View from a Small Planet

This blog will chronicle my personal insights, observations, and impressions as I zig and zag about the globe with no particular itinerary or purpose. It has no political or social agenda save the author's proclivities and prejudices.

I make no claim to accuracy or authenticity, and in advance reject all criticisms of spelling (particularly foreign), grammar, or punctuation. Those who persist will be directed to the Solovoyager Style Manual, available at US$575/copy.

I will translate foreign phrases only when it appears that readers are insufficiently schooled to figure things out for themselves.

Posts will be sporadic and subtitled based on the lat/long where I find myself at the time of writing. All responses will be carefully considered then likely ignored. Always keep in mind that you are getting approximately what you pay for.

FRENCH LETTERS 001

This inaugural post begins on a cold, rainy, and wonderful January day in the Paris Marais. Those not conversant with British slang might Google "French Letters slang." The French refer to the article in question as Capotes d'Anglais.

High dudgeon at the Richard Lenoir street market on an otherwise tranquil Sunday. While perusing the available selection at the nut and olive stand for my midday salade, several hundreds of Euros of glass shattered to the hard ground, jostled from a rickety table at the stand adjacent. Possible culprits included a rather large dog intent on sniffing the crotch of a nearby six-year-old; the toddler himself, grabbing said crotch and screaming “non, non, non”; the dog’s rotund female owner pulling frantically on fido’s leash; and the protective maman of toddler interposing her body between inquisitive nose and infant genitals.

The North African standkeeper went predictably ballistic, and an equally predictable crowd quickly formed, dividing into canine and human support groups, save for one elderly gentleman near the rear loudly proclaiming George Bush to be at fault, in this and all other maladies befalling La Belle France.

Was this an innocent doggy minding his own business or a chien mechant, candidate for the needle of death? Conversely did we have a rowdy, mal eleve brat who likely pulled doggy’s tail when no one was looking, or an unfortunate innocent, forever scarred by his first sexual encounter? Our standkeeper didn’t care. He had progressed beyond shock and even lamentation, and was now in haute colore, incensed by all and sundry: “Go away, everyone, I don’t want your business, you are all savages, I hate you all and I hate this place,” or something to that effect (my grasp of North African is limited).

Fido, either in his own defense or in reaction to the growing throng, began to howl; toddler had never stopped screaming and now kicked his screech up an octave to meet the canine competition. The crowd became restive, as 20+ conflicting and contradictory opinions filled the chilly air.

I grabbed my nuts and olives and departed, in full realization that no resolution would result. Such street theater plays out daily on the streets of the City of Light, and residents participate with a verve and vitality that would make Ibsen jealous. Why would anyone pay 60 Euros for a narrow seat in a stuffy theater when such quality is available “libre en plaine aire”.

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I saw Art Buchwald in the third Arrondisement yesterday. Apparently he did not pass on to the great newspaper in the sky, and is living happily in the Paris Marais. If this was not Buchwald, the observed perp has stolen the revered columnist’s hat, smile, and physique. If it truly was Buchwald and he wishes to remain anonymous, he needs a better disguise.

…the adventure continues…