We are trying to get to Nice soon and, well, the transportation unions are on strike. What to do? Get annoyed? Act like this is a huge inconvenience? Or???
Labor and the trades are powerful in Europe. It is an important part of history as it clearly defines the interface between the idle, observing, judging, entitled rich and those who use their hands. The distinction is very important.
In the 10th century guilds were formed by trades people, students, and professors. These guilds helped organize people into self-managing, self-protecting groups. They created well organized systems of education and provided support for members.
In the guild system young people learning a trade would take a seven year apprenticeship to travel around Europe. They would go from one place to another to learn their crafts at the feet of acknowledged craft master guild members. In this way people would learn a trade and would return to their village or city to take up this work to provide the local community well crafted materials of daily living.
Coming forward nearly 800 years, Louis XVI lost his head, in part, because he was a weak king and "the people" had seen that a certain measure of wealth and survivability (ie: longer lived, less harsh lives) might be within their reach. Revolutionaries did away with the monarchy and swept away the Sainte Eglise. Former business owners and managers to the king created a new power center for France. Labor at first supported the Bourgeois class overthrow of the Monarchy thinking they too, the workers, would benefit.
Labor, in Paris at least, soon learned that the Bourgeois class now led by an Emperor (of all things) were not interested in sharing power nor in giving much to trades-people and laborers. After spectacular collapse of the Second Empire, and after the Prussians had surrounded the city to dictate harsh terms of surrender to Adolph Thiers, and after the Army blundered a canon reclamation exercise on Montmartre in 1871 a new political power vacuum was created. Labor quickly organized a Parisian government.
The new government passed laws that perhaps surprisingly lowered wages, improved the plight of the poor, ended child labor, ended night work at bakeries, separated church and state, returned tools that had been pawned during the Siege to their original owners, restricted business owners from fining employees, and allowed employees to claim business abandoned by their owners.
Organized labor was not concerned simply with economics. The trade
unions worked for rights of self determination and rights to be respected
as individuals. Their struggle was and still is against the idle, judging, entitled,
restraining forces, including monarchies, royalists, the bourgeois, the
rich, and the Sainte Eglise that represents and works for those restraining forces.
The 60 day old political experiment called the Paris Commune ended in a hail of monarchist bullets. The bloodbath is, even now, strongly remembered. Flowers are even today placed along the wall in the cemetery of Pere Lachaise where 150 of Paris' citizens were lined up and executed.
The church of Sacre Coeur that was built atop Montmartre to celebrate the monarchist "victory" over the Paris Commune remains a contentious symbol of power. Many Parisians would even today to this symbol be pulled down and forever destroyed.
During the second world war, rail workers formed the basis of the Résistance-Fer, the French Resistance against the invading Nazis. Employees of the SNCF railroad company organized themselves, sabotaged portions of the rail system, and fought against German occupiers. As the Allies were landing in Normandy, the Nazis rounded up SNCF employees executing 150 people and deporting over 500, many of whom died.
A year ago les gilets jaunes largely located in the countryside organized to protest actions of the current banker led government. This is an interesting development because during the Paris Commune paysans remained aligned with the monarchists. But today paysans reacting to the movement of production overseas (to China in particular) and they are reacting to the laws and policies of the banker government that wishes to accelerate the upward flow of money. President Macron has said he supports the failed Reagan economic policies of "trickle down economics."
It is against this long history that the current strikes take place. President Macron has made it clear he wishes to reduce the number of different retirement systems from 40 down to something "more reasonable." However, the labor unions knew that the government's lead negotiator had not declared (as he is required to by law) his connections to industries that would benefit from the proposed changes.
This sniffs of corruption at the highest levels. This sniffs of government working with corporate leaders against the trade unions. Only yesterday the negotiator has left his post to be replaced by a different minister who said immediately that the government will continue with the prior plan to change the retirement system
President Macron has none of the warmth of character that someone like Jacques Chirac had. Macron is a spread-sheet number-cruncher banker by trade. His attitude appears to be that by enabling the rich, work and money will "trickle down" to the working classes. He doesn't seem to consider that the rich will simply keep the money and to send work off-shore, just as they do in the US.
Just the other morning one of the ministers was interviewed on France2 and he said the current situation is not the fault of the government. My chin hit the floor when I heard that. While on the one hand the strikes have severely restricted our ability to move around and enjoy this city and this country, I have a hard time blaming the workers or trade unions.
As for our winter travel plans, we've heard that car rental agencies are "sold out." We've heard that air-traffic controllers are sympathetic to the trade unions and flights in-country may or may not be flying. We've watched as the train we booked to Nice is only one of two trains a day that are leaving for the south of France, so we might be going afterall.
The situation is not clear.
Thursday, December 19, 2019
Saturday, November 30, 2019
Hidden Lives...
This year Jude and I visited Bretagne to see more of what there is to see.
After collecting our rental car we headed over to an organic food market to do a bit of shopping before we met the apartment owner in who's place we would be staying.
As I parked the car along a granite stone edged curb an elderly gent commented on my parking job and remarked on the distance to the front door of the market. He was a nice guy and we had a pleasant, short chat.
Soon Jude and I were gathering our provisions when I happened upon the elderly gent for a second time. One thing led to another and before we knew it we were talking about family origins and political histories.
He asked, of course, about my accent, so I told him where we were originally from. I told him I grew up in the Los Angeles area but couldn't speak Spanish. He was surprised so I explained to him how Americans tend to view citizens with a Hispanic surname. To further illustrate my story I showed him my Carte de Sejour and my name.
The gentleman pulled out his Carte d’Identité to show me his name. He asked if this meant anything to me. My eyes grew big with recognition and I asked him if, perhaps, he was related to someone of the same name. He smiled and said "no", but that his family up to the time of the first world war had lived in Normandy.
His grandfather had moved the family to northern Spain at the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War. They were involved with the Republican efforts against Franco, the ultra-conservative nationalist Catholic fascists, and Germany.
While I'm not sure precisely what collective effort the family was involved in, but when the Republican struggle against Franco failed the entire family returned to France and went into hiding.
Out of concern for Spanish agents working on behalf of the regime they remained in hiding for the entire time Franco was alive. It is only rather recently, in fact, that anyone feels safe enough to talk about what happened. The man's son came to encourage his father to follow him to la caisse to pay for their own items so they could go make dinner. The son confirmed his father's story.
I can't imagine the idealism and optimism for the future that encouraged a grandfather to move his family to a different country, to start a new life, and to defend those ideals. I can't imagine the fear and concern he must have had once he realized the effort had failed and that he'd placed his family in danger.
How can an American experience compare with any of this?
After collecting our rental car we headed over to an organic food market to do a bit of shopping before we met the apartment owner in who's place we would be staying.
As I parked the car along a granite stone edged curb an elderly gent commented on my parking job and remarked on the distance to the front door of the market. He was a nice guy and we had a pleasant, short chat.
Soon Jude and I were gathering our provisions when I happened upon the elderly gent for a second time. One thing led to another and before we knew it we were talking about family origins and political histories.
He asked, of course, about my accent, so I told him where we were originally from. I told him I grew up in the Los Angeles area but couldn't speak Spanish. He was surprised so I explained to him how Americans tend to view citizens with a Hispanic surname. To further illustrate my story I showed him my Carte de Sejour and my name.
The gentleman pulled out his Carte d’Identité to show me his name. He asked if this meant anything to me. My eyes grew big with recognition and I asked him if, perhaps, he was related to someone of the same name. He smiled and said "no", but that his family up to the time of the first world war had lived in Normandy.
His grandfather had moved the family to northern Spain at the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War. They were involved with the Republican efforts against Franco, the ultra-conservative nationalist Catholic fascists, and Germany.
While I'm not sure precisely what collective effort the family was involved in, but when the Republican struggle against Franco failed the entire family returned to France and went into hiding.
Out of concern for Spanish agents working on behalf of the regime they remained in hiding for the entire time Franco was alive. It is only rather recently, in fact, that anyone feels safe enough to talk about what happened. The man's son came to encourage his father to follow him to la caisse to pay for their own items so they could go make dinner. The son confirmed his father's story.
I can't imagine the idealism and optimism for the future that encouraged a grandfather to move his family to a different country, to start a new life, and to defend those ideals. I can't imagine the fear and concern he must have had once he realized the effort had failed and that he'd placed his family in danger.
How can an American experience compare with any of this?
Sunday, November 17, 2019
RIP Regine
One of the first people we met when starting to attend a French/English conversation group here in Paris was a woman named Regine. She had a kind, patient, and sweet disposition. She had a wicked sense of French humor, too.
A year ago we talked to her after a group sing-along. She told us about how difficult it is to deal with members of France's Bourgeois class. She told us about the student uprisings of 1968. She told us not to sweat the language strains and stresses as it's a nearly impossible language, and that we all can understand each other in the end. We told her we missed her at group (she'd stopped coming regularly for various reasons).
It was a shock to learn this week that Regine had died suddenly.
Her enterrement was held on Friday under a dark sky that spit rain mixed with snow. Very few people were in attendance. There is seldom any justice in life, or so it seems.
A year ago we talked to her after a group sing-along. She told us about how difficult it is to deal with members of France's Bourgeois class. She told us about the student uprisings of 1968. She told us not to sweat the language strains and stresses as it's a nearly impossible language, and that we all can understand each other in the end. We told her we missed her at group (she'd stopped coming regularly for various reasons).
It was a shock to learn this week that Regine had died suddenly.
Her enterrement was held on Friday under a dark sky that spit rain mixed with snow. Very few people were in attendance. There is seldom any justice in life, or so it seems.
Friday, November 8, 2019
Tuesday, October 29, 2019
... they really can't help themselves...
A neighbor leaves le Canard Enchaîné at our door each week. It's a great way to catch up on the things that make readers chuckle. There's nothing like a good turn of phrase and this newspaper is nothing if not filled with good turns of phrases. And they provide interesting news, too.
Something caught my eye this week.
It's been a few weeks since Jacque Chirac passed away and there was a mass held in his honor. All the notables were there. Ex-presidents of the French Republic, African and Middle-East leaders, and the Russian President Putin were there.
Apparently Valerie Giscard d'Estaing got a little impatient with waiting for the ceremonies to begin. He was overhead asking when things were going to get going. If you know anything about Giscard and Chirac it probably is this; Giscard roundly disliked Chirac. So there were chuckles when someone in the crowd said that this was the first time they'd ever seen Giscard impatient to see Chirac.
Some time into the ceremonies a quêteur passed through the crowd accepting offerings. He came to the French ex-Presidents and "Scooter d'Amour" Holland pulled out a bill and dropped it into the basket. Ex-President "Bling-Bling" Sarkozy just stood there. This prompted his wife, the famous Carla Bruni, to tell him that the man was waiting.
The offering basket then headed to the heads of state. The Congolese President hauled out a big wad of money and made his offering. Seeing this, the King of Jordan hauled out an even bigger wad "like a henchman wasting no time hauling out a second bundle." [hastily translated from the original French]
Trump's Best Friend "fusille" Putin was approached next. He threw the poor quêteur a "metallique" look. This sent the quêteur scampering away, leaving hanging all those who were waiting to make their offering.
Gawds! ...to have been a fly on the wall of this event... Good thing we have le Canard!
Something caught my eye this week.
It's been a few weeks since Jacque Chirac passed away and there was a mass held in his honor. All the notables were there. Ex-presidents of the French Republic, African and Middle-East leaders, and the Russian President Putin were there.
Apparently Valerie Giscard d'Estaing got a little impatient with waiting for the ceremonies to begin. He was overhead asking when things were going to get going. If you know anything about Giscard and Chirac it probably is this; Giscard roundly disliked Chirac. So there were chuckles when someone in the crowd said that this was the first time they'd ever seen Giscard impatient to see Chirac.
Some time into the ceremonies a quêteur passed through the crowd accepting offerings. He came to the French ex-Presidents and "Scooter d'Amour" Holland pulled out a bill and dropped it into the basket. Ex-President "Bling-Bling" Sarkozy just stood there. This prompted his wife, the famous Carla Bruni, to tell him that the man was waiting.
The offering basket then headed to the heads of state. The Congolese President hauled out a big wad of money and made his offering. Seeing this, the King of Jordan hauled out an even bigger wad "like a henchman wasting no time hauling out a second bundle." [hastily translated from the original French]
Trump's Best Friend "fusille" Putin was approached next. He threw the poor quêteur a "metallique" look. This sent the quêteur scampering away, leaving hanging all those who were waiting to make their offering.
Gawds! ...to have been a fly on the wall of this event... Good thing we have le Canard!
Friday, October 18, 2019
What is the hardest language you will ever learn?
We were recently sitting with Dominique at the Wednesday conversation group out near la Bastille. He posed the following question:
What is the hardest language you will ever learn?
Naturally everyone listening to him scratched their heads and offered up some, for us, very difficult languages. Chinese. Japanese. Some of the obscure languages from Africa.
After a short while Dominique smiled and said "it's whatever second language you try to learn. Every language that comes after that will be easier."
What he meant, in part, is that while learning a second language you pay attention to the details of what makes a language usable. Once you've developed an approach it can be applied to learning subsequent languages.
I quickly have come to see it similarly to Dominique. Just the other day I read a short passage in the news in Spanish. I swear I don't know Spanish. After struggling to learn French maybe I know more Spanish than I realize? Maybe I should try a little Italian?
I know. It's likely a bit more complicated than all that. Still...
What is the hardest language you will ever learn?
Naturally everyone listening to him scratched their heads and offered up some, for us, very difficult languages. Chinese. Japanese. Some of the obscure languages from Africa.
After a short while Dominique smiled and said "it's whatever second language you try to learn. Every language that comes after that will be easier."
What he meant, in part, is that while learning a second language you pay attention to the details of what makes a language usable. Once you've developed an approach it can be applied to learning subsequent languages.
I quickly have come to see it similarly to Dominique. Just the other day I read a short passage in the news in Spanish. I swear I don't know Spanish. After struggling to learn French maybe I know more Spanish than I realize? Maybe I should try a little Italian?
I know. It's likely a bit more complicated than all that. Still...
Thursday, October 10, 2019
A few phrases and their histories...
We find ourselves surrounded by intelligent, self-aware, articulate French men and women. It's amazing what we learn by paying attention and listening.
For example, just yesterday a kind women explained the history and use of "vous" et "tu."
I learned that you nearly always vouvoyer someone until invited to tutoyer. The exception being adults tutoyer children. But that seems to not really be the case.
The subtle change in the regulation is this: One uses "vous" for anyone of authority and anyone older than you if you are a child. "Tu" is used between everyone else.
Historically, around the time of the 1789 Revolution the common people took on the airs of the monarchy and "vous" was commonly used. That seems to have changed culturally and "tu" is now the preferred way to address someone who is not in authority.
Similarly, historically the address of "madame" was reserved exclusively when addressing women of the aristocracy and "mademoiselle" was used between commoners regardless of marriage status. It's only in recent times that "mademoiselle" came to be used for addressing unmarried women.
Expanding our horizons just a little, there are phrases that show up in everyday use that even the French might not know the origins of.
For example, in a local store window there are T-shirts that say "En Voiture Simone." There is a charming little book of the same title. What does it mean?
The phrase currently means something along the lines of "let's get going."
The entire phrase is "En voiture Simone, c'est toi qui conduis, c'est moi qui klaxonne!"
Historically, the phrase comes from the reaction to a young woman who in the early 20th century was one of the first women to have acquired her drivers license. Only men were allowed this privilege at the time, so it's very easy to imagine this phrase is actually demeaning toward women.
Here is one more phrase that we find interesting. It is "la der des ders."
The full expression is "la dernier des derniers" and comes from the Great War (WWI) and literally means "the last of the last."
In use it is sometimes used to indicate the last of a series of something. For instance it can be used to describe the very last episode in a TV series or a book series.
So that's it. C'est la der des ders pour aujourd'hui.
For example, just yesterday a kind women explained the history and use of "vous" et "tu."
I learned that you nearly always vouvoyer someone until invited to tutoyer. The exception being adults tutoyer children. But that seems to not really be the case.
The subtle change in the regulation is this: One uses "vous" for anyone of authority and anyone older than you if you are a child. "Tu" is used between everyone else.
Historically, around the time of the 1789 Revolution the common people took on the airs of the monarchy and "vous" was commonly used. That seems to have changed culturally and "tu" is now the preferred way to address someone who is not in authority.
Similarly, historically the address of "madame" was reserved exclusively when addressing women of the aristocracy and "mademoiselle" was used between commoners regardless of marriage status. It's only in recent times that "mademoiselle" came to be used for addressing unmarried women.
Expanding our horizons just a little, there are phrases that show up in everyday use that even the French might not know the origins of.
For example, in a local store window there are T-shirts that say "En Voiture Simone." There is a charming little book of the same title. What does it mean?
The phrase currently means something along the lines of "let's get going."
The entire phrase is "En voiture Simone, c'est toi qui conduis, c'est moi qui klaxonne!"
Historically, the phrase comes from the reaction to a young woman who in the early 20th century was one of the first women to have acquired her drivers license. Only men were allowed this privilege at the time, so it's very easy to imagine this phrase is actually demeaning toward women.
Here is one more phrase that we find interesting. It is "la der des ders."
The full expression is "la dernier des derniers" and comes from the Great War (WWI) and literally means "the last of the last."
In use it is sometimes used to indicate the last of a series of something. For instance it can be used to describe the very last episode in a TV series or a book series.
So that's it. C'est la der des ders pour aujourd'hui.
Wednesday, October 2, 2019
Monday, September 30, 2019
The city of lost dreams...
In my mind Paris had a lovely, sweet side to it. As I say this I'm thinking of life depicted in the movie "le fabuleux destin d’Amélie Poulain." But this is only a dream and Paris is anything but a dreamy city.
Someone from America came for a visit a couple years ago. They had a bag that wouldn't close and I suggested that it could become a magnet for pickpockets.
Sure enough, one morning walking up the street in an area well outside the tourist zones I caught a movement just behind me. Instinctively I stepped back and into the on-coming path of the out-stretched hand. The Romanian gitain quickly crossed the street and walked away. I kept my eye on him as I asked if anything had been picked. I was told the contents were safe and only then did I look away from the thief.
The incident bothered me. I hate being prey for sticky fingers.
With the opening of the borders in Europe through the Schengen agreement has, in part, come the free flow of thieves looking for rich pickings. Picks are typically from Romania and are gitain (aka gypsies). It should be noted that the locals used to prey on each other well before the gitain arrived in such large numbers, but it's the gitain who currently run the biggest pickpocket operations.
Earlier this summer I was riding the metro and saw on a station platform somewhere near the center of the city a large group of young Romanians who'd been stopped and were being arrested by the RATP police. It looked like it could have been a group of 20 to 30 youths all huddled together.
Just the other day I was talking with a friend who lives up in the 20eme arrondisement. They said that this summer things had gotten particularly bad. The Metro line 7 was being heavily picked. People of Chinese decent were being targeted. The story I heard was that merchants of Asian descent carried a lot of cash from their businesses around the city as a way of claiming smaller receipts that they had to pay taxes on and they were being preyed upon by well-organized picks.
The history of pickpockets and organized teams of criminals is rather well known here in Paris. But seldom do we first hand witness a successful pick. If they target me I've been so far lucky enough to put a stop to it by looking them directly in the eye and saying "arrêt!" Usually they blubber "OK OK" as they back away.
Yesterday, Jude and I went to the Halle Saint Pierre to see an art rude exhibition. Scampering home before the rains hit we jumped la ligne 12 to get off of the hill of Montmartre.
Around Gare Saint Lazare two Japanese young women boarded along with a crowd of folks from the railstation. A fat Romanian woman stood next to where I was seated and effectively blocked the aisle. At some point a 4 day stubble bearded young man with a hatchet-shaped face and nose came and stood behind the over-sized woman.
At a station around Concorde a group of people get off the train, including the fat Romanian. I didn't think much about it until one of the Japanese girls got a startled look on her face and realized she'd been picked. Hatchet-face pointed to three Rom that included two teenage girls I hadn't seen who debarked and just before the doors closed the two Japanese women quickly followed.
A stop or two later I saw hatchet-face put a wallet into the pocket of a lightweight jacket he held in his hands. Not sure if it was his or if it was the Japanese girl's and not having a phone to call the police I just sat there like a lump on the log. The man sat nonchalantly in a seat next to the door and casually got off at Pasteur and melted back into the city.
In addition to not like being preyed upon I really dislike feeling helpless. In America people intervene if they see something going wrong. That impulse is very much built into me. But in Europe the only people I've seen intervene are the police. Habits are clearly different here, though knowing this does nothing to make me feel better. This kind of petty crime really turns my stomach and grinds my gears.
Parisians are not naive. They certainly are not innocent. Far too much has happened here for any of these things to be the case. This is actually a rather cold-hearted place when viewed from certain perspectives. Will justice be served to those thieves? If so, when and how?
At some point in the night I remember thinking about the two Japanese women who had their vacation ruined. I wondered how bitter they must feel after being violated by aggressive Romanian pickpockets. I wouldn't blame them if they never came back to Paris.
This place can be anything but a city of dreams.
Someone from America came for a visit a couple years ago. They had a bag that wouldn't close and I suggested that it could become a magnet for pickpockets.
Sure enough, one morning walking up the street in an area well outside the tourist zones I caught a movement just behind me. Instinctively I stepped back and into the on-coming path of the out-stretched hand. The Romanian gitain quickly crossed the street and walked away. I kept my eye on him as I asked if anything had been picked. I was told the contents were safe and only then did I look away from the thief.
The incident bothered me. I hate being prey for sticky fingers.
With the opening of the borders in Europe through the Schengen agreement has, in part, come the free flow of thieves looking for rich pickings. Picks are typically from Romania and are gitain (aka gypsies). It should be noted that the locals used to prey on each other well before the gitain arrived in such large numbers, but it's the gitain who currently run the biggest pickpocket operations.
Earlier this summer I was riding the metro and saw on a station platform somewhere near the center of the city a large group of young Romanians who'd been stopped and were being arrested by the RATP police. It looked like it could have been a group of 20 to 30 youths all huddled together.
Just the other day I was talking with a friend who lives up in the 20eme arrondisement. They said that this summer things had gotten particularly bad. The Metro line 7 was being heavily picked. People of Chinese decent were being targeted. The story I heard was that merchants of Asian descent carried a lot of cash from their businesses around the city as a way of claiming smaller receipts that they had to pay taxes on and they were being preyed upon by well-organized picks.
The history of pickpockets and organized teams of criminals is rather well known here in Paris. But seldom do we first hand witness a successful pick. If they target me I've been so far lucky enough to put a stop to it by looking them directly in the eye and saying "arrêt!" Usually they blubber "OK OK" as they back away.
Yesterday, Jude and I went to the Halle Saint Pierre to see an art rude exhibition. Scampering home before the rains hit we jumped la ligne 12 to get off of the hill of Montmartre.
Around Gare Saint Lazare two Japanese young women boarded along with a crowd of folks from the railstation. A fat Romanian woman stood next to where I was seated and effectively blocked the aisle. At some point a 4 day stubble bearded young man with a hatchet-shaped face and nose came and stood behind the over-sized woman.
At a station around Concorde a group of people get off the train, including the fat Romanian. I didn't think much about it until one of the Japanese girls got a startled look on her face and realized she'd been picked. Hatchet-face pointed to three Rom that included two teenage girls I hadn't seen who debarked and just before the doors closed the two Japanese women quickly followed.
A stop or two later I saw hatchet-face put a wallet into the pocket of a lightweight jacket he held in his hands. Not sure if it was his or if it was the Japanese girl's and not having a phone to call the police I just sat there like a lump on the log. The man sat nonchalantly in a seat next to the door and casually got off at Pasteur and melted back into the city.
In addition to not like being preyed upon I really dislike feeling helpless. In America people intervene if they see something going wrong. That impulse is very much built into me. But in Europe the only people I've seen intervene are the police. Habits are clearly different here, though knowing this does nothing to make me feel better. This kind of petty crime really turns my stomach and grinds my gears.
Parisians are not naive. They certainly are not innocent. Far too much has happened here for any of these things to be the case. This is actually a rather cold-hearted place when viewed from certain perspectives. Will justice be served to those thieves? If so, when and how?
At some point in the night I remember thinking about the two Japanese women who had their vacation ruined. I wondered how bitter they must feel after being violated by aggressive Romanian pickpockets. I wouldn't blame them if they never came back to Paris.
This place can be anything but a city of dreams.
Saturday, September 28, 2019
Friday, September 27, 2019
+/- 3 degrees of separation ~ Jacques Chirac
This morning on Telematin they ran a series of homages to Jacques Chirac.
Looking through the Lens of America we tend to know ex-President Chirac for one, maybe two things.
First, we know him for America's rebranding of that famous spud dish to "Freedom Fries." Indeed, it was M.Chirac who said "non" to Baby Bush when asked to join the invasion of Iraq.
Second, if we are remotely aware we might remember that M.Chirac was found guilty of corruption after leaving office for things he did during his time as maire de Paris.
He came to presidential power promising economic reform, but he left with little to show for his promises. And yet...
This is such a narrow lens to view the man's life through.
The French, it turns out, seemed to love him dearly. He seems to have been a very real Man of the People kind of guy.
He loved sports. He loved to eat. He loved historical artifacts. He was the first French President to openly talk about France's role in the atrocities of WWII.
By comparison, recent French Presidents are pale ghosts. ex-President Bling-Bling (Sarkozy) also faces corruption charges, but there is little public sympathy. ex-President Normal (Holland) is perhaps best known for his Scooter of Love incident. President Macron feels like a soulless ex-banker political numbers on a spreadsheet technocrat.
By these comparisons, Jacques Chirac was a Full Blooded Frenchmen in the classic style.
Someone who belongs to our French/English Conversation group would say "hi" to M.Chirac whenever he'd run into him at one of his favorite cafes here in Paris.
Our friend would occasionally be out walking the family dog and would spy the famous man sitting in his seat (a French friend pointed out to us exactly which seat that used to be and smiled that we would know anything about the subject in the first place) watching the world go by and call out to him, "Bonjour Monsieur le President". M.Chirac was known to reply "Je ne suis pas President." But, he told the our friend "you have a nice dog."
In recent years M.Chirac was seen less and less in his seat at the cafe. He was looking like he was on the decline. We knew the end would come sooner rather than later.
While we're heard stories from our friends, and while we remember the "Freedom Fries" incident, we had no idea Jacques Chirac had done so many things and had had such a positive impact on France. Makes us wonder why it sometimes takes death for us to realize things that could or should be realized.
RIP ex-President Chirac.
Looking through the Lens of America we tend to know ex-President Chirac for one, maybe two things.
First, we know him for America's rebranding of that famous spud dish to "Freedom Fries." Indeed, it was M.Chirac who said "non" to Baby Bush when asked to join the invasion of Iraq.
Second, if we are remotely aware we might remember that M.Chirac was found guilty of corruption after leaving office for things he did during his time as maire de Paris.
He came to presidential power promising economic reform, but he left with little to show for his promises. And yet...
This is such a narrow lens to view the man's life through.
The French, it turns out, seemed to love him dearly. He seems to have been a very real Man of the People kind of guy.
He loved sports. He loved to eat. He loved historical artifacts. He was the first French President to openly talk about France's role in the atrocities of WWII.
By comparison, recent French Presidents are pale ghosts. ex-President Bling-Bling (Sarkozy) also faces corruption charges, but there is little public sympathy. ex-President Normal (Holland) is perhaps best known for his Scooter of Love incident. President Macron feels like a soulless ex-banker political numbers on a spreadsheet technocrat.
By these comparisons, Jacques Chirac was a Full Blooded Frenchmen in the classic style.
Someone who belongs to our French/English Conversation group would say "hi" to M.Chirac whenever he'd run into him at one of his favorite cafes here in Paris.
Our friend would occasionally be out walking the family dog and would spy the famous man sitting in his seat (a French friend pointed out to us exactly which seat that used to be and smiled that we would know anything about the subject in the first place) watching the world go by and call out to him, "Bonjour Monsieur le President". M.Chirac was known to reply "Je ne suis pas President." But, he told the our friend "you have a nice dog."
In recent years M.Chirac was seen less and less in his seat at the cafe. He was looking like he was on the decline. We knew the end would come sooner rather than later.
While we're heard stories from our friends, and while we remember the "Freedom Fries" incident, we had no idea Jacques Chirac had done so many things and had had such a positive impact on France. Makes us wonder why it sometimes takes death for us to realize things that could or should be realized.
RIP ex-President Chirac.
Tuesday, September 24, 2019
Three BBQs - or the Summer of 2019
This, the summer of two significant canicules, my wife and I enjoyed three significant BBQ events.
It's a Wednesday and coming up to late June. Jude after breakfast casually scans the weather forecast. Calm and tranquilly she skims the 10 day prognostication. She calls my name in a note of sudden urgency. As I'm sitting just across the table from her, this must be serious. Tuesday next, she tells me, goes from nice and pleasant to instant BBQ in the span of just a couple hours. Enter canicule number one.
Quick as bunnies we find a place forecast to be much cooler than Paris, a hotel to stay, a car to rent, and un Train a Grand Vitesse to help us escape the oven that our city would soon become. The forecast for Carnac is looking good, so it's off to south Bretagne to visit les alignements.
Our first summer BBQ came three days into the trip. Someone in Paris left the oven door open and we started to get rather toasty warm ourselves out on the beach. It wasn't too terribly bad, but 90+ degree heat for two days was enough to lightly brown our exteriors, while keeping the insides nice and moist. Still, it was a good escape.
It's a Wednesday and coming up to late June. Jude after breakfast casually scans the weather forecast. Calm and tranquilly she skims the 10 day prognostication. She calls my name in a note of sudden urgency. As I'm sitting just across the table, this must be really something. Tuesday next, she tells me, goes from nice and pleasant to instant BBQ in the span of just a couple hours. Sound familiar?
Bunny quick for the second time in thirty days we look for the coolest place we can find in Europe (after lightly BBQing ourselves in Carnac we hoped to find something better), and, well, now. Isn't this strange? Porto, Portugal is prognosticated to not cross over 82 degrees the entire time Paris BBQ's. So, planes out of Roissy are booked, an apartment is rented, taxis are arranged, and sweet fortified wines are researched. Enter canicule number two.
This time our research of a cooler destination paid off. And oh boy did it ever pay off gloriously, too. This time the BBQ came in the form of delicious meats grilled a la Brazil. The Portuguese love their BBQ.
Our first meal in Porto included 1/2 a chicken for Jude, a rack of ribs for me, a glass of wine for Jude, a glass of beer for me, and two after lunch coffees. All up our meal set us back 14Euro90. BBQ is absolute heaven in Porto. This was an unexpectedly wonderful escape from Paris.
The BBQ was so good that we ate it nearly every single meal other than breakfast.
After our sometimes sweet city decided to cool herself off (after record smashing heat) we looked at each other, my wife and I, and asked where to go in September?
Well find we love Bretagne and the apartment owners of our first squat (if you can call an apartment in the 16eme a squat, regardless of condition) spoke highly of a small town on the Cote d'Armor. We rolled the intellectually satisfying emotionally charged happy feet let's get outta Dodge yet again travel dice and said sure, why not. Let's go to Saint Brieuc, shall we?
For the second time this summer we scheduled a Train a Grand Vitesse and rented a car. For the third time this summer we found a place to stay. Everything was arranged and, well, since this trip didn't feel as urgent as the prior two BBQ events, we took a leisurely approach to figuring out what to see and what to do.
Wherein we discover that no matter the internal state of being, and no matter if you feel you have to "call it up" or not, brilliant BBQ is just down the street. What, you might ask, do the French do BBQ? Why, yes, Martha, they sure do.
They call it open flame grilling and when in Bretagne, the Land of Asterix et Obelix, magic potions and herds of sanglier, it is well worth seeking out if you are so inclined. Just walking in the front door will convince BBQ connoisseurs that they have just walked through those creaky anvil struck heavenly tall iron grill gates and into Paradise.
It was so good that we ate BBQ twice during our four day stay.
Oh, and galettes, too. But this is a post about BBQ. The story of galettes and cidre de bretagne will have to wait their turn for another post.
So there you have it. Three BBQ events in one lonesome-long record-setting climate-changed totally hot summer. Life is good.
It's a Wednesday and coming up to late June. Jude after breakfast casually scans the weather forecast. Calm and tranquilly she skims the 10 day prognostication. She calls my name in a note of sudden urgency. As I'm sitting just across the table from her, this must be serious. Tuesday next, she tells me, goes from nice and pleasant to instant BBQ in the span of just a couple hours. Enter canicule number one.
Quick as bunnies we find a place forecast to be much cooler than Paris, a hotel to stay, a car to rent, and un Train a Grand Vitesse to help us escape the oven that our city would soon become. The forecast for Carnac is looking good, so it's off to south Bretagne to visit les alignements.
Our first summer BBQ came three days into the trip. Someone in Paris left the oven door open and we started to get rather toasty warm ourselves out on the beach. It wasn't too terribly bad, but 90+ degree heat for two days was enough to lightly brown our exteriors, while keeping the insides nice and moist. Still, it was a good escape.
It's a Wednesday and coming up to late June. Jude after breakfast casually scans the weather forecast. Calm and tranquilly she skims the 10 day prognostication. She calls my name in a note of sudden urgency. As I'm sitting just across the table, this must be really something. Tuesday next, she tells me, goes from nice and pleasant to instant BBQ in the span of just a couple hours. Sound familiar?
Bunny quick for the second time in thirty days we look for the coolest place we can find in Europe (after lightly BBQing ourselves in Carnac we hoped to find something better), and, well, now. Isn't this strange? Porto, Portugal is prognosticated to not cross over 82 degrees the entire time Paris BBQ's. So, planes out of Roissy are booked, an apartment is rented, taxis are arranged, and sweet fortified wines are researched. Enter canicule number two.
This time our research of a cooler destination paid off. And oh boy did it ever pay off gloriously, too. This time the BBQ came in the form of delicious meats grilled a la Brazil. The Portuguese love their BBQ.
Our first meal in Porto included 1/2 a chicken for Jude, a rack of ribs for me, a glass of wine for Jude, a glass of beer for me, and two after lunch coffees. All up our meal set us back 14Euro90. BBQ is absolute heaven in Porto. This was an unexpectedly wonderful escape from Paris.
The BBQ was so good that we ate it nearly every single meal other than breakfast.
After our sometimes sweet city decided to cool herself off (after record smashing heat) we looked at each other, my wife and I, and asked where to go in September?
Well find we love Bretagne and the apartment owners of our first squat (if you can call an apartment in the 16eme a squat, regardless of condition) spoke highly of a small town on the Cote d'Armor. We rolled the intellectually satisfying emotionally charged happy feet let's get outta Dodge yet again travel dice and said sure, why not. Let's go to Saint Brieuc, shall we?
For the second time this summer we scheduled a Train a Grand Vitesse and rented a car. For the third time this summer we found a place to stay. Everything was arranged and, well, since this trip didn't feel as urgent as the prior two BBQ events, we took a leisurely approach to figuring out what to see and what to do.
Wherein we discover that no matter the internal state of being, and no matter if you feel you have to "call it up" or not, brilliant BBQ is just down the street. What, you might ask, do the French do BBQ? Why, yes, Martha, they sure do.
They call it open flame grilling and when in Bretagne, the Land of Asterix et Obelix, magic potions and herds of sanglier, it is well worth seeking out if you are so inclined. Just walking in the front door will convince BBQ connoisseurs that they have just walked through those creaky anvil struck heavenly tall iron grill gates and into Paradise.
It was so good that we ate BBQ twice during our four day stay.
Oh, and galettes, too. But this is a post about BBQ. The story of galettes and cidre de bretagne will have to wait their turn for another post.
So there you have it. Three BBQ events in one lonesome-long record-setting climate-changed totally hot summer. Life is good.
Monday, September 23, 2019
Michelin Guide... those restaurants etoile...
For years I've associated great restaurants with France, and the best of the best racked and stacked in the Guide Michelin. Anything awarded one to three stars was promising to be spectacular. Three starred eateries are supposed to provide the most incredible dining experiences in the world.
Except...
Over the years I've heard of chefs committing suicide. I've heard of chefs handing back their stars. I've heard of skullduggery and other mauvaises actions.
After awhile it seemed as if the rating system was, perhaps, rigged like a good ice skating competition. Not knowing the system like the French (it's likely built into their DNA, right?) I decided to canvas some of our friends to see what their opinions and thoughts might be on the topic.
In very unexpected and atypically non-French-agreeing kind of way everyone I talked to said pretty much the same thing: The Guide Michelin system is rigged. To a point.
I asked for clarification. Here are the underlying assumptions -
Across social, class, and economic status the French agreement on these points was, dare I say, ridiculously consistent. Our friends tell me the only thing they consider when consulting the famous Guide is what the occasion is.
If it's something "special" and meant to impress others they will select a starred restaurant that fits their budget. For the occasional eating-out they simply look through the list of non-starred lieu.
Sometime I'll have to tell you about a restaurant out in a bled somewhere in France where Ministers of the Republic will helicopter for lunch. It must be something really special.
Except...
Over the years I've heard of chefs committing suicide. I've heard of chefs handing back their stars. I've heard of skullduggery and other mauvaises actions.
After awhile it seemed as if the rating system was, perhaps, rigged like a good ice skating competition. Not knowing the system like the French (it's likely built into their DNA, right?) I decided to canvas some of our friends to see what their opinions and thoughts might be on the topic.
In very unexpected and atypically non-French-agreeing kind of way everyone I talked to said pretty much the same thing: The Guide Michelin system is rigged. To a point.
I asked for clarification. Here are the underlying assumptions -
- Anything starred is for tourists.
- The starred restaurant facilities are likely at least as good looking as the food.
- The staff will be trained in certain ways that appeal to the Guide.
- Shockingly, the food might not be as good as the other parts of the dining experience.
Across social, class, and economic status the French agreement on these points was, dare I say, ridiculously consistent. Our friends tell me the only thing they consider when consulting the famous Guide is what the occasion is.
If it's something "special" and meant to impress others they will select a starred restaurant that fits their budget. For the occasional eating-out they simply look through the list of non-starred lieu.
Sometime I'll have to tell you about a restaurant out in a bled somewhere in France where Ministers of the Republic will helicopter for lunch. It must be something really special.
Friday, September 20, 2019
Vocabulary List - riding into battle
As we were wrapping up a visit over cocktails the other evening our hosts suggested le coup de l’étrier.
From the puzzled looks on our faces the phrase needed to be looked up and the etymology considered.
Translated literally is means the blow/hit of the stirrup. Strange, isn't it?
Interestingly, the phrase comes from the time of Napoleon and, specifically refers to the Cassocks who fought in the Napoleonic wars. They would use the cup of the stirrups where they placed the toe of their boots as a vessel to drink from.
I can't imagine the dirt and filth such a cup had, but, we're talking former times and perhaps sanitation wasn't what it might be today. Before charging (quite literally) into battle, they would fill their stirrup cups with vodka and drink the contents comme un coup ou comme un cannon.
It finally dawns on us that un coup de l’étrier refers to one (last drink) for the road.
We'll have to remember this one. It might prove useful.
From the puzzled looks on our faces the phrase needed to be looked up and the etymology considered.
Translated literally is means the blow/hit of the stirrup. Strange, isn't it?
Interestingly, the phrase comes from the time of Napoleon and, specifically refers to the Cassocks who fought in the Napoleonic wars. They would use the cup of the stirrups where they placed the toe of their boots as a vessel to drink from.
I can't imagine the dirt and filth such a cup had, but, we're talking former times and perhaps sanitation wasn't what it might be today. Before charging (quite literally) into battle, they would fill their stirrup cups with vodka and drink the contents comme un coup ou comme un cannon.
It finally dawns on us that un coup de l’étrier refers to one (last drink) for the road.
We'll have to remember this one. It might prove useful.
Tuesday, August 13, 2019
1968 ~ a thought or two
Such a strange juxtaposition.
Residents of the USA continue to see approximately one mass shooting a day. I just read an article about the 1968 student uprising here in Paris.
While much is said about violence and white privilege in America, little beyond talking ever really takes place. In the spirit of non-action, here are a few more words.
My retired firefighter paramedic brother commented the other day that victims of mass shootings often display terrible wounds that we used to see only in war. In just a few minutes and even with police able to respond very quickly to the scene, dozens of people can be killed and many more left wounded.
"A well regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed."
So reads the second ammendment to the US Constitution.
Stress "a well regulated militia", shall we?
What best describes those who have died at the hands of war-ready gun wielding murderers? Brave Martyrs to the defense of the second amendment, or just collateral damage in the on-going war in America?
A strange juxtaposition for me comes from something I just read.
During the student uprisings here in Paris in 1968, the ecole des beaux arts printer rooms were taken over by students and put to the task of turning out posters.
At one point the State directed the police to shut down the school's printing presses. When the police entered the building students had taken priceless works of art off the walls of the school and were holding them as shields to protect the machinery against the power of the State.
When the police were confronted with a choice to first destroy art to then destroy the presses or to turn around and leave, they chose the latter and never returned.
It's really difficult to describe the vast differences between the two societies. In general, the US feels to me neanderthal-brutish, thuggish, and pig-headed in the way people and elected "leaders" go about things. The French, on the other hand, while being at times no less violent, make different choices that lead (from an American point of view) to unexpected outcomes.
It's like how a Frenchman explained to me that even the rich deserved single payer state sponsored healthcare. Everyone pays into the system and everyone gets to benefit from it.
Or how the French remember those who were murdered during the Nazi occupation of Paris. There are plaques around the city commemorating these people and on a regular basis flowers are put in a special ring affixed to each plaque.
I could go on with more examples, but I think I'll leave it as is for the moment.
Residents of the USA continue to see approximately one mass shooting a day. I just read an article about the 1968 student uprising here in Paris.
While much is said about violence and white privilege in America, little beyond talking ever really takes place. In the spirit of non-action, here are a few more words.
My retired firefighter paramedic brother commented the other day that victims of mass shootings often display terrible wounds that we used to see only in war. In just a few minutes and even with police able to respond very quickly to the scene, dozens of people can be killed and many more left wounded.
"A well regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed."
So reads the second ammendment to the US Constitution.
Stress "a well regulated militia", shall we?
What best describes those who have died at the hands of war-ready gun wielding murderers? Brave Martyrs to the defense of the second amendment, or just collateral damage in the on-going war in America?
A strange juxtaposition for me comes from something I just read.
During the student uprisings here in Paris in 1968, the ecole des beaux arts printer rooms were taken over by students and put to the task of turning out posters.
At one point the State directed the police to shut down the school's printing presses. When the police entered the building students had taken priceless works of art off the walls of the school and were holding them as shields to protect the machinery against the power of the State.
When the police were confronted with a choice to first destroy art to then destroy the presses or to turn around and leave, they chose the latter and never returned.
It's really difficult to describe the vast differences between the two societies. In general, the US feels to me neanderthal-brutish, thuggish, and pig-headed in the way people and elected "leaders" go about things. The French, on the other hand, while being at times no less violent, make different choices that lead (from an American point of view) to unexpected outcomes.
It's like how a Frenchman explained to me that even the rich deserved single payer state sponsored healthcare. Everyone pays into the system and everyone gets to benefit from it.
Or how the French remember those who were murdered during the Nazi occupation of Paris. There are plaques around the city commemorating these people and on a regular basis flowers are put in a special ring affixed to each plaque.
I could go on with more examples, but I think I'll leave it as is for the moment.
Thursday, July 18, 2019
Vocabulary List ~ One Word
The next word on our vocabulary list arrived today.
While watching "Telematin" on France 2 this morning we had the opportunity to learn a new French word.
Working (noun, masculine) - As in a project or work site.
You might hear someone now say something like "... did you see the size of that RER A line working? It's enormous..." Translation - the RER A work site or project is larger than expected.
Please note that none of these vocabulary words are likely to make it past the Académie Française any time soon.
While watching "Telematin" on France 2 this morning we had the opportunity to learn a new French word.
Working (noun, masculine) - As in a project or work site.
You might hear someone now say something like "... did you see the size of that RER A line working? It's enormous..." Translation - the RER A work site or project is larger than expected.
Please note that none of these vocabulary words are likely to make it past the Académie Française any time soon.
Wednesday, July 10, 2019
Vocabulary List ~ Three Words
Today's vocabulary list consists of three words. They are borrowed from the English language, and have been refashioned into something uniquely French.
We'll start with the easy word first.
Shampooing (noun, masculine) - Commonly heard as "... a shampooing..." or "... le shampooing..."
This is likely what you think it is. You can walk into any hair dresser and ask for "... a shampooing..." and when they're done, your hair will be more often than not cleaner than when you walked in.
Easy, right?
OK. Let's try a second word.
Relooking (noun, masculine) - You might hear someone ask "I would like a relooking, please."
When you see the context it's easy to sort out what the French mean by this. But standing alone, the word is a bit more difficult to understand.
We first encountered this word in an outdoor advertisement. It was related to home remodeling. But there are other uses for this word, such as applied to one's appearance.
In short, this means a makeover and it can be applied to many different situations.
Just today we encountered a whole new French borrowed from English word. It took me more than a moment to make out what they mean, even understanding the context.
Withing (noun, masculine) - The context was weight loss and a program that was on offer. We're not sure how this is used outside of marketing or if it's yet entered mainstream conversational French.
Here's the situation. A marketer has something to sell you. But before you agree to buy, the marketer sweetens the deal with a few withings.
Clear? We think not.
As best we can make out a withing is an accessory or additional incentives offered alongside the primary thing someone is trying to sell you.
In the weight loss scenario, the withings might include a blender for making smoothies or a vegitable slicer to make preparing your weight loss meal easier. That kind of thing.
Strange, isn't it?
OK. Bonus Round Word!!!
Lifting (nous, masculine) - As in "I'm going in for a lifting. See you in a couple months after the bandages come off."
Yes. You've got it. A lifting is a face lift.
Now that you're fully up to date on the latest French words, go out and have some fun with them.
We'll start with the easy word first.
Shampooing (noun, masculine) - Commonly heard as "... a shampooing..." or "... le shampooing..."
This is likely what you think it is. You can walk into any hair dresser and ask for "... a shampooing..." and when they're done, your hair will be more often than not cleaner than when you walked in.
Easy, right?
OK. Let's try a second word.
Relooking (noun, masculine) - You might hear someone ask "I would like a relooking, please."
When you see the context it's easy to sort out what the French mean by this. But standing alone, the word is a bit more difficult to understand.
We first encountered this word in an outdoor advertisement. It was related to home remodeling. But there are other uses for this word, such as applied to one's appearance.
In short, this means a makeover and it can be applied to many different situations.
Just today we encountered a whole new French borrowed from English word. It took me more than a moment to make out what they mean, even understanding the context.
Withing (noun, masculine) - The context was weight loss and a program that was on offer. We're not sure how this is used outside of marketing or if it's yet entered mainstream conversational French.
Here's the situation. A marketer has something to sell you. But before you agree to buy, the marketer sweetens the deal with a few withings.
Clear? We think not.
As best we can make out a withing is an accessory or additional incentives offered alongside the primary thing someone is trying to sell you.
In the weight loss scenario, the withings might include a blender for making smoothies or a vegitable slicer to make preparing your weight loss meal easier. That kind of thing.
Strange, isn't it?
OK. Bonus Round Word!!!
Lifting (nous, masculine) - As in "I'm going in for a lifting. See you in a couple months after the bandages come off."
Yes. You've got it. A lifting is a face lift.
Now that you're fully up to date on the latest French words, go out and have some fun with them.
Thursday, June 13, 2019
warble... wiggle... pop...
*warble*
The cockerel who's alarming application wished sincerely to be heard over the sweet cradling early morning silence cockerelled its little red combed cockerel head off.
Zut! *smack!* Off.
Silence.
It's Oh Dark Thirty and the sun hasn't yet thought about rubbing sleeply crusty stuff from its eyes. Into the salle de bain I stumble to wash the body and scrape the stubble from under the beard around the neckline and over the top of shockingly and extensively balding regions.
Dressed somewhat appropriately and just barely nourished (some might say weakly energized), as well empty-boweled as time and movement would allow, a kiss to my wife and out the door I dash. Ox-cart narrow somewhat functional and always entertaining French roads and the promise of (swelling cinematic music, please) the smell of castor oil in the morning demanded my attention.
It's time to head to the Vintage Revival Montlhery, 2019.
*wiggle*
My trusty steed would wait for no one and suffers late-comers with strong Gallic Gallus Gallus indifference. Doors slam, brakes release, some semblance of forward motion is indicated, and we're off rattling, swaying, and lurching our way due south to where the morning dewed sweet green grasses waited to dampen shoes at the duly appointed point of dew drop draped arrival.
Huh. Strange. No one is where they claimed they would be. This is no way to show up for a pre-1940's only automobile event. Ah, the humiliation. Ah, the horror. Ah...
"Oui. Allô. Je cherche quelqu'un qui peut me faire livraison, c'est a dire emmener a... oui... oui... ah bon?... D'accord... je vous attends."
This is what happens when my normal, usual, and customary l'isle de france traversing transport has had its keys and travel documents reclaimed by its proper owner, thus leaving this expatriated non-naturalized observer of cultural and sporting events rather High and Dry, as it were. Which leads to nothing good and the transport en commun (aka: metro, RER, etc.) and this Sunday morning phone call in something other than my mother langue to a taxi company which is situated somewhat outside Paris city limits in the region known as la Terre Inconnu.
Si je peux aller en direction de l'autodrome Linas-Montlhery, s'il vous plaît...
The trip was rapid and pleasant enough... only to have the client, aka: me, be dropped off at the bottom the hill... because there are so so many old cars trying to get into the site... that I'm now on foot moi-meme! Ah, the humiliation. Ah, the horror. Ah... wow... woof... whee...
Now look at that, will you? Haven't seen one of those before. Hah! There's something rather purdy in red. Ooo... and there goes an early Mog. And another. And another. Followed by a full-zoot road-going full-blown as in supercharged Bew-Gat-Ee.
*pop*
It seems that I've stepped out of present time and into a chapter straight out of The Wind In The Willows.
The very first thing I seem to see is Mole and Rat pushing Toad's Magnificent Edwardian Conveyance with Toad looking rather Wonderful and Masterful at command of the controls, which were at that point refusing to be controlled, while Badger looked on. Who built this damnable contraption? The weasels, stoats, or foxes? I know. I know. They can be "All-right in a way but well, you can't really trust them." No matter and no wonder the damnable thing won't light off. Poor Monsieur Toad.
A walk through the much promised aforementioned long slender and heavily dewed sweet grasses of the vast Mog-filled champs lead to a brocante (swap meet for us anglo-origined folks). This must be where the yer-o-pee'n squirrels of the River District stash their car parts. Carburetors, oil cans, gas cans, wheels (laced and otherwise), chassis, carrosseries to die for, and a few brand new pneu too! Everything from bits and pieces all the way up to a fine cone of stacked high glace (ice cream to us anglo-origined folks) is laid out for display, pawing through, offer, purchase, worship (see that De Dion motor over there?) and, in the case of les glaces, eating.
Having successfully negotiated les champs de brocantes without loosing un seul Louis d'or (I have no garage and, hence, no ability to garage anything I might buy) I see I'm in for a tougher go of it in the next section. Well-heeled Italians have brought their early Alfalfa Romeo-Tomatos up for the event.
V8's? Yes. V8's with superchargers? Yes. Gorgeous, slinky, slithery lingerie... er... bodywork laid out all nakedy-like? Whew! I'd read somewhere that they are famous down there for this kind of thing. But merde! how it gets an old fart's heart a-pounding. Who needs a sports workout gym when a person can be around these? Besides...
Zounds! There goes a very American utilitarian Ford-um Model Tea Speed-stir. Quickly followed like a dog sniffing another dog by a B-flat Cord, also from les Etats Unis. Ah, those silly Americans with their tail-sniffing animals.
Zut!! There goes a pretty little Bew-Gat-Ee single seater Compressor Pressor Coffee machine. And another. And another. And...
Zykes!!! There sits a Snort'n Norton Route-N Toot-N Single Cylinder Dust Bin bike in bad need of a push. Before I can cross un petit champs to help, someone has beat me to it and they're off and running, pushing, grunting, willing the motor to life.
Zwoop!!!! There pushed by several men goes a low slung Cycle Car that looks like it's not yet dressed for the day. Down the road they run, grunt, and push. Nothing catches. Back up the road they run, grunt, and push. Still nothing. Oops! Now there she goes *zoom*
I realize rather just in the nick of time that I need to step off this narrow oxen cart wide beastway or I'll get run over by an unstoppable river of wonderful conveyances.
Something else catches the attention and we, the rabbits and squirrels and I, float and paddle our way over to the Fields of Functional Fun and Relatively Fast Ratty Mole-ish thingies, chez Morgan. The chez Morgan licensed Darmont are in plentiful supply as well. And before I can inspect anything further, the whole of Morgan-Darmont champs is in motion and making its way onto the track.
Which gives me the opportunity to increase a bit of thumbulary muscle mass by exercising the twiddler of a stop (time) watch. It could be fun to witness and measure the speed of a scampering Wild Woodland ferret through its Natural Habitat. So out comes the stop (time) watch. Press the twiddler to start, the watch hands crank into motion and the world comes to a stop. No, not an end, just a stop. Press the twiddler to stop the watch hands and the world restarts anew right where it left off. Handy device this. What will Mr. Badger think of next, wise philosopher of his time that he is?
So, calculating the amount of time the world stopped and comparing it against the motion of a scampering Wild Woodland squirrel we find that, ah, yes, six times nine, carry the zero, and, huh, who would've guessed a well driven Mog would make that kind of distance in under a portzibie? Hold on. That's not a sufficient measurement of speed. How about an attoparsec? No. Maybe a beard-second? No, such things only apply to me and my beard as it regards, negotiates, and calculates Beer Quaffing Speeds. How about a tatum? No. Even though we've finally found a measurement of time, it won't do. A furloungh-firkin-fortnight, then? Absolutely not!
This is getting us nowhere. Let's move along, shall we?
Rivers of contraptions of the More Civilized Regions as well as those coming from the Wild Wood are of various ages, wages, rents, and origins. Everyone who is anyone is circulating the Linas-Montlhery autodrome, the wild and the haut-cultured alike. It was astounding to look at and to consider. Motion as Monsieur Toad would know, understand, and appreciate. In fact, there goes Toad now.
There was a somewhat recent history when the soon to be fabled and not yet to be knighted Monsieur Lyons of England ran a prototype-ish contraption mechanism rattle-trap through here at speed. After a successful run the rattle-trap was dubbed the Jag-y-warre XK120 and the world was forever and ever changed, ay-men. Slippery is the Road to Perdition as Jag-y-warre is now owned by an industrialist from a former colony and things, frankly, are just not the same as they once were. Yet it was the very place where I now stood, in wonderment, in honor, in supplication to the Gawds of the Automobile...
... what the ??? He's here? No. Not possible. That man sure gets around, doesn't he?
Before I could come to my full senses the Piper at the Gates of Dawn blasted by. The last I saw of him, Pan was moving rather more slowly as he pushed a bright red and newly rebuilt Phyat S76 out of a Paris Pavilion down at la porte de Versailles. The Fire Belching (when running) Beast was on its way to be push-stuffed onto a covered trailer that was pulled by a Land and Sea Rover. Useful that Land and Sea Rover for recrossing la manche.
This time it seems that Pan, oh, sorry, Monsieur Pittaway has motorboated (for it poured merciless water from the heavens for forty days and a few nights while he waded and wended his way across Merry 'Ol, over la manche to make his way swimmingly to Linas-Montlhery) something Very British, something Very British Racing Green, something perhaps aero-motored, and something ginormously big. Gawds! Quelle belle vue, ca.
A short time later I encounter Pan a second time. This time his navigator is carrying a trophy of some kind or other for Best of Show ou un truc similarly cunningly named. They both seemed happy enough, Pilot Piper Pan and Navigator, and their time in France was being well toasted and honored by one and all.
Was it now time for Mole and Rat to return to home, hearth, and Dulce Domum? Yes. Perhaps it was. The pleasant experiences of Edwardian England as seen from a French point of view and place all tinged in colors and form of The Wind In The Willows had come to a close.
I went to hail a taxi. Ah, the humiliation. Ah, the horror. Ah... Wow. Woof.
Event participants were starting to head out and were driving down the road to tomorrow and the beginning of a new work-week. I can't help note the passing fancies.
What a purdy fading likely original French blue Bew-Gat-Aye! Such a glorious Mog driven in Grand Style by Mr. Badger. There's a bright red modern-ish Fezzazz. Oh and what fun is that, a sweet sweet Alfalfa Romeo-Tomato on the back of a flat bed trailer being hauled away by the stoats and weasels and such.
*warble*
*wiggle*
*pop*
[For more images please see this Album]
The cockerel who's alarming application wished sincerely to be heard over the sweet cradling early morning silence cockerelled its little red combed cockerel head off.
Zut! *smack!* Off.
Silence.
It's Oh Dark Thirty and the sun hasn't yet thought about rubbing sleeply crusty stuff from its eyes. Into the salle de bain I stumble to wash the body and scrape the stubble from under the beard around the neckline and over the top of shockingly and extensively balding regions.
Dressed somewhat appropriately and just barely nourished (some might say weakly energized), as well empty-boweled as time and movement would allow, a kiss to my wife and out the door I dash. Ox-cart narrow somewhat functional and always entertaining French roads and the promise of (swelling cinematic music, please) the smell of castor oil in the morning demanded my attention.
It's time to head to the Vintage Revival Montlhery, 2019.
*wiggle*
My trusty steed would wait for no one and suffers late-comers with strong Gallic Gallus Gallus indifference. Doors slam, brakes release, some semblance of forward motion is indicated, and we're off rattling, swaying, and lurching our way due south to where the morning dewed sweet green grasses waited to dampen shoes at the duly appointed point of dew drop draped arrival.
Huh. Strange. No one is where they claimed they would be. This is no way to show up for a pre-1940's only automobile event. Ah, the humiliation. Ah, the horror. Ah...
"Oui. Allô. Je cherche quelqu'un qui peut me faire livraison, c'est a dire emmener a... oui... oui... ah bon?... D'accord... je vous attends."
This is what happens when my normal, usual, and customary l'isle de france traversing transport has had its keys and travel documents reclaimed by its proper owner, thus leaving this expatriated non-naturalized observer of cultural and sporting events rather High and Dry, as it were. Which leads to nothing good and the transport en commun (aka: metro, RER, etc.) and this Sunday morning phone call in something other than my mother langue to a taxi company which is situated somewhat outside Paris city limits in the region known as la Terre Inconnu.
Si je peux aller en direction de l'autodrome Linas-Montlhery, s'il vous plaît...
The trip was rapid and pleasant enough... only to have the client, aka: me, be dropped off at the bottom the hill... because there are so so many old cars trying to get into the site... that I'm now on foot moi-meme! Ah, the humiliation. Ah, the horror. Ah... wow... woof... whee...
Now look at that, will you? Haven't seen one of those before. Hah! There's something rather purdy in red. Ooo... and there goes an early Mog. And another. And another. Followed by a full-zoot road-going full-blown as in supercharged Bew-Gat-Ee.
*pop*
It seems that I've stepped out of present time and into a chapter straight out of The Wind In The Willows.
The very first thing I seem to see is Mole and Rat pushing Toad's Magnificent Edwardian Conveyance with Toad looking rather Wonderful and Masterful at command of the controls, which were at that point refusing to be controlled, while Badger looked on. Who built this damnable contraption? The weasels, stoats, or foxes? I know. I know. They can be "All-right in a way but well, you can't really trust them." No matter and no wonder the damnable thing won't light off. Poor Monsieur Toad.
A walk through the much promised aforementioned long slender and heavily dewed sweet grasses of the vast Mog-filled champs lead to a brocante (swap meet for us anglo-origined folks). This must be where the yer-o-pee'n squirrels of the River District stash their car parts. Carburetors, oil cans, gas cans, wheels (laced and otherwise), chassis, carrosseries to die for, and a few brand new pneu too! Everything from bits and pieces all the way up to a fine cone of stacked high glace (ice cream to us anglo-origined folks) is laid out for display, pawing through, offer, purchase, worship (see that De Dion motor over there?) and, in the case of les glaces, eating.
Having successfully negotiated les champs de brocantes without loosing un seul Louis d'or (I have no garage and, hence, no ability to garage anything I might buy) I see I'm in for a tougher go of it in the next section. Well-heeled Italians have brought their early Alfalfa Romeo-Tomatos up for the event.
V8's? Yes. V8's with superchargers? Yes. Gorgeous, slinky, slithery lingerie... er... bodywork laid out all nakedy-like? Whew! I'd read somewhere that they are famous down there for this kind of thing. But merde! how it gets an old fart's heart a-pounding. Who needs a sports workout gym when a person can be around these? Besides...
Zounds! There goes a very American utilitarian Ford-um Model Tea Speed-stir. Quickly followed like a dog sniffing another dog by a B-flat Cord, also from les Etats Unis. Ah, those silly Americans with their tail-sniffing animals.
Zut!! There goes a pretty little Bew-Gat-Ee single seater Compressor Pressor Coffee machine. And another. And another. And...
Zykes!!! There sits a Snort'n Norton Route-N Toot-N Single Cylinder Dust Bin bike in bad need of a push. Before I can cross un petit champs to help, someone has beat me to it and they're off and running, pushing, grunting, willing the motor to life.
Zwoop!!!! There pushed by several men goes a low slung Cycle Car that looks like it's not yet dressed for the day. Down the road they run, grunt, and push. Nothing catches. Back up the road they run, grunt, and push. Still nothing. Oops! Now there she goes *zoom*
I realize rather just in the nick of time that I need to step off this narrow oxen cart wide beastway or I'll get run over by an unstoppable river of wonderful conveyances.
Something else catches the attention and we, the rabbits and squirrels and I, float and paddle our way over to the Fields of Functional Fun and Relatively Fast Ratty Mole-ish thingies, chez Morgan. The chez Morgan licensed Darmont are in plentiful supply as well. And before I can inspect anything further, the whole of Morgan-Darmont champs is in motion and making its way onto the track.
Which gives me the opportunity to increase a bit of thumbulary muscle mass by exercising the twiddler of a stop (time) watch. It could be fun to witness and measure the speed of a scampering Wild Woodland ferret through its Natural Habitat. So out comes the stop (time) watch. Press the twiddler to start, the watch hands crank into motion and the world comes to a stop. No, not an end, just a stop. Press the twiddler to stop the watch hands and the world restarts anew right where it left off. Handy device this. What will Mr. Badger think of next, wise philosopher of his time that he is?
So, calculating the amount of time the world stopped and comparing it against the motion of a scampering Wild Woodland squirrel we find that, ah, yes, six times nine, carry the zero, and, huh, who would've guessed a well driven Mog would make that kind of distance in under a portzibie? Hold on. That's not a sufficient measurement of speed. How about an attoparsec? No. Maybe a beard-second? No, such things only apply to me and my beard as it regards, negotiates, and calculates Beer Quaffing Speeds. How about a tatum? No. Even though we've finally found a measurement of time, it won't do. A furloungh-firkin-fortnight, then? Absolutely not!
This is getting us nowhere. Let's move along, shall we?
Rivers of contraptions of the More Civilized Regions as well as those coming from the Wild Wood are of various ages, wages, rents, and origins. Everyone who is anyone is circulating the Linas-Montlhery autodrome, the wild and the haut-cultured alike. It was astounding to look at and to consider. Motion as Monsieur Toad would know, understand, and appreciate. In fact, there goes Toad now.
There was a somewhat recent history when the soon to be fabled and not yet to be knighted Monsieur Lyons of England ran a prototype-ish contraption mechanism rattle-trap through here at speed. After a successful run the rattle-trap was dubbed the Jag-y-warre XK120 and the world was forever and ever changed, ay-men. Slippery is the Road to Perdition as Jag-y-warre is now owned by an industrialist from a former colony and things, frankly, are just not the same as they once were. Yet it was the very place where I now stood, in wonderment, in honor, in supplication to the Gawds of the Automobile...
... what the ??? He's here? No. Not possible. That man sure gets around, doesn't he?
Before I could come to my full senses the Piper at the Gates of Dawn blasted by. The last I saw of him, Pan was moving rather more slowly as he pushed a bright red and newly rebuilt Phyat S76 out of a Paris Pavilion down at la porte de Versailles. The Fire Belching (when running) Beast was on its way to be push-stuffed onto a covered trailer that was pulled by a Land and Sea Rover. Useful that Land and Sea Rover for recrossing la manche.
This time it seems that Pan, oh, sorry, Monsieur Pittaway has motorboated (for it poured merciless water from the heavens for forty days and a few nights while he waded and wended his way across Merry 'Ol, over la manche to make his way swimmingly to Linas-Montlhery) something Very British, something Very British Racing Green, something perhaps aero-motored, and something ginormously big. Gawds! Quelle belle vue, ca.
A short time later I encounter Pan a second time. This time his navigator is carrying a trophy of some kind or other for Best of Show ou un truc similarly cunningly named. They both seemed happy enough, Pilot Piper Pan and Navigator, and their time in France was being well toasted and honored by one and all.
Was it now time for Mole and Rat to return to home, hearth, and Dulce Domum? Yes. Perhaps it was. The pleasant experiences of Edwardian England as seen from a French point of view and place all tinged in colors and form of The Wind In The Willows had come to a close.
I went to hail a taxi. Ah, the humiliation. Ah, the horror. Ah... Wow. Woof.
Event participants were starting to head out and were driving down the road to tomorrow and the beginning of a new work-week. I can't help note the passing fancies.
What a purdy fading likely original French blue Bew-Gat-Aye! Such a glorious Mog driven in Grand Style by Mr. Badger. There's a bright red modern-ish Fezzazz. Oh and what fun is that, a sweet sweet Alfalfa Romeo-Tomato on the back of a flat bed trailer being hauled away by the stoats and weasels and such.
*warble*
*wiggle*
*pop*
[For more images please see this Album]
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