scientology: stressful things are stressful.
No, I’m making too much fun. Immediately after my test concluded, he attempted to sell me the book; I refused, but another man in the small audience looked at the book and put it. As I left, the audience dispersed too. The interested man asked me how much Dianetics was. Eighteen pounds, I responded. Oh, he said and continued walking. Salvation, but less at less than eighteen pounds, thanks very much.
After some more wandering about, I left for the hostel, where I would pick up my suitcases (they allow you to store your stuff for a few hours after checkout). As I returned, I saw a church advertise itself as, “Open. Prayerful. Relevant.” [emphasis mine]. The best sign of your irrelevance is if you have to insist otherwise. There’s another church that I wandered by, a few days back, that had an article posted up about the disrepair of parish churches. That and the sign seem of a piece to me. So in some ways, the Scientology guy is doing quite well, considering the environment.
I made the fateful decision on Friday to go to Heathrow via London Underground. I chose this because it was cheapest. What I didn’t consider was the number of stairs in every Underground station, even between transfers. Also, my larger suitcase is the SUV of suitcases, and European paths just aren’t built to handle it (later, in Charles de Gaulle, I will apologize several times because of its size.) Not that I dislike my SUV—I can fit so much in it, it looks great, it makes me feel safe, and I know if I get in a collision with another suitcase, mine’s winning.
Besides lugging the suitcase up the stairs, the other problem with this specific trip in the Underground (because generally the Underground is great) was that the line that serves Heathrow is one branch of the Piccadilly line. Hence you need to take the right Picadilly line train. The other branch serves a bunch of suburbs. So what are the first three trains? The ones out to the ‘burbs. Seems to me to be a bad rationing system.
Once on the proper train, everything went smoothly to the airport. Got a look at London’s suburbs, decided there wasn’t much to it. The Underground cars are clean, and the electronic voice very helpful, so I did not feel in the least bit confused.
So everything was going smoothly when I hit the airport. Things continued to go smoothly with a quick electronic check-in and an unusually fast line. But, because something had to go wrong, I found out about something new.
“So how many bags are you checking?” the woman behind the counter asked.
“Two,” I said.
“You are aware that we only allow one bag to be checked?”
“No.”
“There’ll be a fine of sixty pounds if you take the bag with you.”
What could I do? I took out my Visa. The ticket woman started punching things into her computer.
“Never mind. You won’t have to pay.”
I have a few theories as to why this might have happened:
a) Stupid American: The Stupid American cannot figure out the rules. We will give him a break. Seems very unlikely, but who knows?
b) Scare Tactics: British Airways’ actual policy is like every other airlines’. However, they want to pack less, to save on gas costs. Hence, to put the fear of God into you, they almost fine you—so you’ll warn other people and not do it in the future. Seems somewhat roundabout and excessive.
c) Empty Space: As it turned out, the flight was significantly below capacity. I took someone’s space. This seems very plausible, especially in comparison to my flights of fancy, but then, how would she have known that there would be empty spots an hour and a half before the flight was scheduled to take off?
None of these theories is satisfying at all, and that’s because no explanation was offered, and I wasn’t exactly eager to test my luck.
The line for security in Heathrow is very interesting. There’s a line to what looks like a hotel’s reception: a desk with three people waiting behind it, with a square, lit, opaque brick of glass behind them, obstructing the view beyond. For all I knew, heaven or hell lurked beyond. At either sides of the line are neon-vest uniformed agents who bark at people who seem to be contravening some regulation or another.
That last sentence might seem as if I have some sympathy with the people in line. I really don’t. The vast majority of the lawbreaking is stupid stuff people should know about. You know, don’t have a Swiss Army knife keychain off of your backpack; you shouldn’t try and carry your suitcase onto the airplane, stuff like that. That and cell phones at movie theaters and regular theaters. This is obvious stuff, people. And yet everyone thinks they’re an exception: but this liquid is for my chapped lips! I need my cell phone on to talk to my cousin Millie! I didn’t know about the one bag rule! (and thanks for no fine!)
So, no, I really don’t have sympathy for these minor rule-breakers. Are they silly, unjustified rules? Sure. But are you going to change them with your water bottle? Don’t be sillier! Of course you won’t. Stop wasting everyone else’s time with your complaints, too.
After the lobby receptionists (who just check your boarding pass and passport), I was directed to the real enchilada, security. It was an imposing sight. There were garages, really, in the walls with examiners, for example. Ahead of me, there were these cubicles with those rolling things to the side. I was mystified as to the procedure of the British inspections.
I quickly found out. I was selected ‘randomly’ (in the same vein of everyone thinking they’re an exception: everyone believes they’re purposefully selected) to receive a search in the cubicles. This sounds more eerie than it is. First, I did the normal things one does before submitting to an X-ray at the airport: belt off, melt out, shoes off. The cubicle is designed thusly: there’s a closed square, like a photo booth that is visible from the security line. Behind the closed square is an open square enclosure, like a bathroom stall. That’s for the searchee. The searchee is to stand in various positions until the man (in this case an Indian man who mumbled as if through an ice pack) is satisfied. The eerie part, actually, is that the machine acts without sound. The amusing part is the positions: you face away from the closed square and hold up your arms and move about in various permutations of towards and away, arms up and down. The convenient part is that, for your troubles, you get to move ahead of all the other shlubs in the x-ray machine. I think it shaved ten minutes off my waiting time.
Then it was a wait in Heathrow. The terminal that I was in earlier reminded me of a 70’s office building. This is not the case with this terminal, terminal four. It has the aesthetic of one of those restaurants that leaves the guts of the place open for inspection. So I could see the bare fans, the ducts and so on and so forth. I refused to be distracted by the array of duty-free shops and other luxury stores (Harrods makes a nonamusing appearance), and went straight for Starbucks. Perhaps the most peculiar thing I saw on my way there was a Caviar bar. To be clear, I never saw one of these while in London proper, and I went through some pretty posh/tony/(other euphemism for ‘rich’) neighborhoods. So it was a bit odd to see one in an airport.
Blah, blah, blah. Flight. They give away a lot of stuff in British Airways: food and newspapers. What is this, the 90s? No, the exchange rate’s too awful (Paul Krugman argues that the dollar may yet see a Wily E. Coyote moment, i.e., it will look down and see there’s nothing there, it ran over a cliff. Thanks Paul. And, Dollar. If you dare to have this moment while I’m in Europe, I will kill you, Dollar. Just absolutely murder you. I know where you live.) Anyway, flight, blah blah blah. Hey! No Customs! Score!
RER time. Stepping onto an RER train, after having been on the London Underground, is a shock. The Underground is after modern clean chic; RER could generously be described as going after 70’s plush colorful chic. Actually I think they’re lazy. London’s electronic voices ask you to mind the gap; no one does this in Paris (the gaps are worse in Paris). London advises you by voice and with the printed word. Paris uses these two methods and adds a third, childish cartoon characters. I’ll be sure not to stick my hand into a closing door now, because I just saw a pink bunny do it.
Further comparisons: the Paris suburbs just south of Charles de Gaulle are much more run-down than anything in London. The graffiti is an infestation on some parts. Uh, nothing else. I got in too late to really do anything.
I’m living in the Fondation des Etats-Unis, a dorm that’s a part of the Cite Internationale Universite Paris. Here’s a good mental image: take a hotel. Now make it an art deco, 1930s hotel. Now make it a dorm. Whatever elegance it has, it should be faded. Now make the furnishings spartan. There’s the Fondation, and there’s my room. It’s a single, which is awesome, and larger than my hostel room (oh the magic of low expectations). I’m quite satisfied with that aspect.
What is less than satisfying is the neighborhood. Let’s just say that it appears to be a very residential area, without much in the way of food. At least according to my very preliminary explorations. I was planning on spending most of my time in Paris proper anyway, thanks!
The thing I had the most anxiety about, before leaving, was the language actually. I like to joke that not speaking French in Paris is not a big deal; they all speak English. This is true. What’s a problem about this, however, is that the conversation will almost always switch to English, no matter how earnestly you’re trying to communicate in French. Oh well, I gave it an effort and even managed to fool (er, communicate) with a few French people.
Adding to these usual worries were the worries of changing countries. It seems to me that one of two things will invariably happen when you leave a country: either you will run out of money, or you will have more than you need. I never have exactly enough. I thought I was in the latter category, until I opened my wallet earlier tonight, in France, and discovered a 5 pound note. Oh well, I’ll have a layover in Heathrow.
Besides the pre-flight jitters, I also had time to burn between check-out, at 10 AM, and my flight, at 2:50 PM. Serendipitously, the Portobello Road Market was open in Notting Hill, a quick walk from the hostel (the hostel might even technically be in Notting Hill, but who knows?). I had never heard of the Portobello Road Market, but who can refuse a street fair, especially one that bills itself, “The world’s largest antiques fair?” I can’t, that’s for sure.
The Portobello Road Market is, in its particulars, exactly the same as every other street fair. There is a line of stalls, each selling different goods at cheap prices. The usual suspects were on sale: clothing, vintage clothing, music, food, books, marijuana-themed goods (excuse me, hemp), etc. But the Market distinguishes itself in scale. It is probably six or seven blocks long, full to the gills. When I saw cars trying to muscle their way through, I wondered what bonehead was placed on this earth, to try and get his way through this. You can’t go some other way, buddy?
As I hiked up the road, I noticed an old man in a tweed blazer, simply standing in an empty parking space, holding pamphlets. He was entreating us, in a soft, timid voice, in the name of Jesus Christ. No one paid him much mind, not even to politely refuse.
By contrast, the Scientologist up the road got more attention. He had an actual stall, mounted with that doo-hickey machine and “Dianetics,” L. Ron Hubbard’s masterpiece. It made for a stirring sight with its raging volcano on the front. The Scientologist was younger, and had a Spanish accent, and so people at least politely refused him. On a whim, I allowed my stress levels to be tested. I suspected that this test, which is supposed to convince me to join up, would be rigged. Shockingly! I would be found to be needing the comfort of Scientology.
A few moments after I consented, people began watching. The majority were walkers, customers. One, however, was not. A large Indian man, he stood a few feet behind the table with arms crossed. He seemed to be supervising the test.
The test began with the Scientologist asking me to grasp two hollow metal bars which were connected to a machine reminiscent of a seismograph. He explained that when I felt stress, the needle would jump to the right; otherwise, it would stay level on my natural level of stress. Mine at that moment was, apparently, about a sixth or so from the leftmost position.
Then he asked me to think of friends. The needle didn’t budge. With an air of a man checking off steps on a list (because it is the way), he asked that I think about stressful incidents in my life. And, shockingly(!), when I thought of stressful things, my stress meter went up! That, my friends, is why you should convert to Scientology: stressful things are stressful.
No, I’m making too much fun. Immediately after my test concluded, he attempted to sell me the book; I refused, but another man in the small audience looked at the book and put it. As I left, the audience dispersed too. The interested man asked me how much Dianetics was. Eighteen pounds, I responded. Oh, he said and continued walking. Salvation, but less at less than eighteen pounds, thanks very much.
After some more wandering about, I left for the hostel, where I would pick up my suitcases (they allow you to store your stuff for a few hours after checkout). As I returned, I saw a church advertise itself as, “Open. Prayerful. Relevant.” [emphasis mine]. The best sign of your irrelevance is if you have to insist otherwise. There’s another church that I wandered by, a few days back, that had an article posted up about the disrepair of parish churches. That and the sign seem of a piece to me. So in some ways, the Scientology guy is doing quite well, considering the environment.
I made the fateful decision on Friday to go to Heathrow via London Underground. I chose this because it was cheapest. What I didn’t consider was the number of stairs in every Underground station, even between transfers. Also, my larger suitcase is the SUV of suitcases, and European paths just aren’t built to handle it (later, in Charles de Gaulle, I will apologize several times because of its size.) Not that I dislike my SUV—I can fit so much in it, it looks great, it makes me feel safe, and I know if I get in a collision with another suitcase, mine’s winning.
Besides lugging the suitcase up the stairs, the other problem with this specific trip in the Underground (because generally the Underground is great) was that the line that serves Heathrow is one branch of the Piccadilly line. Hence you need to take the right Picadilly line train. The other branch serves a bunch of suburbs. So what are the first three trains? The ones out to the ‘burbs. Seems to me to be a bad rationing system.
Once on the proper train, everything went smoothly to the airport. Got a look at London’s suburbs, decided there wasn’t much to it. The Underground cars are clean, and the electronic voice very helpful, so I did not feel in the least bit confused.
So everything was going smoothly when I hit the airport. Things continued to go smoothly with a quick electronic check-in and an unusually fast line. But, because something had to go wrong, I found out about something new.
“So how many bags are you checking?” the woman behind the counter asked.
“Two,” I said.
“You are aware that we only allow one bag to be checked?”
“No.”
“There’ll be a fine of sixty pounds if you take the bag with you.”
What could I do? I took out my Visa. The ticket woman started punching things into her computer.
“Never mind. You won’t have to pay.”
I have a few theories as to why this might have happened:
a) Stupid American: The Stupid American cannot figure out the rules. We will give him a break. Seems very unlikely, but who knows?
b) Scare Tactics: British Airways’ actual policy is like every other airlines’. However, they want to pack less, to save on gas costs. Hence, to put the fear of God into you, they almost fine you—so you’ll warn other people and not do it in the future. Seems somewhat roundabout and excessive.
c) Empty Space: As it turned out, the flight was significantly below capacity. I took someone’s space. This seems very plausible, especially in comparison to my flights of fancy, but then, how would she have known that there would be empty spots an hour and a half before the flight was scheduled to take off?
None of these theories is satisfying at all, and that’s because no explanation was offered, and I wasn’t exactly eager to test my luck.
The line for security in Heathrow is very interesting. There’s a line to what looks like a hotel’s reception: a desk with three people waiting behind it, with a square, lit, opaque brick of glass behind them, obstructing the view beyond. For all I knew, heaven or hell lurked beyond. At either sides of the line are neon-vest uniformed agents who bark at people who seem to be contravening some regulation or another.
That last sentence might seem as if I have some sympathy with the people in line. I really don’t. The vast majority of the lawbreaking is stupid stuff people should know about. You know, don’t have a Swiss Army knife keychain off of your backpack; you shouldn’t try and carry your suitcase onto the airplane, stuff like that. That and cell phones at movie theaters and regular theaters. This is obvious stuff, people. And yet everyone thinks they’re an exception: but this liquid is for my chapped lips! I need my cell phone on to talk to my cousin Millie! I didn’t know about the one bag rule! (and thanks for no fine!)
So, no, I really don’t have sympathy for these minor rule-breakers. Are they silly, unjustified rules? Sure. But are you going to change them with your water bottle? Don’t be sillier! Of course you won’t. Stop wasting everyone else’s time with your complaints, too.
After the lobby receptionists (who just check your boarding pass and passport), I was directed to the real enchilada, security. It was an imposing sight. There were garages, really, in the walls with examiners, for example. Ahead of me, there were these cubicles with those rolling things to the side. I was mystified as to the procedure of the British inspections.
I quickly found out. I was selected ‘randomly’ (in the same vein of everyone thinking they’re an exception: everyone believes they’re purposefully selected) to receive a search in the cubicles. This sounds more eerie than it is. First, I did the normal things one does before submitting to an X-ray at the airport: belt off, melt out, shoes off. The cubicle is designed thusly: there’s a closed square, like a photo booth that is visible from the security line. Behind the closed square is an open square enclosure, like a bathroom stall. That’s for the searchee. The searchee is to stand in various positions until the man (in this case an Indian man who mumbled as if through an ice pack) is satisfied. The eerie part, actually, is that the machine acts without sound. The amusing part is the positions: you face away from the closed square and hold up your arms and move about in various permutations of towards and away, arms up and down. The convenient part is that, for your troubles, you get to move ahead of all the other shlubs in the x-ray machine. I think it shaved ten minutes off my waiting time.
Then it was a wait in Heathrow. The terminal that I was in earlier reminded me of a 70’s office building. This is not the case with this terminal, terminal four. It has the aesthetic of one of those restaurants that leaves the guts of the place open for inspection. So I could see the bare fans, the ducts and so on and so forth. I refused to be distracted by the array of duty-free shops and other luxury stores (Harrods makes a nonamusing appearance), and went straight for Starbucks. Perhaps the most peculiar thing I saw on my way there was a Caviar bar. To be clear, I never saw one of these while in London proper, and I went through some pretty posh/tony/(other euphemism for ‘rich’) neighborhoods. So it was a bit odd to see one in an airport.
Blah, blah, blah. Flight. They give away a lot of stuff in British Airways: food and newspapers. What is this, the 90s? No, the exchange rate’s too awful (Paul Krugman argues that the dollar may yet see a Wily E. Coyote moment, i.e., it will look down and see there’s nothing there, it ran over a cliff. Thanks Paul. And, Dollar. If you dare to have this moment while I’m in Europe, I will kill you, Dollar. Just absolutely murder you. I know where you live.) Anyway, flight, blah blah blah. Hey! No Customs! Score!
RER time. Stepping onto an RER train, after having been on the London Underground, is a shock. The Underground is after modern clean chic; RER could generously be described as going after 70’s plush colorful chic. Actually I think they’re lazy. London’s electronic voices ask you to mind the gap; no one does this in Paris (the gaps are worse in Paris). London advises you by voice and with the printed word. Paris uses these two methods and adds a third, childish cartoon characters. I’ll be sure not to stick my hand into a closing door now, because I just saw a pink bunny do it.
Further comparisons: the Paris suburbs just south of Charles de Gaulle are much more run-down than anything in London. The graffiti is an infestation on some parts. Uh, nothing else. I got in too late to really do anything.
I’m living in the Fondation des Etats-Unis, a dorm that’s a part of the Cite Internationale Universite Paris. Here’s a good mental image: take a hotel. Now make it an art deco, 1930s hotel. Now make it a dorm. Whatever elegance it has, it should be faded. Now make the furnishings spartan. There’s the Fondation, and there’s my room. It’s a single, which is awesome, and larger than my hostel room (oh the magic of low expectations). I’m quite satisfied with that aspect.
What is less than satisfying is the neighborhood. Let’s just say that it appears to be a very residential area, without much in the way of food. At least according to my very preliminary explorations. I was planning on spending most of my time in Paris proper anyway, thanks!
The thing I had the most anxiety about, before leaving, was the language actually. I like to joke that not speaking French in Paris is not a big deal; they all speak English. This is true. What’s a problem about this, however, is that the conversation will almost always switch to English, no matter how earnestly you’re trying to communicate in French. Oh well, I gave it an effort and even managed to fool (er, communicate) with a few French people.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Look on my works...
When I went to sleep last night, I couldn’t hear something and it shocked me. What I couldn’t hear was the hubbub, the din, the buzz of a normal big city. Going to sleep in New York, for me at least, is always a chore because it truly never sleeps. I don’t think London really sleeps either, it’s simply more polite about its after-hour habit. From my hostel, you can’t hear traffic or many carousers—sound-wise, it’s a good place to go to sleep.
Nor is this a phenomenon unique to my hostel. Several residential neighborhoods, I’ve noticed, share this characteristic. Both Hyde and St. James Park possess it too. This sense of auditory sanity is something unique about London amongst the metropolises I’ve visited. In fact, between the islands of silence and the stately houses, I think London’s residential districts are the nicest of any big city I’ve gone to.
I spent a lot of time in the parks today, hanging out, so I really noticed it, having spent a lot of time around Trafalgar Square and Piccadilly Circus, otherwise known as Tourist Hubs A and B.
The first thing I did when I entered was visiting Kensington Palace. I wasn’t really particularly interested in it, but it’d been on so many signs that my curiosity was piqued. It’s a nice enough building, but Palace seems a bit of a misnomer. “Summer House” seems a better name for it; it inspires images of stock footage from English movies of the countryside (you know, the carriages, the white dresses, the breeches, the croquet games, the parlor banter, etc.). Off to the side of the Palace is an area walled off by trees, but with arches cut into them. I peeked in one and saw a beautiful yet small garden with a riot of purples, blues, reds and greens. Apparently others agreed with me; one man smoked and just allowed his eyes to drift over it while a young girl tried use bread to attract the attention of a duck that’d wandered in.
After that, I had to see another attraction that practically every sign had pointed out: the Diana Memorial Fountain. No matter what corner of the park you enter from, there’s always a sign pointing you towards that fountain. This is the only attraction that receives this treatment; you practically have to be right on top of Speaker’s Corner before a sign will direct you to it, for example. So I set off following the signs to the Fountain.
After a nice walk, I made it there. I almost passed it before I realized that this was it. It’s not very distinctive. There were neither throngs surrounding it nor wreaths laid, which was doubly shocking. First, it seems to me that Diana still gets a lot of attention: Kensington Palace is holding an exhibition in memory of Diana and practically every stand that sells postcards sells postcards in the shapes of QEII’s face, Charles’ face, and Diana’s face (and never just one of the three). The other shocking thing about the lack of popular attention is that practically every monument in London, from a Breakdancing record cover (without vinyl) at the Gandhi memorial to wreaths of roses at the innumerable military memorials, has enjoyed someone’s commemoration.
Besides the lack of popular attention, the memorial itself is not particularly memorial-like. It is an artificial island with a small tree set off-center, and a winding stone path in the middle of the island. The artificiality is achieved via moat, which gurgles with water. It has a serene feel, crucial to the monumental feel, but the onlooker has no idea who is supposed to be remembered or saluted. Overall, it was a very strange feeling, considering that I pessimistically expected more, I don’t know, remembrance.
I got what I was expecting at Harrods. Why did I go? Well, for cheap humor, of course. For example, while we’re on the subject of Diana, there is a Diana memorial in Harrods on the basement floor. It’s her and some dude whose name also begins with a ‘D’ (not being versed in the Diana legend, I couldn’t tell you who he was or why he was there). It’s like a gravestone, really, on a sort of greenish marble. Each person’s picture is inset in the stone, and each picture has a cheap airbrushed quality, as if some intern did it the night before on Photoshop. Below each picture, each of their names is etched in gold lettering. While I watched from the escalator, about five grinning people took pictures in front of it. They were not part of a group.
But wait, that’s not it for small amusements! Their motto, as I have mentioned earlier, is “Timeless Luxury.” What I did not realize earlier is this: ironically, this motto is set to expire on October 20th.
Their food emporium, stocked with crepes at fifteen pounds and sausage at ten pounds, also carries Krispie Kremes. This strikes me as very appropriate: Harrods is nothing but obvious in its execution, and Krispie Kremes are perhaps the most obvious American food I can think of, in the same way as Pamela Anderson is the most obvious American woman and Carlos Mencia is the most obvious American comedian: all of these things share the quality of shouting from the rooftops, “_____ is WHAT I’M ABOUT” in a way that degrades the whole point of _____ (where ____ is luxury, sugar, breasts, and offensive humor, respectively).
Harrods also has a little known anger department that seeks to offend literate people. As you travel up the Egyptian room escalator (there is an Egyptian room, for no apparent reason, as it makes no effort to sell you anything even vaguely Egyptian), you can see the kitschy Egyptian decorations: mummies, hieroglyphics, and the like. But, if you look closely, you can see a quotation: “MY NAME IS OZYMANDIAS, KING OF KINGS. LOOK ON MY WORKS, YE MIGHTY, AND DESPAIR!” I became very angry when I saw this. The point of the poem is to describe the impermanence of all things, and ways the worthlessness of accumulation of “mighty works.” Which, of course, is antithetical to the whole point of a luxury chain like Harrods. This means one of a few things happened.
Either:
a) Someone just saw the first two lines of the poem, liked it and didn’t bother to read the rest.
b) Someone read the whole poem and didn’t get it
c) Someone read the whole poem, got it and believes that Harrods is an exception
d) Someone read the whole poem, got it and is joking
I’m hoping for d), but not optimistic that this is the case. I suspect a) or b) and would really be disgusted with c).
After Harrods provided me with cheap humor and cheap cookies (seriously the only thing that’s underpriced in the whole store), I ate lunch in Hyde Park, hung around for a few hours, then had dinner in Covent Garden. Covent Garden is a notable yet tucked-away area. It is a square in which a market has sprung up in the center. I had dinner in an outdoor café while I watched street performers and watched people watch street performers. On the whole, London’s street performers are pretty good, but there was one who was just torturous to listen to. Listen, buddy, you’re probably not reading this, but if this somehow falls into your hands: if you can’t hit the high notes on “She Loves You” by the Beatles, then you definitely shouldn’t turn it into a slow-tempo song. Thank god there was a dueling musician playing good, if cheesy songs (“The First Cut is the Deepest” is a representative song).
Well, that’s more or less it for London. Flight leaves for Paris at 2:50 PM tomorrow.
*****
Ah, but some vignettes first.
*****
I’ve figured out a pecking order, in terms of affections, for the park: swans first; just below, white geese; just below, ducks; way below, gray geese; no one cares/hates: pigeons and crows. If the herons and cormorants gave a shit, they’d be right in that thing. And yes, the pun at the beginning was very intentional.
****
There’s a really cool tree in the park. It is gnarled and overgrown, so much so that its branches go up first, then down. It has almost certainly been sculpted to achieve this effect, but it is nonetheless impressive to see a tree that is a literal umbrella. There are portals cut into the branches to make the inside of the tree accessible. Otherwise, the ground-touching branches would be impenetrable.
*****
Back to the pigeons: the London pigeons are very distinctive for reasons that I’ve mentioned earlier. Besides these reasons, they also have a habit of withdrawing their heads into their body, almost like a turtle going into its shell.
****
Well, Maddy’s back in the news today, and competing valiantly with the Chelsea manager’s firing. Here’s what I’ve gathered: Maddy was abducted and killed. Also, young, white and cute. But I’ve already mentioned she’s back in the news—god, I should stop being so redundant. Anyway, so there’s apparently a ‘chilling new theory’ from the dad, and authorities are suspicious of ‘a six-hour unexplained gap from the mother.’
The other big story, the fired Chelsea manager inspires more meta-media interest. All the papers continued to carry the news as front-page stuff. One, the Evening Standard, devoted a quarter of the paper to his sacking. Each page had a banner that said, “Thanks for the memories, Jose” (that was his name, Jose Mourinho), with a circle at the end of the banner containing his face and the dates of his tenure. You’d have thought he was dead. By comparison, the Bay Area papers devoted similar space to Bill Walsh’s death, and he was one of the greatest innovators the game of American football has ever known. This is just to give you a sense of the proportion of soccer’s hold.
****
Londoners jogging is the oddest thing. They seem to have a similar style. That style could best be described as a manikin running.
Nor is this a phenomenon unique to my hostel. Several residential neighborhoods, I’ve noticed, share this characteristic. Both Hyde and St. James Park possess it too. This sense of auditory sanity is something unique about London amongst the metropolises I’ve visited. In fact, between the islands of silence and the stately houses, I think London’s residential districts are the nicest of any big city I’ve gone to.
I spent a lot of time in the parks today, hanging out, so I really noticed it, having spent a lot of time around Trafalgar Square and Piccadilly Circus, otherwise known as Tourist Hubs A and B.
The first thing I did when I entered was visiting Kensington Palace. I wasn’t really particularly interested in it, but it’d been on so many signs that my curiosity was piqued. It’s a nice enough building, but Palace seems a bit of a misnomer. “Summer House” seems a better name for it; it inspires images of stock footage from English movies of the countryside (you know, the carriages, the white dresses, the breeches, the croquet games, the parlor banter, etc.). Off to the side of the Palace is an area walled off by trees, but with arches cut into them. I peeked in one and saw a beautiful yet small garden with a riot of purples, blues, reds and greens. Apparently others agreed with me; one man smoked and just allowed his eyes to drift over it while a young girl tried use bread to attract the attention of a duck that’d wandered in.
After that, I had to see another attraction that practically every sign had pointed out: the Diana Memorial Fountain. No matter what corner of the park you enter from, there’s always a sign pointing you towards that fountain. This is the only attraction that receives this treatment; you practically have to be right on top of Speaker’s Corner before a sign will direct you to it, for example. So I set off following the signs to the Fountain.
After a nice walk, I made it there. I almost passed it before I realized that this was it. It’s not very distinctive. There were neither throngs surrounding it nor wreaths laid, which was doubly shocking. First, it seems to me that Diana still gets a lot of attention: Kensington Palace is holding an exhibition in memory of Diana and practically every stand that sells postcards sells postcards in the shapes of QEII’s face, Charles’ face, and Diana’s face (and never just one of the three). The other shocking thing about the lack of popular attention is that practically every monument in London, from a Breakdancing record cover (without vinyl) at the Gandhi memorial to wreaths of roses at the innumerable military memorials, has enjoyed someone’s commemoration.
Besides the lack of popular attention, the memorial itself is not particularly memorial-like. It is an artificial island with a small tree set off-center, and a winding stone path in the middle of the island. The artificiality is achieved via moat, which gurgles with water. It has a serene feel, crucial to the monumental feel, but the onlooker has no idea who is supposed to be remembered or saluted. Overall, it was a very strange feeling, considering that I pessimistically expected more, I don’t know, remembrance.
I got what I was expecting at Harrods. Why did I go? Well, for cheap humor, of course. For example, while we’re on the subject of Diana, there is a Diana memorial in Harrods on the basement floor. It’s her and some dude whose name also begins with a ‘D’ (not being versed in the Diana legend, I couldn’t tell you who he was or why he was there). It’s like a gravestone, really, on a sort of greenish marble. Each person’s picture is inset in the stone, and each picture has a cheap airbrushed quality, as if some intern did it the night before on Photoshop. Below each picture, each of their names is etched in gold lettering. While I watched from the escalator, about five grinning people took pictures in front of it. They were not part of a group.
But wait, that’s not it for small amusements! Their motto, as I have mentioned earlier, is “Timeless Luxury.” What I did not realize earlier is this: ironically, this motto is set to expire on October 20th.
Their food emporium, stocked with crepes at fifteen pounds and sausage at ten pounds, also carries Krispie Kremes. This strikes me as very appropriate: Harrods is nothing but obvious in its execution, and Krispie Kremes are perhaps the most obvious American food I can think of, in the same way as Pamela Anderson is the most obvious American woman and Carlos Mencia is the most obvious American comedian: all of these things share the quality of shouting from the rooftops, “_____ is WHAT I’M ABOUT” in a way that degrades the whole point of _____ (where ____ is luxury, sugar, breasts, and offensive humor, respectively).
Harrods also has a little known anger department that seeks to offend literate people. As you travel up the Egyptian room escalator (there is an Egyptian room, for no apparent reason, as it makes no effort to sell you anything even vaguely Egyptian), you can see the kitschy Egyptian decorations: mummies, hieroglyphics, and the like. But, if you look closely, you can see a quotation: “MY NAME IS OZYMANDIAS, KING OF KINGS. LOOK ON MY WORKS, YE MIGHTY, AND DESPAIR!” I became very angry when I saw this. The point of the poem is to describe the impermanence of all things, and ways the worthlessness of accumulation of “mighty works.” Which, of course, is antithetical to the whole point of a luxury chain like Harrods. This means one of a few things happened.
Either:
a) Someone just saw the first two lines of the poem, liked it and didn’t bother to read the rest.
b) Someone read the whole poem and didn’t get it
c) Someone read the whole poem, got it and believes that Harrods is an exception
d) Someone read the whole poem, got it and is joking
I’m hoping for d), but not optimistic that this is the case. I suspect a) or b) and would really be disgusted with c).
After Harrods provided me with cheap humor and cheap cookies (seriously the only thing that’s underpriced in the whole store), I ate lunch in Hyde Park, hung around for a few hours, then had dinner in Covent Garden. Covent Garden is a notable yet tucked-away area. It is a square in which a market has sprung up in the center. I had dinner in an outdoor café while I watched street performers and watched people watch street performers. On the whole, London’s street performers are pretty good, but there was one who was just torturous to listen to. Listen, buddy, you’re probably not reading this, but if this somehow falls into your hands: if you can’t hit the high notes on “She Loves You” by the Beatles, then you definitely shouldn’t turn it into a slow-tempo song. Thank god there was a dueling musician playing good, if cheesy songs (“The First Cut is the Deepest” is a representative song).
Well, that’s more or less it for London. Flight leaves for Paris at 2:50 PM tomorrow.
*****
Ah, but some vignettes first.
*****
I’ve figured out a pecking order, in terms of affections, for the park: swans first; just below, white geese; just below, ducks; way below, gray geese; no one cares/hates: pigeons and crows. If the herons and cormorants gave a shit, they’d be right in that thing. And yes, the pun at the beginning was very intentional.
****
There’s a really cool tree in the park. It is gnarled and overgrown, so much so that its branches go up first, then down. It has almost certainly been sculpted to achieve this effect, but it is nonetheless impressive to see a tree that is a literal umbrella. There are portals cut into the branches to make the inside of the tree accessible. Otherwise, the ground-touching branches would be impenetrable.
*****
Back to the pigeons: the London pigeons are very distinctive for reasons that I’ve mentioned earlier. Besides these reasons, they also have a habit of withdrawing their heads into their body, almost like a turtle going into its shell.
****
Well, Maddy’s back in the news today, and competing valiantly with the Chelsea manager’s firing. Here’s what I’ve gathered: Maddy was abducted and killed. Also, young, white and cute. But I’ve already mentioned she’s back in the news—god, I should stop being so redundant. Anyway, so there’s apparently a ‘chilling new theory’ from the dad, and authorities are suspicious of ‘a six-hour unexplained gap from the mother.’
The other big story, the fired Chelsea manager inspires more meta-media interest. All the papers continued to carry the news as front-page stuff. One, the Evening Standard, devoted a quarter of the paper to his sacking. Each page had a banner that said, “Thanks for the memories, Jose” (that was his name, Jose Mourinho), with a circle at the end of the banner containing his face and the dates of his tenure. You’d have thought he was dead. By comparison, the Bay Area papers devoted similar space to Bill Walsh’s death, and he was one of the greatest innovators the game of American football has ever known. This is just to give you a sense of the proportion of soccer’s hold.
****
Londoners jogging is the oddest thing. They seem to have a similar style. That style could best be described as a manikin running.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Shocker: Darius visits museum
Today I visited the last of the museums in London that I plan to. I had contemplated visiting more, but it appears that a few that I would be interested are closed. This is fine; I’ll take it easier tomorrow, and my legs will thank me for it.
I structured my museum-visiting, throughout the trip, to visit two close museums; it happened that I visited more prestigious institutions first. So I wasn’t really expecting impressive things when I visited the Cortauld Gallery and National Portrait Gallery.
The Cortauld Gallery is curiously located. Sitting on the Strand, a street near the Thames that combines old government buildings, gleaming business high-rises and various holes-in-the-walls, the Gallery is withdrawn from the street.
The first thing that you see when you enter the building that the Gallery is housed in is a large courtyard dominated by a fountain in the center, ringed by metal tables. Then you search for the Gallery; some signs speak of a “Somerset House” while others speak of “Cortauld Gallery.” You figure it out in time; Cortauld Gallery is a small section of the large, grand building surrounding the courtyard. The grand building, it resembles Versailles in that it has two wings surrounding a central courtyard. Courtauld Gallery is located at the corner of the wing that is closest to the street. So after you realize the location of Cortauld Gallery within the complex, you then realize that you have to pay for entrance, not a ‘suggested donation’ like all the other British galleries you’ve been to. Nor does a ticket cover the whole gallery; you have to buy even more to access the special exhibitions. But you’ve come here for the Impressionist and Post-Impressionist art, which is your favored period, so you pay up.
Let it be known that that decision was the right one; I’m very glad I paid up. There are some small rooms with Renaissance art that are merely OK, but the Impressionist and Post-Impressionist stuff is truly remarkable. Cortauld, blessed with both money and taste, assembled a great collection. This gallery is probably most accessible to the novice or casual art-watcher, as virtually every piece is a master’s. To name names: Degas (he has a whole room!), Monet (especially Antibes), Manet (a few that I’ve seen in textbooks, like the Card Players or A Bar at the Folies-Bergere), Cezanne, Seurat, Gaugin, Picasso, Van Gogh (including the one with his bandaged ear), and I’m probably forgetting a few, but there you go…The paintings that aren’t by highly famous artists are also quite good. While not quite as large as the more famous museum’s collections, the Cortauld’s collection more than makes up for it with the quality of its pieces.
After that, on a whim, I visited the National Portrait Gallery. When I read its description in a guidebook, I can’t say I was too enthused: it’s a collection of portraits of British worthies. The guidebook was not that interested, and it showed through in its writing. After visiting, I’m surprised as to why. Yes, I can see why the really old stuff is boring: who really cares about the ninth Earl of Shaftesbury? Most of the stuff before 1900 is inaccessible to anyone who isn’t a major art history buff or who doesn’t know British history (beyond platitudes, I mean. I learned about rotten boroughs and the Chartists, but I can’t say my knowledge is particularly deep.) But after 1900, two things happen. First, I began recognizing the subjects of the pictures (oh! Virginia Woolf! oh! Paul McCartney!). Second, even for the people I didn’t recognize, the art deepened and changed in an interesting way.
One of the most important recent conflicts in art history, to this uninformed mind, is the conflict between representing the subject as it is and expressing some deeper emotional truth via strange stuff (colors that aren’t there, or squares, or random splatters, etc.). But portraiture forces you to do both. If you weren’t representational, no one would recognize that you just painted something of Queen Elizabeth II; if you didn’t express some deeper emotional truth, then why not just look at the picture in the tabloids? So you have to mind both worlds, to great results; even though I didn’t recognize many of the subjects, they nonetheless projected great gravity and emotion. So I saw some very interesting portraits, including a man with so much energy that his limbs burst from the frame. The other, one of Harold Pinter, summed him up so well: it was a precise painting of his features, against eerie red sky and roiling green-gray sea.
So both of these museums were underappreciated, I felt, by those guidebooks and prestige. Here’s my museums power rankings:
1) British Museum
2) Cortauld
3) Tate Modern
4) Tate Britain
5) National Gallery
6) Victoria & Albert
7) National Portrait
To be clear, all of these museums are worth visiting; it’s just the order that I liked them in.
****
Comparing the names of businesses in Britain to the names of businesses in the US is very interesting, although I won’t try and overinterpret my observations. In both countries, there are names from abstract concepts, i.e. SuperMart or Lilywhite’s (think Dick’s Sporting Goods) and the like. In the US, there are a lot of businesses named after individuals, i.e. Wegman’s or Ford’s or something like that. In Britain, I can only think of one or two business named after a single entity—Sainsbury’s, the supermarket chain, and a few other small businesses. The plurality of business names, especially the upscale ones, are after pairs of entities: Marks & Spencer, Hawes & Curtis, Crabtree & Evelyn (which I believe was originally British), and so on.
****
Jaywalking and traffic are unusually easy in London. While the congestion is worse than a bad cold, I rarely hear car horns blown or expletives hurled. Jaywalking, too, is far easier due to a critical London innovation: the pedestrian island. Halfway through virtually every wide London street is an island where you can cool your heels. Hence you can jaywalk in easily-chewable stages. Furthermore, even if you screw up, drivers are unusually tolerant and observant (not that I’ve screwed up; this is merely my observation. Honest, really.)
The best summation of both of these phenomena is something I saw today: I was waiting at the Hyde Park Corner. London is a city so grand that its roundabouts are monuments: there’s a large, Roman-style triumphal arch with horses crowning it, surrounded by war monuments. At any rate, I was waiting there instead of jaywalking because traffic was unusually heavy; also it was a major intersection (on the other hand, I would estimate that I jaywalk the majority of the time I don’t have the light). Anyway, a large black man with a booming, sonorous voice screamed, “WAIT! WAIT! DON’T DRIVE!” while rushing onto the road. He bent down, plucked something-or-other off the road, then rushed back to the island across from me. In New York, this would’ve earned swear words, beeps, and quite probably injury. In the here and now, he earned merely an exasperated look from a cabbie.
“What just happened?” I asked an onlooker.
“Looks like he dropped his mobile,” he responded. We shared a chuckle because it seemed so crazy. But, then again, he had his cell phone (or mobile, if you must have it that way. Actually, mobile does have a certain ring to it. No pun intended.)
****
BOOK REVIEW: THE MASTER AND MARGHARITA
Yesterday I finished The Master and Margharita by Mikhail Bulgakov, and I meant to review it then. But I forgot, so I’m doing it now. The book is set in Soviet Russia, and concerns a surprise visit by the Devil in the guise of a foreign professor “in the black arts.” He terrorizes Moscow, and the literary community in particular before…well, I couldn’t give it away.
Simultaneously a funny book with many witty asides, and a very serious book, The Master and Margharita is well worth reading.
One of the principal lines of thought regarding the book that I’d like to discuss briefly are its themes. Most suggest that the book involves itself principally with art and its nature; the people who are terrorized are often held up as evidence.
But I disagree; I think the book is about randomness, and the folly of trying to defeat or rationalize it. The artists of this book believe they have the world figured out. Not for nothing does the book begin with an editor lecturing a poet on the correct history of Jesus’ life. But the devil disrupts all that. The human temptation, in the face of disaster, is to defy it and explain it. Some disasters—disease, say—are amenable to this kind of response. Others are not. There will always be problems in life that are inexplicable and invincible. They must be accepted. That’s what the successful characters do, at least. The trouble is in identifying what these invincible problems. Surely some diseases were thought to be insolvable for the longest time, until they were. It is probably best, therefore, to adopt the contradictory attitude of accepting its existence and somehow defeating it.
****
The biggest news of the day, wiping out this mysterious “Mandy” mystery story that I haven’t put the effort in to finding out about, is that the Chelsea FC (Football Club)’s manager was just fired and given 20 million pounds for the trouble. Everyone’s got this as front-page, top-fold. I mention this not out of particular interest about the story, merely to note how quickly it was the story of DNA testing and shattered lives to Ohmigod! He just got fired! That’s the modern media culture for you.
****
Glancing at a Gap storefront window today, I noticed that the British Gap sells different clothing than the American Gap. This particular one sells jodhpurs and jackets with mandarin collars. I guess the imperial era is back after all! (I did like the jacket with the mandarin collar.)
*****
COUNTS:
ALL THE SAME AS YESTERDAY.
*****
The past two days, an unusual number of people have begun asking me for directions, and a surprising number of times, I have been able to guide them to the proper destination. This never happens in Rochester (either part; people rarely ask me for directions, and when they do, I never know what they’re asking about.)
I structured my museum-visiting, throughout the trip, to visit two close museums; it happened that I visited more prestigious institutions first. So I wasn’t really expecting impressive things when I visited the Cortauld Gallery and National Portrait Gallery.
The Cortauld Gallery is curiously located. Sitting on the Strand, a street near the Thames that combines old government buildings, gleaming business high-rises and various holes-in-the-walls, the Gallery is withdrawn from the street.
The first thing that you see when you enter the building that the Gallery is housed in is a large courtyard dominated by a fountain in the center, ringed by metal tables. Then you search for the Gallery; some signs speak of a “Somerset House” while others speak of “Cortauld Gallery.” You figure it out in time; Cortauld Gallery is a small section of the large, grand building surrounding the courtyard. The grand building, it resembles Versailles in that it has two wings surrounding a central courtyard. Courtauld Gallery is located at the corner of the wing that is closest to the street. So after you realize the location of Cortauld Gallery within the complex, you then realize that you have to pay for entrance, not a ‘suggested donation’ like all the other British galleries you’ve been to. Nor does a ticket cover the whole gallery; you have to buy even more to access the special exhibitions. But you’ve come here for the Impressionist and Post-Impressionist art, which is your favored period, so you pay up.
Let it be known that that decision was the right one; I’m very glad I paid up. There are some small rooms with Renaissance art that are merely OK, but the Impressionist and Post-Impressionist stuff is truly remarkable. Cortauld, blessed with both money and taste, assembled a great collection. This gallery is probably most accessible to the novice or casual art-watcher, as virtually every piece is a master’s. To name names: Degas (he has a whole room!), Monet (especially Antibes), Manet (a few that I’ve seen in textbooks, like the Card Players or A Bar at the Folies-Bergere), Cezanne, Seurat, Gaugin, Picasso, Van Gogh (including the one with his bandaged ear), and I’m probably forgetting a few, but there you go…The paintings that aren’t by highly famous artists are also quite good. While not quite as large as the more famous museum’s collections, the Cortauld’s collection more than makes up for it with the quality of its pieces.
After that, on a whim, I visited the National Portrait Gallery. When I read its description in a guidebook, I can’t say I was too enthused: it’s a collection of portraits of British worthies. The guidebook was not that interested, and it showed through in its writing. After visiting, I’m surprised as to why. Yes, I can see why the really old stuff is boring: who really cares about the ninth Earl of Shaftesbury? Most of the stuff before 1900 is inaccessible to anyone who isn’t a major art history buff or who doesn’t know British history (beyond platitudes, I mean. I learned about rotten boroughs and the Chartists, but I can’t say my knowledge is particularly deep.) But after 1900, two things happen. First, I began recognizing the subjects of the pictures (oh! Virginia Woolf! oh! Paul McCartney!). Second, even for the people I didn’t recognize, the art deepened and changed in an interesting way.
One of the most important recent conflicts in art history, to this uninformed mind, is the conflict between representing the subject as it is and expressing some deeper emotional truth via strange stuff (colors that aren’t there, or squares, or random splatters, etc.). But portraiture forces you to do both. If you weren’t representational, no one would recognize that you just painted something of Queen Elizabeth II; if you didn’t express some deeper emotional truth, then why not just look at the picture in the tabloids? So you have to mind both worlds, to great results; even though I didn’t recognize many of the subjects, they nonetheless projected great gravity and emotion. So I saw some very interesting portraits, including a man with so much energy that his limbs burst from the frame. The other, one of Harold Pinter, summed him up so well: it was a precise painting of his features, against eerie red sky and roiling green-gray sea.
So both of these museums were underappreciated, I felt, by those guidebooks and prestige. Here’s my museums power rankings:
1) British Museum
2) Cortauld
3) Tate Modern
4) Tate Britain
5) National Gallery
6) Victoria & Albert
7) National Portrait
To be clear, all of these museums are worth visiting; it’s just the order that I liked them in.
****
Comparing the names of businesses in Britain to the names of businesses in the US is very interesting, although I won’t try and overinterpret my observations. In both countries, there are names from abstract concepts, i.e. SuperMart or Lilywhite’s (think Dick’s Sporting Goods) and the like. In the US, there are a lot of businesses named after individuals, i.e. Wegman’s or Ford’s or something like that. In Britain, I can only think of one or two business named after a single entity—Sainsbury’s, the supermarket chain, and a few other small businesses. The plurality of business names, especially the upscale ones, are after pairs of entities: Marks & Spencer, Hawes & Curtis, Crabtree & Evelyn (which I believe was originally British), and so on.
****
Jaywalking and traffic are unusually easy in London. While the congestion is worse than a bad cold, I rarely hear car horns blown or expletives hurled. Jaywalking, too, is far easier due to a critical London innovation: the pedestrian island. Halfway through virtually every wide London street is an island where you can cool your heels. Hence you can jaywalk in easily-chewable stages. Furthermore, even if you screw up, drivers are unusually tolerant and observant (not that I’ve screwed up; this is merely my observation. Honest, really.)
The best summation of both of these phenomena is something I saw today: I was waiting at the Hyde Park Corner. London is a city so grand that its roundabouts are monuments: there’s a large, Roman-style triumphal arch with horses crowning it, surrounded by war monuments. At any rate, I was waiting there instead of jaywalking because traffic was unusually heavy; also it was a major intersection (on the other hand, I would estimate that I jaywalk the majority of the time I don’t have the light). Anyway, a large black man with a booming, sonorous voice screamed, “WAIT! WAIT! DON’T DRIVE!” while rushing onto the road. He bent down, plucked something-or-other off the road, then rushed back to the island across from me. In New York, this would’ve earned swear words, beeps, and quite probably injury. In the here and now, he earned merely an exasperated look from a cabbie.
“What just happened?” I asked an onlooker.
“Looks like he dropped his mobile,” he responded. We shared a chuckle because it seemed so crazy. But, then again, he had his cell phone (or mobile, if you must have it that way. Actually, mobile does have a certain ring to it. No pun intended.)
****
BOOK REVIEW: THE MASTER AND MARGHARITA
Yesterday I finished The Master and Margharita by Mikhail Bulgakov, and I meant to review it then. But I forgot, so I’m doing it now. The book is set in Soviet Russia, and concerns a surprise visit by the Devil in the guise of a foreign professor “in the black arts.” He terrorizes Moscow, and the literary community in particular before…well, I couldn’t give it away.
Simultaneously a funny book with many witty asides, and a very serious book, The Master and Margharita is well worth reading.
One of the principal lines of thought regarding the book that I’d like to discuss briefly are its themes. Most suggest that the book involves itself principally with art and its nature; the people who are terrorized are often held up as evidence.
But I disagree; I think the book is about randomness, and the folly of trying to defeat or rationalize it. The artists of this book believe they have the world figured out. Not for nothing does the book begin with an editor lecturing a poet on the correct history of Jesus’ life. But the devil disrupts all that. The human temptation, in the face of disaster, is to defy it and explain it. Some disasters—disease, say—are amenable to this kind of response. Others are not. There will always be problems in life that are inexplicable and invincible. They must be accepted. That’s what the successful characters do, at least. The trouble is in identifying what these invincible problems. Surely some diseases were thought to be insolvable for the longest time, until they were. It is probably best, therefore, to adopt the contradictory attitude of accepting its existence and somehow defeating it.
****
The biggest news of the day, wiping out this mysterious “Mandy” mystery story that I haven’t put the effort in to finding out about, is that the Chelsea FC (Football Club)’s manager was just fired and given 20 million pounds for the trouble. Everyone’s got this as front-page, top-fold. I mention this not out of particular interest about the story, merely to note how quickly it was the story of DNA testing and shattered lives to Ohmigod! He just got fired! That’s the modern media culture for you.
****
Glancing at a Gap storefront window today, I noticed that the British Gap sells different clothing than the American Gap. This particular one sells jodhpurs and jackets with mandarin collars. I guess the imperial era is back after all! (I did like the jacket with the mandarin collar.)
*****
COUNTS:
ALL THE SAME AS YESTERDAY.
*****
The past two days, an unusual number of people have begun asking me for directions, and a surprising number of times, I have been able to guide them to the proper destination. This never happens in Rochester (either part; people rarely ask me for directions, and when they do, I never know what they’re asking about.)
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
The Tates
Today I visited the two Tate galleries. The first, the Tate Britain, contains a collection spanning 1500-present, while the Tate Modern (shockingly) only exhibits modern art. I went to the Britain first because it was closer to me.
The walk was of middling pleasantness. It began drizzling during it, as it would continue to do for the rest of the day in varying intensity. Incredibly, this is the first time it has precipitated in England while I’ve been awake. It made the walk considerably less pleasant than it could have been. Of course, when it wasn’t raining, clouds covered the sky like heavy drapes, stifling everything.
It was unexpectedly confusing to get to the Tate Britain. Fortunately, due to the friendliest interaction I’ve ever had with a man toting a subautomatic machine gun (he was a cop), I made it there after passing by the Parliament building. Conveniently located near the Museum of Garden History, the International Maritime Commission and a hotel or two, the Tate Britain boasts a great location amongst other strengths.
Actually, the building is quite nice. Another neoclassical done in white granite. Two interesting facts about the interior: first, like the National Gallery, everything is on the first floor; second, there’s a lot of wasted space in the Tate. There are two central soaring interior rooms that evoke an ancient wind tunnel due to their emptiness.
As for the main attraction, the art, its quality is uneven. My distaste for the neoclassical in art has been well-voiced, and in the Tate the early period is particularly boring. The procession of fifth Earl of Bunburys and seventh Duchess of Hampshires appropriates even more space than most galleries. But the modern parts are good. Worth the price of admission (well, if there were one) is the picture collection during the Blitz (indeed, the whole section of art during the Blitz). Two affecting photos: the first, of the dome of St. Paul’s rising above the smoke; the second, of a sign mounted on a barricade that says, “Entry Only To Passes. NB: NO Passes Given Out.”
From there, it was across the river, to the South Bank. The upside to much of the South bank is its stellar view of the river and overhanging trees. That walk is peaceful, looking at the bridges and Big Ben and the Parliament building and the like. But then, about when you hit the Eye, the gigantic Ferris Wheel giving a view of London, and the mysterious building housing a: Star Wars Exhibition, Aquarium, McDonald’s and…Dali Universe (so surreal, Dali couldn’t have come up with it), the whole place becomes overrun with street performers, people watching street performers, and food. Unfortunately, none of this food is good, so I gave in to EAT.
I might as well explain EAT., which I believe I have alluded to before. It was one of my goals, in this five-day interlude, to avoid EAT. Not so much because it’s bad, but because it’s so easy. It is both omnipresent and also somewhat good. It is as classy as fast food as a right to be. For example, I could have had a Peking Duck Wrap. EAT., quite simply, demands you eat and has good reason for its demands. I was hoping to avoid it to sample ‘genuine’ London food, but from the number of people who frequent it at any location, I suppose it is as genuine a feeding option as any. Also, it is delicious. I admit it, I wish we had EAT.
From there, I went to the Tate Modern. The Tate Modern is a converted power plant that looks like a mansion for a Bond villain. It appears to have been constructed out of one gigantic piece of stone, from which the maker fashioned right angles to do a protractor proud, and to which he added a colossal and sinister tower topped by an observation deck. One can imagine said Bond villain prancing about the glass observation deck contemplating his plans to unleash killer orangutans that will steal the world’s cows, thus depriving the world of fertilizer, meaning that the villain will control the world’s food, and hence, THE WORLD! (I admit that I spent entirely too long coming up with that fictional plan for taking over the world.)
Once inside the Tate, you are greeted by the whirring of something that sounds like twenty aircraft on full blast. You quickly learn that this is the “Turbine Room.” You realize that the Tate Modern really is the headquarters of an international playboy villain. Then you see the art and realize that no Bond playboy villain is interested in this particular art (unless it’s a part of his fiendish plan…)
The reason for this is that none of the art is elegant. It’s all an example of aggressive modern/post-modern art. A lot of it seems to be crying, “You don’t get it, nyah nyah nyah.” What this reminds me of is fashion labels. There’s a very popular label (judging by the number of people wearing it) called DRNKNMNKY (i.e. DRUNKEN MONKEY). The purpose of labels like this and fcuk seem to be similar: those who are offended are clearly not in on the joke and really not worth our time, besides laughing at them.
There is some very worthwhile and interesting art at the Tate Modern, and the museum is very well laid out, incorporating some of the art that requires unusual space very well, but I thought that was worth saying about more modern (I mean this chronologically) art.
From the Tate Modern, I walked across the Millennium Bridge, a pedestrian bridge made of flowing steel. I can’t really describe it…google it. It’s pretty nice. The perfect thing about the bridge is that it connects the Tate Modern and St. Paul’s Cathedral, which are right across from one another. St. Paul’s, of course, is a wonder of construction, so it was quite nice to see it again.
I wandered somewhat aimlessly until I hit Charing Cross Road, which is a street that, Walt Whitman-contradiction style, contains multitudes: musicals, several bookstores, sex shops, two Starbucks directly across from one another, several restaurants, and a bar called “Salsa!”
The bookstores, in particular, were outstanding. Shout-out to Henry Porde’s booksellers (or something like that) for being well-organized in layout. Unfortunately, its prices are hieroglyphics (“Is that a seven or a picture of a snake?” asked one customer. He was not joking. I could see the case for both.). Interestingly, many of the used bookstores also featured, discreetly and yet plainly, sex shops downstairs.
Speaking of the out-and-proud sex shops, they too, were interesting. They proclaimed they were licensed, like everything else in London. God save us from the unlicensed sex shop!
Because I spent so much time wandering about London, I thought I’d close with more counts and vignettes:
As I walked down Victoria Road in Central London, near Westminster Abbey, I heard alarms blazing in four consecutive shops. Showing the stiff upper lips the British are renowned for, the shoppers kept on shopping.
****
Patrolling various parts of London, but especially near Parliament building, were pairs of cops on the beat. One always carried a large machine gun. I believe I mentioned I had an interaction with one cop that rates as my friendliest with a man holding a large machine gun.
****
In England, the seats in a theatre are called stalls, and the cashier’s registers tills. One gets the image of the English as bovine, being herded to and fro for their pleasure.
****
Walking down Charing Cross Road, a woman in a full-length hijab was walking. A fourteen-year old boy, part of a group, bellowed at her, “How can you see?” Paying him no mind, the blind woman made it down the street with ease. His friend (or perhaps sister or girlfriend) started screaming at him about how insensitive that was. His response: “Oh whatever.”
****
In general, the English are thin, especially their men. I’m at a loss for why. Certainly not their diet. At any rate, there are a sizable number of obese people, and interestingly, the vast majority is older middle-aged to outright old.
****
London’s streets proceed sensibly until, periodically, you are confronted with an outrage. Often it is something like a street gaining a new name and casting off the old one like a snake shedding its skin. Today’s outrage goes like this: there is an three-way intersection at Bayswater Road. All well and good, you might say. Except some genius urban planner made the decision to have both sides of traffic merge into the turn, rather than having cars make the turn. What this means is that both sides of the street cannot drive at once, for no discernible reason.
*****
COUNTS:
WOMEN IN HIJAB: 9 (including one dropping her children off at Regent St from a van…but I thought Muslim women were forbidden from vans and expensive shopping? Aren’t they supposed to be at home, submissive to their terrorist, oil-drilling, Jewish-hating, hummus-loving husband? But this is what I’m told every day in the media…To hear the media tell it, Muslims of Europe aren’t assimilating, but the normalness of this scene—no one paid it a second thought, so far as I could tell—seems to belie that to some extent.)
COLLEGES:
CAL: 3
UCLA: 2
NOTRE DAME: 2
WHATEVER THOSE DII CHAMPS WERE: 1
EVERYONE ELSE: 0
****
I have seen Drury Lane, and if the Muffin Man lived there, he does so no longer.
The walk was of middling pleasantness. It began drizzling during it, as it would continue to do for the rest of the day in varying intensity. Incredibly, this is the first time it has precipitated in England while I’ve been awake. It made the walk considerably less pleasant than it could have been. Of course, when it wasn’t raining, clouds covered the sky like heavy drapes, stifling everything.
It was unexpectedly confusing to get to the Tate Britain. Fortunately, due to the friendliest interaction I’ve ever had with a man toting a subautomatic machine gun (he was a cop), I made it there after passing by the Parliament building. Conveniently located near the Museum of Garden History, the International Maritime Commission and a hotel or two, the Tate Britain boasts a great location amongst other strengths.
Actually, the building is quite nice. Another neoclassical done in white granite. Two interesting facts about the interior: first, like the National Gallery, everything is on the first floor; second, there’s a lot of wasted space in the Tate. There are two central soaring interior rooms that evoke an ancient wind tunnel due to their emptiness.
As for the main attraction, the art, its quality is uneven. My distaste for the neoclassical in art has been well-voiced, and in the Tate the early period is particularly boring. The procession of fifth Earl of Bunburys and seventh Duchess of Hampshires appropriates even more space than most galleries. But the modern parts are good. Worth the price of admission (well, if there were one) is the picture collection during the Blitz (indeed, the whole section of art during the Blitz). Two affecting photos: the first, of the dome of St. Paul’s rising above the smoke; the second, of a sign mounted on a barricade that says, “Entry Only To Passes. NB: NO Passes Given Out.”
From there, it was across the river, to the South Bank. The upside to much of the South bank is its stellar view of the river and overhanging trees. That walk is peaceful, looking at the bridges and Big Ben and the Parliament building and the like. But then, about when you hit the Eye, the gigantic Ferris Wheel giving a view of London, and the mysterious building housing a: Star Wars Exhibition, Aquarium, McDonald’s and…Dali Universe (so surreal, Dali couldn’t have come up with it), the whole place becomes overrun with street performers, people watching street performers, and food. Unfortunately, none of this food is good, so I gave in to EAT.
I might as well explain EAT., which I believe I have alluded to before. It was one of my goals, in this five-day interlude, to avoid EAT. Not so much because it’s bad, but because it’s so easy. It is both omnipresent and also somewhat good. It is as classy as fast food as a right to be. For example, I could have had a Peking Duck Wrap. EAT., quite simply, demands you eat and has good reason for its demands. I was hoping to avoid it to sample ‘genuine’ London food, but from the number of people who frequent it at any location, I suppose it is as genuine a feeding option as any. Also, it is delicious. I admit it, I wish we had EAT.
From there, I went to the Tate Modern. The Tate Modern is a converted power plant that looks like a mansion for a Bond villain. It appears to have been constructed out of one gigantic piece of stone, from which the maker fashioned right angles to do a protractor proud, and to which he added a colossal and sinister tower topped by an observation deck. One can imagine said Bond villain prancing about the glass observation deck contemplating his plans to unleash killer orangutans that will steal the world’s cows, thus depriving the world of fertilizer, meaning that the villain will control the world’s food, and hence, THE WORLD! (I admit that I spent entirely too long coming up with that fictional plan for taking over the world.)
Once inside the Tate, you are greeted by the whirring of something that sounds like twenty aircraft on full blast. You quickly learn that this is the “Turbine Room.” You realize that the Tate Modern really is the headquarters of an international playboy villain. Then you see the art and realize that no Bond playboy villain is interested in this particular art (unless it’s a part of his fiendish plan…)
The reason for this is that none of the art is elegant. It’s all an example of aggressive modern/post-modern art. A lot of it seems to be crying, “You don’t get it, nyah nyah nyah.” What this reminds me of is fashion labels. There’s a very popular label (judging by the number of people wearing it) called DRNKNMNKY (i.e. DRUNKEN MONKEY). The purpose of labels like this and fcuk seem to be similar: those who are offended are clearly not in on the joke and really not worth our time, besides laughing at them.
There is some very worthwhile and interesting art at the Tate Modern, and the museum is very well laid out, incorporating some of the art that requires unusual space very well, but I thought that was worth saying about more modern (I mean this chronologically) art.
From the Tate Modern, I walked across the Millennium Bridge, a pedestrian bridge made of flowing steel. I can’t really describe it…google it. It’s pretty nice. The perfect thing about the bridge is that it connects the Tate Modern and St. Paul’s Cathedral, which are right across from one another. St. Paul’s, of course, is a wonder of construction, so it was quite nice to see it again.
I wandered somewhat aimlessly until I hit Charing Cross Road, which is a street that, Walt Whitman-contradiction style, contains multitudes: musicals, several bookstores, sex shops, two Starbucks directly across from one another, several restaurants, and a bar called “Salsa!”
The bookstores, in particular, were outstanding. Shout-out to Henry Porde’s booksellers (or something like that) for being well-organized in layout. Unfortunately, its prices are hieroglyphics (“Is that a seven or a picture of a snake?” asked one customer. He was not joking. I could see the case for both.). Interestingly, many of the used bookstores also featured, discreetly and yet plainly, sex shops downstairs.
Speaking of the out-and-proud sex shops, they too, were interesting. They proclaimed they were licensed, like everything else in London. God save us from the unlicensed sex shop!
Because I spent so much time wandering about London, I thought I’d close with more counts and vignettes:
As I walked down Victoria Road in Central London, near Westminster Abbey, I heard alarms blazing in four consecutive shops. Showing the stiff upper lips the British are renowned for, the shoppers kept on shopping.
****
Patrolling various parts of London, but especially near Parliament building, were pairs of cops on the beat. One always carried a large machine gun. I believe I mentioned I had an interaction with one cop that rates as my friendliest with a man holding a large machine gun.
****
In England, the seats in a theatre are called stalls, and the cashier’s registers tills. One gets the image of the English as bovine, being herded to and fro for their pleasure.
****
Walking down Charing Cross Road, a woman in a full-length hijab was walking. A fourteen-year old boy, part of a group, bellowed at her, “How can you see?” Paying him no mind, the blind woman made it down the street with ease. His friend (or perhaps sister or girlfriend) started screaming at him about how insensitive that was. His response: “Oh whatever.”
****
In general, the English are thin, especially their men. I’m at a loss for why. Certainly not their diet. At any rate, there are a sizable number of obese people, and interestingly, the vast majority is older middle-aged to outright old.
****
London’s streets proceed sensibly until, periodically, you are confronted with an outrage. Often it is something like a street gaining a new name and casting off the old one like a snake shedding its skin. Today’s outrage goes like this: there is an three-way intersection at Bayswater Road. All well and good, you might say. Except some genius urban planner made the decision to have both sides of traffic merge into the turn, rather than having cars make the turn. What this means is that both sides of the street cannot drive at once, for no discernible reason.
*****
COUNTS:
WOMEN IN HIJAB: 9 (including one dropping her children off at Regent St from a van…but I thought Muslim women were forbidden from vans and expensive shopping? Aren’t they supposed to be at home, submissive to their terrorist, oil-drilling, Jewish-hating, hummus-loving husband? But this is what I’m told every day in the media…To hear the media tell it, Muslims of Europe aren’t assimilating, but the normalness of this scene—no one paid it a second thought, so far as I could tell—seems to belie that to some extent.)
COLLEGES:
CAL: 3
UCLA: 2
NOTRE DAME: 2
WHATEVER THOSE DII CHAMPS WERE: 1
EVERYONE ELSE: 0
****
I have seen Drury Lane, and if the Muffin Man lived there, he does so no longer.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)