If you recognize this, you'll no doubt recognize one of the more famous French marketing successes.
Here is a fun little explanation.
Thursday, November 17, 2016
Sunday, November 6, 2016
Old Fashioned Fun
When I was younger I really enjoyed all things motorized. I've owned two Jaguar 3.8 litre Moss crunch-box E-types, a Fiat 124 Sport Coupe (the pretty one, not the post 1970 style), four Ducati's (one rubber band drive and three bevel-drive), several Moto Guzzi, Moto Morini, three Yamaha RD 400's and a pretty Yamaha 650 Seca (not the ugly turbo-Seca). It seems there's been more than my fair share of fun sitting the garage.
Moving to Europe included our conscious effort to lead a car-free life. Spell check wants to correct that to carefree life, but I put it correctly in the first place. Hopefully we're not naive enough to believe we could have no cares simply by changing location. No cars? Yes. No cares? No. We intentionally lead a car-free existence here. There's enough CO2 in the atmosphere without our contributing to it, too. Or something like that. Have I mentioned how crazy the traffic is here?
Returning to the US to help my father clear out a few things and to attend a wedding put us squarely at odds with our car-free ideals. In America if you don't have an automobile it can be really difficult to get around. And where we were headed it might even be impossible to get there without one. Once there, an automobile was essential.
It didn't take me long to remember where my youthful passion for cars and bikes came from. My father has his own small collection of toys that he roundly loves. This includes my Great Uncle's 1931 Ford Model A Deluxe Roadster, a 1965 Chevy Corvair 140 Monza (with four carbs), and a newer BMW Z4 decapote. He wanted me to drive all of them as a way of sharing the fun. So drive we did. Oh gods! what fun we had.
The Ford Model A required double clutching when changing gears. The brakes are weak, but the top speed is most comfortable at 45mph or less. The steering is a little vague and the seats are rather close to the dashboard. Those Large of Girth need not apply. They can't fit.
The Chevrolet Corvair 140 Monza has a nice flat 6 cylinder air cooled engine. This car has a rather lumpy (semi-race) cam, too. It sounds great and goes well enough until you want to stop. At which point you really (and I do mean really) need to stand on the brakes. It felt like my foot was trying to move a brick. The speed was difficult to scrub.
The BMW Z4 is a thoroughly modern vehicle. It brakes well. It steers perfectly. It goes like stink. I learned this one evening on our way to dinner. Dad told me to drive as he played navigator. My brother and Jude followed in Conrad's car. Dad said "punch it." My brother and wife quickly disappeared from the rearview mirror and we gobbled up the road at a very great rate of knots (thank you Henry Manney III).
OK. So automobiling can be fun. It can be a whole lot of fun, in fact. Sharing the experience with my father was one of the highlights of my trip. The smile on my face told Jude that after returning home a cute little Citroen 2CV might be somewhere in our future.
Moving to Europe included our conscious effort to lead a car-free life. Spell check wants to correct that to carefree life, but I put it correctly in the first place. Hopefully we're not naive enough to believe we could have no cares simply by changing location. No cars? Yes. No cares? No. We intentionally lead a car-free existence here. There's enough CO2 in the atmosphere without our contributing to it, too. Or something like that. Have I mentioned how crazy the traffic is here?
Returning to the US to help my father clear out a few things and to attend a wedding put us squarely at odds with our car-free ideals. In America if you don't have an automobile it can be really difficult to get around. And where we were headed it might even be impossible to get there without one. Once there, an automobile was essential.
It didn't take me long to remember where my youthful passion for cars and bikes came from. My father has his own small collection of toys that he roundly loves. This includes my Great Uncle's 1931 Ford Model A Deluxe Roadster, a 1965 Chevy Corvair 140 Monza (with four carbs), and a newer BMW Z4 decapote. He wanted me to drive all of them as a way of sharing the fun. So drive we did. Oh gods! what fun we had.
The Ford Model A required double clutching when changing gears. The brakes are weak, but the top speed is most comfortable at 45mph or less. The steering is a little vague and the seats are rather close to the dashboard. Those Large of Girth need not apply. They can't fit.
The Chevrolet Corvair 140 Monza has a nice flat 6 cylinder air cooled engine. This car has a rather lumpy (semi-race) cam, too. It sounds great and goes well enough until you want to stop. At which point you really (and I do mean really) need to stand on the brakes. It felt like my foot was trying to move a brick. The speed was difficult to scrub.
The BMW Z4 is a thoroughly modern vehicle. It brakes well. It steers perfectly. It goes like stink. I learned this one evening on our way to dinner. Dad told me to drive as he played navigator. My brother and Jude followed in Conrad's car. Dad said "punch it." My brother and wife quickly disappeared from the rearview mirror and we gobbled up the road at a very great rate of knots (thank you Henry Manney III).
OK. So automobiling can be fun. It can be a whole lot of fun, in fact. Sharing the experience with my father was one of the highlights of my trip. The smile on my face told Jude that after returning home a cute little Citroen 2CV might be somewhere in our future.
Friday, October 28, 2016
Out in the workshop...
To keep a promise I'd made to my father when we last saw him in Madrid,Jude and I visited the US starting in late summer. We were there for six weeks. Four of those weeks were spent with my father fulfilling my promise to help him clean out some of my mother's many things.
When we were thinking through all the details of what we wanted to accomplish easily distracted us from looking forward to enjoying our time there. After all, the task appeared daunting. We had one room in the house, a medium sized workshop area in the garage, and an entire wall and floor area also in the garage to go through and clear out.
My mother passed some years back and my father hasn't had the energy nor desire to go through her things and to find new homes for all of it. After we arrived I could see why. Whether anyone wanted to admit it or not, my mother was something of a hoarder. The room in the house was filled with dolls, teddy bears, and doll furniture. Her shop area was filled with doll body part molds, kilns for firing ceramics, and supplies that could've stocked a hobbyist's store. The garage was literally stacked to the rafters with plastic tubs filled with things that'd followed my parents north when my father retired. This was a much bigger task than I feared.
One of my father's goals was to be able spend time out in his own shop making musical instruments. My mother's things weighed on his mind. It was such a big thing to take care of that I'm sure my father felt like the whole thing was simply too much. He'd already identified the things he wanted to remember his wife by and had already set those things into a display area in a way that pleased him. Even now, he is devoted to the memory of my mother in a way that shows he still feels a deep bond with her.
Fortunately, my brother Conrad came up from Napa to lend a hand. He stayed with us for 10 days. At times I wasn't sure there was enough time in the schedule to get everything done. But with my brother there we were able to muscle everything that needed to be muscled and a large part of the task was completed. Before he left, we stuffed a 15foot UHaul box van to the roof with my mother's things and took them to a local hospice thrift store as a donation.
After Conrad headed south to home and hearth Jude and I were able to continue on. I was able to sell a few things of value and we were able to have the hospice thrift store van back up to the door and haul the remainder of the to be donated items.
My daily routine included going over to my father's place and knocking on the door, poking my head in, and saying "Hey Pops, are you there?" If he was, I was greeted by his two schnauzers. They'd come over and say "hi" and I go to try and find their keeper. If the dog greeters weren't there I knew my father was in his shop working on guitars or ukuleles. Very often he was doing the very thing he said he wanted to do. My mother's things were no longer weighing on him they way they used to.
Over the course of the month Jude and I watched has he built a tenor ukulele. It's for my wife and when my father has finished it he'll send it to her. It was quite the experience to see a brand new instrument take shape. It was amazing to see how my father makes all the not-so-small decisions that go into the making of something so beautiful.
Watching my father build a ukulele was, of course, only one of the highlights of visiting him. There were other enjoyable things, too. Before we knew it, it was time for Jude and I to make our way north to Portland for our son's wedding.
I expected that saying "goodbye" to my father would be difficult. The parting was made easier when he said "I'll see you next spring in Europe!"
When we were thinking through all the details of what we wanted to accomplish easily distracted us from looking forward to enjoying our time there. After all, the task appeared daunting. We had one room in the house, a medium sized workshop area in the garage, and an entire wall and floor area also in the garage to go through and clear out.
My mother passed some years back and my father hasn't had the energy nor desire to go through her things and to find new homes for all of it. After we arrived I could see why. Whether anyone wanted to admit it or not, my mother was something of a hoarder. The room in the house was filled with dolls, teddy bears, and doll furniture. Her shop area was filled with doll body part molds, kilns for firing ceramics, and supplies that could've stocked a hobbyist's store. The garage was literally stacked to the rafters with plastic tubs filled with things that'd followed my parents north when my father retired. This was a much bigger task than I feared.
One of my father's goals was to be able spend time out in his own shop making musical instruments. My mother's things weighed on his mind. It was such a big thing to take care of that I'm sure my father felt like the whole thing was simply too much. He'd already identified the things he wanted to remember his wife by and had already set those things into a display area in a way that pleased him. Even now, he is devoted to the memory of my mother in a way that shows he still feels a deep bond with her.
Fortunately, my brother Conrad came up from Napa to lend a hand. He stayed with us for 10 days. At times I wasn't sure there was enough time in the schedule to get everything done. But with my brother there we were able to muscle everything that needed to be muscled and a large part of the task was completed. Before he left, we stuffed a 15foot UHaul box van to the roof with my mother's things and took them to a local hospice thrift store as a donation.
After Conrad headed south to home and hearth Jude and I were able to continue on. I was able to sell a few things of value and we were able to have the hospice thrift store van back up to the door and haul the remainder of the to be donated items.
My daily routine included going over to my father's place and knocking on the door, poking my head in, and saying "Hey Pops, are you there?" If he was, I was greeted by his two schnauzers. They'd come over and say "hi" and I go to try and find their keeper. If the dog greeters weren't there I knew my father was in his shop working on guitars or ukuleles. Very often he was doing the very thing he said he wanted to do. My mother's things were no longer weighing on him they way they used to.
Over the course of the month Jude and I watched has he built a tenor ukulele. It's for my wife and when my father has finished it he'll send it to her. It was quite the experience to see a brand new instrument take shape. It was amazing to see how my father makes all the not-so-small decisions that go into the making of something so beautiful.
Watching my father build a ukulele was, of course, only one of the highlights of visiting him. There were other enjoyable things, too. Before we knew it, it was time for Jude and I to make our way north to Portland for our son's wedding.
I expected that saying "goodbye" to my father would be difficult. The parting was made easier when he said "I'll see you next spring in Europe!"
Monday, October 3, 2016
On French Soil...
I stumbled upon something potentially interesting to folks familiar with the history of expansion of nation states. While being in the US for six weeks helping my father and then attending our son's wedding I may have inadvertently added to French overseas holdings.
When visiting my father I took to occasionally Watering the Gophers. You see, his yard was filled with evidence of their underground excavations. Years ago I read where buying panther urine from a local zoo and twinkling a little around one's property can help keep the predators at bay. Since the gophers were predating on my father's grubs and insects I thought I'd run an experiment. If panther urine worked, why not human wee? Hence the Watering of the Gophers.
I love success stories and this is one of my favorite. When Nature Called, I'd head outside, locate a mound of fresh soil and urinate on it. The mound would decrease in size and the gophers seemed to find another area to excavate. So if my theory was correct, I was helping keep the Gophers at Bay. Success! Though I'm not sure just how grateful my father is for proving the point.
One day while driving home, Conrad, my brother, took us on a tour of the Bandon Dunes Golf Course. We were on a nice and windy road when Nature Called. She struck like a Bolt of Thunder! [ed: No. Not like the 1975 Ducati 750GT/Sport, though from the sounds of things there might not have been much difference.] "Oh driver!" I demanded. "Pullest Thou Over, s'il vous plait." Out I jumped and, well, the surrounding shrubbery will be a brighter green come next spring.
Readers of this blog may note a prior entry wherein I recorded the Insanity of Car Rentals. What I haven't previously described is what happened when we parked the BMW Z4 on the grass by a large blackberry bush next to Mr UHaul's Garage in Port Orford. Without going into the gory details, suffice it to say, come next spring the blackberries could grow darker and juicier than in prior drought years.
It was then that I realized the Error of My Ways. Or, rather, the Unintended Consequences of Taking an al Fresco Leak wherever my bladder demanded. My father had been waiting the Right Moment to inform me of a few of the nuances of Nation Building and European Expansionism.
Frenchmen, well known for watering the scenery in wide open nature have used the principal of Peeing in Public in place of planting their country's flag in the soil and declaring that ground for France. This, according to my well informed father. Bon.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I proudly introduce to you the newly discovered and now declared France in the New World. Of course each place will need to be renamed in place of the former English appellations. Bandon by the Sea will become Bandon sur mer. The Bandon Dunes Golf Course will be opened to gophers as a safe haven against Men Who Pee. It's new name is la merde de golf. Sand traps will be replaced by little mounds of soil. Lastly, Port Orford will now be referred to as la Sainte Porte Orphord du garage de UHaul and the blackberry bush will be the site of a new shrine. No suitable name for the shrine has yet been identified and numbers for the new departements shall be coming forthwith.
Residents of these areas will forthwith be notified. Passports may need to be reissued.
It should be noted that la ville des Hipsters in the northern part of the region called Portland will not be joining France as a newly annexed area. We're not quite sure how to proceed as our editor was seen being hauled away by the local constabulary after attempting to take a leak in public.
When visiting my father I took to occasionally Watering the Gophers. You see, his yard was filled with evidence of their underground excavations. Years ago I read where buying panther urine from a local zoo and twinkling a little around one's property can help keep the predators at bay. Since the gophers were predating on my father's grubs and insects I thought I'd run an experiment. If panther urine worked, why not human wee? Hence the Watering of the Gophers.
I love success stories and this is one of my favorite. When Nature Called, I'd head outside, locate a mound of fresh soil and urinate on it. The mound would decrease in size and the gophers seemed to find another area to excavate. So if my theory was correct, I was helping keep the Gophers at Bay. Success! Though I'm not sure just how grateful my father is for proving the point.
One day while driving home, Conrad, my brother, took us on a tour of the Bandon Dunes Golf Course. We were on a nice and windy road when Nature Called. She struck like a Bolt of Thunder! [ed: No. Not like the 1975 Ducati 750GT/Sport, though from the sounds of things there might not have been much difference.] "Oh driver!" I demanded. "Pullest Thou Over, s'il vous plait." Out I jumped and, well, the surrounding shrubbery will be a brighter green come next spring.
Readers of this blog may note a prior entry wherein I recorded the Insanity of Car Rentals. What I haven't previously described is what happened when we parked the BMW Z4 on the grass by a large blackberry bush next to Mr UHaul's Garage in Port Orford. Without going into the gory details, suffice it to say, come next spring the blackberries could grow darker and juicier than in prior drought years.
It was then that I realized the Error of My Ways. Or, rather, the Unintended Consequences of Taking an al Fresco Leak wherever my bladder demanded. My father had been waiting the Right Moment to inform me of a few of the nuances of Nation Building and European Expansionism.
Frenchmen, well known for watering the scenery in wide open nature have used the principal of Peeing in Public in place of planting their country's flag in the soil and declaring that ground for France. This, according to my well informed father. Bon.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I proudly introduce to you the newly discovered and now declared France in the New World. Of course each place will need to be renamed in place of the former English appellations. Bandon by the Sea will become Bandon sur mer. The Bandon Dunes Golf Course will be opened to gophers as a safe haven against Men Who Pee. It's new name is la merde de golf. Sand traps will be replaced by little mounds of soil. Lastly, Port Orford will now be referred to as la Sainte Porte Orphord du garage de UHaul and the blackberry bush will be the site of a new shrine. No suitable name for the shrine has yet been identified and numbers for the new departements shall be coming forthwith.
Residents of these areas will forthwith be notified. Passports may need to be reissued.
It should be noted that la ville des Hipsters in the northern part of the region called Portland will not be joining France as a newly annexed area. We're not quite sure how to proceed as our editor was seen being hauled away by the local constabulary after attempting to take a leak in public.
Monday, September 26, 2016
Car rentals in the US...
As part of this summers activities I'd signed my wife and I up for a trip back to the US to help my father clear out a few things that he was having trouble getting rid of. The trouble wasn't in terms of attachment. It was in terms of sheer volume. There was a tremendous mountain of things to find new homes for.
Our ride north in... what???
My father lives in what we like to call Sherwood Forest. To get there requires a two legged flight from Europe and a five hour drive to the remote south Oregon coast. This trip we did it in two steps. The first day we flew from Paris to Oregon. The second day we drove from Portland to Bandon.
Since we don't own a car, we needed to rent something in Portland and drive it one way to our destination. Our son Daniel very kindly helped procure a Hertz rental and the next morning we were on the road and on our way. We arrived in style as the only car we could reserve on the 'net from Europe was full size. It was not cheap. The cost of the rental was a bit shocking and came within spitting distance of matching the cost to fly from Portland into North Bend, which is the closest airport.
Plenty of room back here!!!
After nearly a month working on moving my father's Mountain of Things we were ready to return to Portland to attend Daniel's wedding.
When we were in Coos Bay we stopped by the Enterprise car rental agency and enquired about scheduling a car for our drive up the valley. What we learned nearly bowled us over. As this would be a one way trip (and not in/around town) there was a $125 "drop fee." There was also a three day minimum. Add taxes and other fiddly bits and our all up costs were well over $450.
It was suggested we check with Hertz to see if we could get a cheaper ride. Well, no. In fact it was slightly more expensive than Enterprise for the same class of automobile. Yikes! This was quickly reaching the outer limits of insanity.
Pee-stop in beautiful downtown Drain
(yes, there's a joke somewhere in here
but it's true as written)
It was also suggested that we check down the street at UHaul to see if we could get a really cheap one-way vehicle. So this we did. We were hoping for a pickup truck or a van. All they offered was a 10foot box truck. Such silliness as all this needed to be clearly documented as we doubted anything would ever believe us.
Our drive north from Coos County to Multnomah County was going to be yet another adventure. Instead of arriving in Stately Elegance via some classy or not so classy automobile, we would be driving a truck suitable for moving furnishings, household items, and personal effects equivalent to all the things needed to kit a one room apartment. All this for five large suitcases and a of couple laptop computers. It seemed the only way to save over $250 on this segment of our trip.
The hand position on the wheel would never
pass for "correct" in France, where they're
supposed to strictly remain placed at
10o'clock and 2o'clock. But this is America.
So there.
We felt we had little choice and decided to save $250. The UHaul 10foot box van was rented. Our suitcases and laptop computers were loaded. We borrowed some rope from my father that helped keep things from shifting around that vast cargo space. Bidding Bandon and our Cleaning Project farewell, we pointed the nose of the UHaul van north and drove out of town.
Vastly open spaces...
No Stately Elegance, this. We didn't need to arrive in style, but it seemed rather funny that it'd all come to this.
Since we don't own a car, we needed to rent something in Portland and drive it one way to our destination. Our son Daniel very kindly helped procure a Hertz rental and the next morning we were on the road and on our way. We arrived in style as the only car we could reserve on the 'net from Europe was full size. It was not cheap. The cost of the rental was a bit shocking and came within spitting distance of matching the cost to fly from Portland into North Bend, which is the closest airport.
When we were in Coos Bay we stopped by the Enterprise car rental agency and enquired about scheduling a car for our drive up the valley. What we learned nearly bowled us over. As this would be a one way trip (and not in/around town) there was a $125 "drop fee." There was also a three day minimum. Add taxes and other fiddly bits and our all up costs were well over $450.
It was suggested we check with Hertz to see if we could get a cheaper ride. Well, no. In fact it was slightly more expensive than Enterprise for the same class of automobile. Yikes! This was quickly reaching the outer limits of insanity.
Our drive north from Coos County to Multnomah County was going to be yet another adventure. Instead of arriving in Stately Elegance via some classy or not so classy automobile, we would be driving a truck suitable for moving furnishings, household items, and personal effects equivalent to all the things needed to kit a one room apartment. All this for five large suitcases and a of couple laptop computers. It seemed the only way to save over $250 on this segment of our trip.
No Stately Elegance, this. We didn't need to arrive in style, but it seemed rather funny that it'd all come to this.
Wednesday, August 24, 2016
La traversee de Paris estivale 2016...
The Association Vincennes en Ancienne was able to run it's traversee de Paris estivale before the authorities could get the word out that big crowd filled events should be cancelled if there was insufficient security. Such has been the general state of concern over continued terrorist attacks.
For those who don't already know, la traversee is run twice a year, once in January and once on the weekend start of les vacances. The event involves the running of 700+ old vehicles on the streets of Paris. Normally one of the major gathering points is la place de la Concorde. It's there that I've headed the past two years to see fun and wonderful things.
It seems as if Asian tourists can't help themselves. All too many times I've watched as someone climbs into a car to have their picture taken. This year was no different. So when someone got into an old old voiture to have his picture taken, I snapped. I knew the owner wasn't asked permission and couldn't stand the idea that someone's pride and joy was under siege. In anger I told him to get out. He smiled broadly and noded "yes", but he kept his face toward the camera. So I forcefully reiterated that it was time for him to get out! He must've heard the edge in my voice. He jumped out and walked away.
A Frenchmen (not the sullied car's owner) watching the commotion I created struck up a conversation. I told him that foreigners are crazy and said I should know as I'm American. We laughed and I felt my anger instantly drain away.
The conversation led the man to telling me about the old cars he owns. Here they are known as les voitures de collection. As the man listed all the fun old things in his garage I stopped him to ask about his 1931 Ford Model A Deluxe. I'm told it's deep blue with yellow rims. It's a roadster convertible that was originally sold by a dealership in Bordeaux. The man is the second owner and it rather proud of this car. I told him about my father's automobile. The same exact car (year and everything) but in robin's egg blue.
Later as I walked down the line of parked voitures I felt someone jostling me. It was the Ford Model A owner. He said "here, look at this" and showed me a photo on his cell phone. I swear on a stack of well worn Avons that it was a near perfect match for my father's own car.
If I get the chance the next time they run la traversee I'll try to show him the video my father made recently of my great uncle's car that's still in the family.
For those who don't already know, la traversee is run twice a year, once in January and once on the weekend start of les vacances. The event involves the running of 700+ old vehicles on the streets of Paris. Normally one of the major gathering points is la place de la Concorde. It's there that I've headed the past two years to see fun and wonderful things.
It seems as if Asian tourists can't help themselves. All too many times I've watched as someone climbs into a car to have their picture taken. This year was no different. So when someone got into an old old voiture to have his picture taken, I snapped. I knew the owner wasn't asked permission and couldn't stand the idea that someone's pride and joy was under siege. In anger I told him to get out. He smiled broadly and noded "yes", but he kept his face toward the camera. So I forcefully reiterated that it was time for him to get out! He must've heard the edge in my voice. He jumped out and walked away.
A Frenchmen (not the sullied car's owner) watching the commotion I created struck up a conversation. I told him that foreigners are crazy and said I should know as I'm American. We laughed and I felt my anger instantly drain away.
The conversation led the man to telling me about the old cars he owns. Here they are known as les voitures de collection. As the man listed all the fun old things in his garage I stopped him to ask about his 1931 Ford Model A Deluxe. I'm told it's deep blue with yellow rims. It's a roadster convertible that was originally sold by a dealership in Bordeaux. The man is the second owner and it rather proud of this car. I told him about my father's automobile. The same exact car (year and everything) but in robin's egg blue.
Later as I walked down the line of parked voitures I felt someone jostling me. It was the Ford Model A owner. He said "here, look at this" and showed me a photo on his cell phone. I swear on a stack of well worn Avons that it was a near perfect match for my father's own car.
If I get the chance the next time they run la traversee I'll try to show him the video my father made recently of my great uncle's car that's still in the family.
Sunday, August 7, 2016
A few words...
I feel I should say a few things about the violence that's shaken France and Europe the past two years.
On 7 January, 2015 came news and shock of the Charlie Hebdo murders. The violence shook Jude and I to the core. Eleven people were murdered and eleven injured.
Nine months later we were in Madrid seeing my father and brother. On November 13, 2016, the day we landed in Spain, 130 people were murdered and 368 injured back in Paris. The borders to France were closed and we didn't know if we would able to get home.
On March 22, 2016 Jude and I were in Lisbon when Brussels was attacked. 32 people were murdered and 300 injured. Again we struggled to reconcile our shattered dreams with the emerging reality.
More recently on Bastille Day (July 14, 2016) Nice was attacked. 85 people were killed and 307 injured. Our dreams of peace and calm and civility have well and truly been laid to rest alongside those who were needlessly murdered.
Each time there's been an attack, Jude and I wonder if we did the right thing by moving here. Our first two years living in Paris were blissful. There was pride in feeling we'd made the right decision to leave the US if for no other reason than for health and safety.
All this comes at a time of a growing sense of community and sharing. We have our neighbors above, below, and across the way from us. We have our apartment owners who are wonderfully sensitive to all that is French. We have our French/English conversation group, too. We have a surprisingly large group of French friends. All of this is set on a firm foundation of supportive friends back in the States.
When I was here in Paris in the winter of 1986 several bombs exploded in the area around Opera. These were related to France's involvement in Algeria. In the mid-1990's, al qaeda sympathizers set off bombs on the RER B. In many ways it should not be surprising that Syrian trained European citizens would lash out at fellow countrymen over the US involvement in Iraq and the torture of captured al qaeda leaders. These were, each in their own way, politically and ideologically motivated events, though this may be coming to an end.
There is more that could be considered about the recent violence, particularly about what's come after the Brussels event. Increasingly, attackers are reportedly not so much motivated by political nor religious ideologies as they are for the desire to create chaos and to wreak havoc. Certainly attackers pledge allegiance to ISIS, but as seen in the most recent attacks, they're not trained militarily nor politically nor religiously by that group. What these attackers are doing is indicating agreement with ISIS. That's all. Yes, it's enough, but I can't confuse allegiance with direct links back into an organization. In short, I feel the attackers are thugs, not militants.
I'm not sure which is worse. Are ideologically driven militants any safer or more justified than thugs? The end effect is the same, even as what drives these people can be subtly different. Does it matter for how we make our decisions to remain or leave? There's the center of the argument, right there. As the situation evolves, so do our thoughts, feelings, and views of what we are doing.
How, why, and when do we choose to do something differently, if doing something differently would bring us the sense of peace and civility we desire?
I see there really are no conclusions to be drawn nor acted on. That is, whatever is unfolding is not finished and never will be. Violence is part of all culture in all places. Europe is not Disneyland, nor is it the "Happiest Place on Earth." It was never really meant to be these things, even though we had two years of blissful peace when we first moved here.
On 7 January, 2015 came news and shock of the Charlie Hebdo murders. The violence shook Jude and I to the core. Eleven people were murdered and eleven injured.
Nine months later we were in Madrid seeing my father and brother. On November 13, 2016, the day we landed in Spain, 130 people were murdered and 368 injured back in Paris. The borders to France were closed and we didn't know if we would able to get home.
On March 22, 2016 Jude and I were in Lisbon when Brussels was attacked. 32 people were murdered and 300 injured. Again we struggled to reconcile our shattered dreams with the emerging reality.
More recently on Bastille Day (July 14, 2016) Nice was attacked. 85 people were killed and 307 injured. Our dreams of peace and calm and civility have well and truly been laid to rest alongside those who were needlessly murdered.
Each time there's been an attack, Jude and I wonder if we did the right thing by moving here. Our first two years living in Paris were blissful. There was pride in feeling we'd made the right decision to leave the US if for no other reason than for health and safety.
All this comes at a time of a growing sense of community and sharing. We have our neighbors above, below, and across the way from us. We have our apartment owners who are wonderfully sensitive to all that is French. We have our French/English conversation group, too. We have a surprisingly large group of French friends. All of this is set on a firm foundation of supportive friends back in the States.
When I was here in Paris in the winter of 1986 several bombs exploded in the area around Opera. These were related to France's involvement in Algeria. In the mid-1990's, al qaeda sympathizers set off bombs on the RER B. In many ways it should not be surprising that Syrian trained European citizens would lash out at fellow countrymen over the US involvement in Iraq and the torture of captured al qaeda leaders. These were, each in their own way, politically and ideologically motivated events, though this may be coming to an end.
There is more that could be considered about the recent violence, particularly about what's come after the Brussels event. Increasingly, attackers are reportedly not so much motivated by political nor religious ideologies as they are for the desire to create chaos and to wreak havoc. Certainly attackers pledge allegiance to ISIS, but as seen in the most recent attacks, they're not trained militarily nor politically nor religiously by that group. What these attackers are doing is indicating agreement with ISIS. That's all. Yes, it's enough, but I can't confuse allegiance with direct links back into an organization. In short, I feel the attackers are thugs, not militants.
I'm not sure which is worse. Are ideologically driven militants any safer or more justified than thugs? The end effect is the same, even as what drives these people can be subtly different. Does it matter for how we make our decisions to remain or leave? There's the center of the argument, right there. As the situation evolves, so do our thoughts, feelings, and views of what we are doing.
How, why, and when do we choose to do something differently, if doing something differently would bring us the sense of peace and civility we desire?
I see there really are no conclusions to be drawn nor acted on. That is, whatever is unfolding is not finished and never will be. Violence is part of all culture in all places. Europe is not Disneyland, nor is it the "Happiest Place on Earth." It was never really meant to be these things, even though we had two years of blissful peace when we first moved here.
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