If the spirit of the west is disappearing, it has not vanished. A chili cook-off led us to the Bozeman, Montana Fairgrounds, which included the additional offerings of a livestock sale, craft fair, and local adult ice hockey.
All very different from more civilized events in the sophisticated corners of our great land. Out here everyone gets to play. Four dollars a head buys it all: everyone gets to taste some 40 pots of chili and vote (in California, judges decide for us); you don’t need a bidding paddle to enter the livestock sale (one of our group pointed toward the auctioneer and almost bought a stud horse); and several hundred people sit respectfully as a dozen “youngins” nervously clutch their prize chickens and answer serious questions on the care and feeding of same. Several were hardly bigger than the animals they so proudly displayed. I wonder if they even know of Brittney and Paris; when there are stalls to muck there is less time for TV.
Many of the men wear hats similar to mine, all brim, no bill, the kind that people in the east smirk at and mock. Even the jalapeno pepper eating contest was fun to watch. No gorging on hot dogs or cramming lemon meringue down the pie-hole, just a dozen college kids trying to win dinners for their girlfriends. Good fun, clean fun. In the same way that comedians like Dick Van Dyke made us laugh without being rude, crude, disgusting, or vicious, so have these folk found ways to enjoy life without resorting to excess. They’re not boisterous, they don’t laugh much, but they are content.
The day ended in a geothermal hot spring high in the mountains off a road half-way to Yellowstone. In return for promising not to pee in the pool, you are allowed to relax waist-deep in steaming water, sip adult beverages and gaze at crystal clear sky and stunningly bright stars as evening falls. The kind of day that leaves a smile on your face as you slip into contented slumber.
Sunday morning was reserved for walking down main street Bozeman in bright sunlight and 20 degree temperatures. Families, teens, collegegeans, all out for a stroll and possibly a light brunch. Simple, unadorned, and glorious.
Sitting recently in a doctor’s office, I became aware of a previously unheralded benefit of the chronic tardiness of the medical profession. Perusing 3 to 6 month old news magazines, I was told how McCain was dead, the Clinton juggernaut was about to make mincemeat of Obama, and a plethora of startling predictions that turned out so incorrect as to be snickerfodder. But the most telling observation was how forcefully the pundits put forth their prognostications. Few maybes and hardly a perhaps. And, today, of course, these same geniuses, with nary a guilty glance rearward, are bloviating a new batch of prophesy with the ring of absolute certitude. That we rush to consume their drivel says perhaps more about us than them.
Walking across the sprawling Montana State U. campus today, I was struck by how many of the students had cell phones glued to their ears. In a totally unscientific poll I observed the next 20 that passed me by, and 9 were in conversation.
I remember clearly my grandparent’s phone, unique such that neighbors asked to make use of it for a variety of (mostly) imagined life and death communications. Black, heavy, no dial. You lift the receiver, stare into it for a second or two, depress the button several times, and wait. “Good evening, Hilda, this is Harry,” announced my grandfather in an exaggerated tone of seriousness. “No, Harry from 3rd Street. Can you connect me with George?” “No, George from Walnut St.” “Thank you Hilde. Yes, I’ll wait.”
Long distance calls could take hours as mysterious “circuits” were untied. You place the call then sit and stare at the receiver, only to jump when the loud ring announced a connection.
Bill Gates has lamented that the pace of technology proceeds agonizingly slow. Well, it is clipping along quite fast enough for me, thank you very much.
Departing Montana, and next time I will be somewhere else.
the adventure continues…
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Friday, February 15, 2008
On the Road 001
An intermittent vegetative state has descended, resulting in a dearth of fecundity in the blog department. Several restful but uneventful days in Virginia morphed into a hectic departure in advance of impending weather. A marathon 16-hour drive ended in Topeka, KS, where I had the serendipitous fortune to dine in a sports bar at the exact moment the Kansas State Jayhawk basketball team (main campus in Topeka) was shellacking the University of Kansas for the first time since John Quincy Adams ascended to the presidency.
I was hugged by a bearded man of indeterminate but intense olfactory bouquet, and had my Dos Equis toppled by a band of jubilant celebrants, who promptly bought me 3 refills, a noble gesture my already drive-mottled brain scarcely required. But apparently being the first solid cup of cheer visited on this eastern Kansas outpost in decades, I was determined to accept the revelry in good spirit.
After a short night I arrived in Silverthorne, CO at the end of a second butt-blistering 10 hour day. Snowpacked streets that will not see asphalt before spring and snowbanks that dwarf me are the order of the winter here, and the altitude, 11,000+ ft., conspires to keep the pack hard and crunchy with little slush. I suffer from a marked sensitivity when thrust skyward toward the stratosphere, and felt wobbly for several days, said condition certainly aided by generous sampling of the many craft beers that proliferate in the Rocky Mountain west.
There appear to be but two classes of citizen here: vacationers who come to drink and ski and drink some more, and “seasonals” who come to snowboard non-stop, but cursed with having to serve the vacationers in some capacity. Like virtually all service personnel in vacation spots around the globe, they distain those who provide their sustenance, and they are on balance justified. Why so many vacationers forget to pack their manners, common sense, and good will is a conundrum that has mystified sociologists throughout history. Why travel a thousand miles only to grouse that the local wine stocked in your neighborhood 7-11 is not available at your destination?
A single day on the slopes of Copper Mountain reinforced the wavering conviction that there is some juice left in the bottle. Mountains devoid of powder, bumps, wind, crowds, and snowcats are my decided preference, and I was fortunate to find all said conditions present on a bright February Tuesday morning.
My planned departure north was inconvenienced by a two foot dump on local mountain communities (Denver, 50 miles to the east got zero) and I-70 at the Eisenhower Tunnel was closed for nearly 24 hours due to avalanche potential. But one day later I scurried up I-25 to I-90 west in blowing snow, and arrived in Bozeman, MT before nightfall, a mere 11 hour drive-in-the-park.
Bozeman, nearly surrounded by mountains, is beautiful year round, but the lack of altitude, a paltry 5,000+ feet, yields a continual cycle of freeze-thaw, crunch and slush. Yet the crisp, dry western air is deceptively accommodating, tempting the naïve to venture out in light attire, only to find within several moments the still wet hair from the recent shower is frozen solid and the ears feel like rodents have been gnawing thereupon.
I have long felt the American west is one of the few remaining bastions of the cowboy spirit, of rugged individualism where folks are afforded the opportunity to rise and fall, succeed and fail, soar and plummet, individually reaping the rewards or misery of their actions, while much of the remainder of the planet seems intent on wealth distribution, blame allocation (always to others; never to self), and political correctness.
But with each visit I see the culture of independence slipping away. Colorado has led the way, with Boulder (where I once lived and now commonly referred to as “the Peoples Republic of…”) in the vanguard. It and other western climbs are increasingly populated by east- and west-coasters who have ruined their respective ends of the country and relocate to escape, only to participate enthusiastically in the ruination of their newfound home. Surely there should be some small patch of earth reserved for the dwindling few who wish to exist within the village without being absorbed by it.
Might not we aspire to a world where Brittney, Roger, and Paris (she, not it) grab fewer headlines and where schoolteachers, firefighters, and volunteer mentors gain a bit more visibility?
the adventure continues…
I was hugged by a bearded man of indeterminate but intense olfactory bouquet, and had my Dos Equis toppled by a band of jubilant celebrants, who promptly bought me 3 refills, a noble gesture my already drive-mottled brain scarcely required. But apparently being the first solid cup of cheer visited on this eastern Kansas outpost in decades, I was determined to accept the revelry in good spirit.
After a short night I arrived in Silverthorne, CO at the end of a second butt-blistering 10 hour day. Snowpacked streets that will not see asphalt before spring and snowbanks that dwarf me are the order of the winter here, and the altitude, 11,000+ ft., conspires to keep the pack hard and crunchy with little slush. I suffer from a marked sensitivity when thrust skyward toward the stratosphere, and felt wobbly for several days, said condition certainly aided by generous sampling of the many craft beers that proliferate in the Rocky Mountain west.
There appear to be but two classes of citizen here: vacationers who come to drink and ski and drink some more, and “seasonals” who come to snowboard non-stop, but cursed with having to serve the vacationers in some capacity. Like virtually all service personnel in vacation spots around the globe, they distain those who provide their sustenance, and they are on balance justified. Why so many vacationers forget to pack their manners, common sense, and good will is a conundrum that has mystified sociologists throughout history. Why travel a thousand miles only to grouse that the local wine stocked in your neighborhood 7-11 is not available at your destination?
A single day on the slopes of Copper Mountain reinforced the wavering conviction that there is some juice left in the bottle. Mountains devoid of powder, bumps, wind, crowds, and snowcats are my decided preference, and I was fortunate to find all said conditions present on a bright February Tuesday morning.
My planned departure north was inconvenienced by a two foot dump on local mountain communities (Denver, 50 miles to the east got zero) and I-70 at the Eisenhower Tunnel was closed for nearly 24 hours due to avalanche potential. But one day later I scurried up I-25 to I-90 west in blowing snow, and arrived in Bozeman, MT before nightfall, a mere 11 hour drive-in-the-park.
Bozeman, nearly surrounded by mountains, is beautiful year round, but the lack of altitude, a paltry 5,000+ feet, yields a continual cycle of freeze-thaw, crunch and slush. Yet the crisp, dry western air is deceptively accommodating, tempting the naïve to venture out in light attire, only to find within several moments the still wet hair from the recent shower is frozen solid and the ears feel like rodents have been gnawing thereupon.
I have long felt the American west is one of the few remaining bastions of the cowboy spirit, of rugged individualism where folks are afforded the opportunity to rise and fall, succeed and fail, soar and plummet, individually reaping the rewards or misery of their actions, while much of the remainder of the planet seems intent on wealth distribution, blame allocation (always to others; never to self), and political correctness.
But with each visit I see the culture of independence slipping away. Colorado has led the way, with Boulder (where I once lived and now commonly referred to as “the Peoples Republic of…”) in the vanguard. It and other western climbs are increasingly populated by east- and west-coasters who have ruined their respective ends of the country and relocate to escape, only to participate enthusiastically in the ruination of their newfound home. Surely there should be some small patch of earth reserved for the dwindling few who wish to exist within the village without being absorbed by it.
Might not we aspire to a world where Brittney, Roger, and Paris (she, not it) grab fewer headlines and where schoolteachers, firefighters, and volunteer mentors gain a bit more visibility?
the adventure continues…
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
French Letters 003
Here I sit in the departure lounge of Roissy Charles deGaulle airport Terminal One. It’s a bit surreal to recall that when I first traveled to Paris circa 1969, both Dulles airport and Roissy were sparkling new facilities, the pride of 2 nations. Now both are in the midst of massive upgrades and refurbishment, although Dulles is simply expanding, while Roissy, in perhaps an attempt to separate the elite from the savages, has build new terminals for Air France and it’s airborne buddies.
Last summer the city of Paris purchased and installed some 20,000 bicycles, each locked into racks and extricable with a credit card. It was originally speculated to be part of the Mayor’s plan to thin the population, but so far there has been only one reported death, and the official Velib website notes only that “the number of bicycles used in Paris is growing constantly while the number of bicycle accidents is remaining stable.” But I see several heart-stopping near-misses each day, and notice that the hair of many city bus drivers has gone completely white. I also observe that racks at the high points of the city are often empty while those in the low areas are overflowing. Could our fitness-focused friends be coasting downhill and riding the Metro back up?
The worldwide press is often breathless in its haste to skewer big business, and French journalists enthusiastically hop the bandwagon. My TV screen just shrieked “(has Capitalism gone crazy?) and of course there is a rush to blame the U. S. (that Bush guy again) for the current crise economique. But remember that the first casualties of the sub-prime debacle were 2 hedge funds run by BNP Parisbas, so there’s enough blame to go around. And now a commentator has ascribed the 6 billion Euro fraude at Societe General as “the greed of capitalism.” Interesting that the idiot (genius??) who masterminded this stood not to personally gain a sou. It appears more to have been a game of outsmarting the bureaucracy, which he certainly did for a long time.
Just to show I had no hard feelings, I returned to the Taverne on St. Germain des Pres where I got food poisoning 2 years ago. It was the occasion of a delightful long lunch sitting inside a glass-enclosed porch, watching the city on parade. Two of us ate totally different meals, not even tasting the other’s selection, and both came down with serious gastric distress. I spent most of the next 3 days in the smallest room of the apartment where we stayed. On this visit I had a beer. It tasted a bit flat.
When I first came to France so many years ago I was horrified to find that it would take 6 to 18 months to get a phone installed. Friends at the Embassy were aghast and envious that the apartment I finally rented came with a working phone. No matter that I had no one to call, the phone was prestige, like driving a Mercedes.
Today everyone has a “mobile,” old ladies on the bus who jump and fumble when it rings, and speak loudly “j’ecoute, j’ecoute” (I hear you, I’m listening), and teenage girls trading secrets and giggling, so consumed with their conversations that they bump into fellow pedestrians. Last evening in a small restaurant I saw a young couple dreamily gazing into each others eyes, she massaging his arm sensually with one hand while holding her mobile in the other, carrying on a muted conversation with her cinq a sept perhaps?? (old fashioned slang for the amorous carryings-on of (usually men) in the period after work (cinq or 5pm, and sept, 7pm), after which they return to their wives and children.
Several days ago I gave directions to a Frenchman. It felt so good, and perhaps marked a watershed in my 4 decade struggle with the language. Of course the poor fellow may still be walking in circles, but I think I did him right. Yesterday I watched a young Japanese girl with a suitcase twice her size staring at a large bus and Metro map. She seemed frozen, transfixed, and although it is not my style to become involved in the affairs of strangers, I approached with a tentative “ou allez vous?” (where do you want to go). As my Japanese is limited to ordering beer (beer-u) she pointed to a far-out Metro stop. Luckily the #11 line was only 2 blocks away. I escorted her to much bowing and what I took to be enormous thanks and immense relief. It occurred to me that in the years I visited and lived in Paris as a single man, not a single attractive young female required my assistance.
The next time we meet I will be somewhere else…the adventure continues…
Last summer the city of Paris purchased and installed some 20,000 bicycles, each locked into racks and extricable with a credit card. It was originally speculated to be part of the Mayor’s plan to thin the population, but so far there has been only one reported death, and the official Velib website notes only that “the number of bicycles used in Paris is growing constantly while the number of bicycle accidents is remaining stable.” But I see several heart-stopping near-misses each day, and notice that the hair of many city bus drivers has gone completely white. I also observe that racks at the high points of the city are often empty while those in the low areas are overflowing. Could our fitness-focused friends be coasting downhill and riding the Metro back up?
The worldwide press is often breathless in its haste to skewer big business, and French journalists enthusiastically hop the bandwagon. My TV screen just shrieked “(has Capitalism gone crazy?) and of course there is a rush to blame the U. S. (that Bush guy again) for the current crise economique. But remember that the first casualties of the sub-prime debacle were 2 hedge funds run by BNP Parisbas, so there’s enough blame to go around. And now a commentator has ascribed the 6 billion Euro fraude at Societe General as “the greed of capitalism.” Interesting that the idiot (genius??) who masterminded this stood not to personally gain a sou. It appears more to have been a game of outsmarting the bureaucracy, which he certainly did for a long time.
Just to show I had no hard feelings, I returned to the Taverne on St. Germain des Pres where I got food poisoning 2 years ago. It was the occasion of a delightful long lunch sitting inside a glass-enclosed porch, watching the city on parade. Two of us ate totally different meals, not even tasting the other’s selection, and both came down with serious gastric distress. I spent most of the next 3 days in the smallest room of the apartment where we stayed. On this visit I had a beer. It tasted a bit flat.
When I first came to France so many years ago I was horrified to find that it would take 6 to 18 months to get a phone installed. Friends at the Embassy were aghast and envious that the apartment I finally rented came with a working phone. No matter that I had no one to call, the phone was prestige, like driving a Mercedes.
Today everyone has a “mobile,” old ladies on the bus who jump and fumble when it rings, and speak loudly “j’ecoute, j’ecoute” (I hear you, I’m listening), and teenage girls trading secrets and giggling, so consumed with their conversations that they bump into fellow pedestrians. Last evening in a small restaurant I saw a young couple dreamily gazing into each others eyes, she massaging his arm sensually with one hand while holding her mobile in the other, carrying on a muted conversation with her cinq a sept perhaps?? (old fashioned slang for the amorous carryings-on of (usually men) in the period after work (cinq or 5pm, and sept, 7pm), after which they return to their wives and children.
Several days ago I gave directions to a Frenchman. It felt so good, and perhaps marked a watershed in my 4 decade struggle with the language. Of course the poor fellow may still be walking in circles, but I think I did him right. Yesterday I watched a young Japanese girl with a suitcase twice her size staring at a large bus and Metro map. She seemed frozen, transfixed, and although it is not my style to become involved in the affairs of strangers, I approached with a tentative “ou allez vous?” (where do you want to go). As my Japanese is limited to ordering beer (beer-u) she pointed to a far-out Metro stop. Luckily the #11 line was only 2 blocks away. I escorted her to much bowing and what I took to be enormous thanks and immense relief. It occurred to me that in the years I visited and lived in Paris as a single man, not a single attractive young female required my assistance.
The next time we meet I will be somewhere else…the adventure continues…
Thursday, January 24, 2008
FRENCH LETTERS 002
I am beyond desole. Not even the stock market in freefall can match my dismay at finding one of my favorite boites in Paris apparently gone forever. Nearly 4 decades ago when I first ventured to the City of Light, not a word of French in my kit bag, one of my first gastronomic experiences was at La Friterie, little more than a window opening onto rue Galande where it meets rue St. Julian le Pauvre at Place Maubert, smack in the middle of the left bank student quarter.
For one franc (25 cents in those pre-inflation days) you got a brimming portion of pommes frites (French fries) wrapped in a paper cone, luscious, thin cut, heavily salted and well done in the type of oil New York mayor Bloomberg has banned in Manhattan. They were served by a tall thin middle-aged matron, blonde hair piled high, with glasses I can only describe as similar to those worn by the “kiss my grits” waitress on the critically acclaimed “Mel’s Diner” TV series of the 1970s, or perhaps by the “ladies” in Tuna Christmas.
Over the years little has changed, especially not Mme. She appeared the same last summer as she did in 1969, same hairdo, same glasses, meme visage. And in my many, many visits to Paris in the intervening generation, there was always a stop at La Friterie.
Until this evening, when approaching on rue St. Severin from Blvd. St. Michele across rue St. Jacques, I found the windows boarded and a sign saying that if I just had a bit of patience, a new Wok City would soon be open to serve my every need. Right!
I got some frites at a nearby falafel stand. Cheaper, but not thin cut, not nearly well enough cooked, and apparently made with Bloomberg-approved oil. I fed them to the pigeons sitting on the bulwarks along the Seine. One pecked a stick, cocked his head at me, and walked away. I hear you, mon vielle, the world is changing and not all for the better.
The sun came out in Paris yesterday. For some 12.3 minutes. Citizens rushed into the streets and fell on their knees. When locals describe their “City of Light,” they refer to electricity and not Mr. Sun. At least not in winter months.
A friend sent me packing the other day to Bazar Hotel de Ville (BHV), a massive department store with a basement that would make Filene blush, although this sous sol is packed with hardware rather than discount clothing. I was armed with samples of the little trucs I was to bring home.
Many employees about, most standing in groups of 2 or 3 discussing weighty issues of the day. I show one an item and get the response, “Yes, we have them, but they are much bigger than this.” OK, but where do I find them? The response, “la-bas” sent me back 30+ years to a time I was working for a freight forwarder handling trade shows in Paris. I would be given a ticket with a case or pallet number, gather my trusty trans-pallet (a type of manual hauling device given to those not trusted to drive a forklift), and head off into the massive warehouse.
I would show the paper to one of the workers (most standing in groups of 2 or 3 discussing weighty issues of the day) and ask in my pigeon French where to find the material. The response was invariably “la- bas.” If in a good mood they might point in a general direction.
I asked a friend what “la bas” meant. She said “it just means “over there.”” But I came to believe the idiomatic translation to be “Just far enough away so you don’t pester me with your questions,” or “Ask someone else, can’t you see I’m busy.”
…the adventure continues…
For one franc (25 cents in those pre-inflation days) you got a brimming portion of pommes frites (French fries) wrapped in a paper cone, luscious, thin cut, heavily salted and well done in the type of oil New York mayor Bloomberg has banned in Manhattan. They were served by a tall thin middle-aged matron, blonde hair piled high, with glasses I can only describe as similar to those worn by the “kiss my grits” waitress on the critically acclaimed “Mel’s Diner” TV series of the 1970s, or perhaps by the “ladies” in Tuna Christmas.
Over the years little has changed, especially not Mme. She appeared the same last summer as she did in 1969, same hairdo, same glasses, meme visage. And in my many, many visits to Paris in the intervening generation, there was always a stop at La Friterie.
Until this evening, when approaching on rue St. Severin from Blvd. St. Michele across rue St. Jacques, I found the windows boarded and a sign saying that if I just had a bit of patience, a new Wok City would soon be open to serve my every need. Right!
I got some frites at a nearby falafel stand. Cheaper, but not thin cut, not nearly well enough cooked, and apparently made with Bloomberg-approved oil. I fed them to the pigeons sitting on the bulwarks along the Seine. One pecked a stick, cocked his head at me, and walked away. I hear you, mon vielle, the world is changing and not all for the better.
The sun came out in Paris yesterday. For some 12.3 minutes. Citizens rushed into the streets and fell on their knees. When locals describe their “City of Light,” they refer to electricity and not Mr. Sun. At least not in winter months.
A friend sent me packing the other day to Bazar Hotel de Ville (BHV), a massive department store with a basement that would make Filene blush, although this sous sol is packed with hardware rather than discount clothing. I was armed with samples of the little trucs I was to bring home.
Many employees about, most standing in groups of 2 or 3 discussing weighty issues of the day. I show one an item and get the response, “Yes, we have them, but they are much bigger than this.” OK, but where do I find them? The response, “la-bas” sent me back 30+ years to a time I was working for a freight forwarder handling trade shows in Paris. I would be given a ticket with a case or pallet number, gather my trusty trans-pallet (a type of manual hauling device given to those not trusted to drive a forklift), and head off into the massive warehouse.
I would show the paper to one of the workers (most standing in groups of 2 or 3 discussing weighty issues of the day) and ask in my pigeon French where to find the material. The response was invariably “la- bas.” If in a good mood they might point in a general direction.
I asked a friend what “la bas” meant. She said “it just means “over there.”” But I came to believe the idiomatic translation to be “Just far enough away so you don’t pester me with your questions,” or “Ask someone else, can’t you see I’m busy.”
…the adventure continues…
Sunday, January 20, 2008
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”.
########
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…
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”.
########
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…
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