Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Uprooted then discouraged
Not enough free water in this city (Antibes). I'm excited to be coming home before July.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
The short bus to Italy
Photos of Venice/others
There must be more interesting things to tell than my trip to Italy, my second French theater experience, for example, that left me laughing like a Frenchman, at the French. But of course it's the exoticism of my travels that I write about most easily, and which perhaps you enjoy most to read. I've been wondering how to get a job writing for a travel guide. In any case I'm sure my six day trip to Venice wouldn't count much for experience points. My only school organized trip of the semester, I resiged to pay the check because I felt like getting away during my two week vacation, but didn't want to come home more tired than when I left. The schedule of breakfast, taking the bus from our city to Venice (an hour trip every morning) and then taking the bus home to the hotel (another hour) meant I wasn't attracting American girls at the bars at night, like in Prague. Instead, I shared a hotel room for four nights with a quirky French student who's studying something like "cataloguing." The French don't like to talk about work, this one in particular, I wonder how he can study cataloguing for five years, but didn't ask.
Twenty hours both ways, plus time spent on the boat to Venice, and time wasted on the first and last days of the trip in the city of Lido di Jesolo--a city built for tourists, one main two mile street with hotels doubling to the beach on one side, restaurants, bars, and small grocery/liquer stores layering the other: the only thing of interest in this town was a Slovakian man named Stephan, half blind, who spoke neither French, nor English, nor Italian, and who had come to the city to work before the summer tourist season started. He was able to explain, using two hand gestures: turning a key, and putting invisible money in his pocket, the mentality of the proprieters of the city. In April nine tenths of the cafés are closed. I met him at the end of the strip, I asked him where I could find coffee. I think he rowed across the sea on a row boat--his week long beard and homeless dress, yet sturdy stature like someone who worked, maybe put this idea in my head. That, and he kept saying the word rowboati. When he understood I was from America he made a jest like swimming across the sea the way the Cubans do, we both laughed. He gave me a plastic bag full of candy that he brought down from his hotel room, which I think he might have snagged from work. I gave most of it to the hotel clerks. I lent him 2.50€ for cigarettes, and we spent half an hour arranging a rendez vous the next night so he could pay me back. The next night I was too fatigued to venture into the rain to find him.
My first day in Venice I had two goals, buy coffee in a nice café, and see the beaux arts museum. I got the coffee, but the museum was packed full. I ended up walking for six hours, in and out of moss covered passageways like a rich man in a labryrinth of jewelry stores and gourmet restaurants. I was looking for a higher level of inspiration than I had found in Grenoble. I think it was noon time when I discovered the small squares and cafés of the district north of the city, the sun had just come out, and I walked into a square where a handsomely dressed accordian player serenaded the slow dance of an old couple who walked back and forth the sunny square. I watched and felt invisible enough. Their four slow laps will be the first sonnet I write when get home. In this half hour the church bells rang, a short break for the accordian player who leaned his instrument against the wall behind him and went for a coffee, the couple kept walking, pausing at intervals for rest: two old ladies in dress passed the place, then a younger one accompanied by a man and a photographer, she danced with the accordian player and waved her purple dress, the man tipped graciously. I found my café not far from this square, had a coffee and quickly pulled my pen out to journal--sitting still wasn't an option. That's Italian coffee.
Day two I went to the museum and waited an hour to get in. The museum hosts the worlds largest collection of Venetian art, go figure. There was a Titian expedition which amused me slightly, but Bellini took the cake with his three movingly simple Mary with child, and his Pitié. It was a classy stroll through the museum, an extensive collection of mostly Renaissance work. I left hungry, but it was 2:30 and all the restaurants were closed. I was resigned to eating my sack lunch, packed by the hotel. I stopped again for a coffee, and had the liquer drink grappa to wash it down. This was followed by an intense but not overwhelming anxiety that was soon magnificantly medicated by jotting quick black lines in my notebook with a fountain pen. I took a small nap beneath a covered alley, and made up for photographs that I didn't take the first day. Two Italian girls gasped and said "my love!" at me, which maybe they thought I didn't understand, sadly that was one of the higher points of my day. I ended the day by buying a Virginia knife, a strange souvenir, but I figured it would come in handy for slicing apples while on the road.
Day three, my shoes were still wet in the morning from the day before. The weather was no better, rainy half the time, sunny one fourth the time. I had two museums on my itinerary, and was determined to eat a good lunch. I managed all three, and had my most satisfying of days. I left the modern art museum after a quick hour, and found a decent restaurant in the same quarter as my friendly café. I sat down at a table and ordered. The waiter spoke neither French, nor English, and there was no menu. I'd already learned the word vegetariano at the hotel restaurant. Spegetti, I understood. For the second course I let him pick, I thought by his drawing that it was another pasta, but turned out to be red beans in tomato sauce, not bad. Finally I had to pick how much wine I wanted to drink. Not wanting to look like a schmuck in front of the seven burly workers seated near the door, I pointed to the larger of the two pitchers that he'd placed on the counter. I was served my bread, my wine, and my speghetti and set to eating the luscious meal with an appetite to match. Washing down every third mouthful with a swig of cool wine, I felt like a Hemingway character from one of his many short stories whose names I've forgotten--sitting on the banks of a Spanish river drinking wine from a leather flask. This relief from a long suffering one ravishes greedily like a starving dog ravishes a doe, a pleasure not evident but for it's eagerness.
So I finished with a cappachino, my first since I don't know when, the last I remember is getting to eat the cream when my Papa used to make them, maybe this was my first cappachino. It was more than I'd hoped and expected: I was refreshed, and forgot that I was half drunk on the wine. So I paid, "payoto" in Italian...and sat by the canal outside and took some photos. The black boat with "construzioni e restauri" written on it belongs to this restaurant, if you've already seen the pictures. I found the grand canal, and got off at the Guggenheim collection museum. This is the best art museum I've seen, though I couldn't stay more than two hours. The major painters of the XXth century are there, movements ranging from Cubism (Picasso, Duchamp), Surrealism (Dali, Tanguy, Magritte), Abtractionism (Malevich, Mondrian), and Polluck, Futurism (Boccioni, Giorgionni). I made a sketch of a Picasso and an Italian painter--Modigliano: all of the security workers were cute girls. I taught one how to say five o'clock, she taught me how to say good evening, "buona sera." I tried to say good evening to the cute coat girl, but she didn't get it, so I had to say it in French. I would have been equally happy to ask her to dinner.
I was on my way back to the boat, where my last moment of tranquility was sketching a button I'd found like a cubist, twirling it studiously to know every dimension at once, and then liberating the concept from my head with the imperfect though pleasing representation. Next I would have to sit down among the stupidly friendly tourists who all knew my name, none of whose names I knew, and eat an affordably bland dinner at the hotel. This affordable-traveling, 310€ "all expenses included" didn't ruin my vacation, but I look forward to this summer where affordable means sleeping on the beach and stealing apples.
Wouldn't there be more to say?
Take care,
Elias
There must be more interesting things to tell than my trip to Italy, my second French theater experience, for example, that left me laughing like a Frenchman, at the French. But of course it's the exoticism of my travels that I write about most easily, and which perhaps you enjoy most to read. I've been wondering how to get a job writing for a travel guide. In any case I'm sure my six day trip to Venice wouldn't count much for experience points. My only school organized trip of the semester, I resiged to pay the check because I felt like getting away during my two week vacation, but didn't want to come home more tired than when I left. The schedule of breakfast, taking the bus from our city to Venice (an hour trip every morning) and then taking the bus home to the hotel (another hour) meant I wasn't attracting American girls at the bars at night, like in Prague. Instead, I shared a hotel room for four nights with a quirky French student who's studying something like "cataloguing." The French don't like to talk about work, this one in particular, I wonder how he can study cataloguing for five years, but didn't ask.
Twenty hours both ways, plus time spent on the boat to Venice, and time wasted on the first and last days of the trip in the city of Lido di Jesolo--a city built for tourists, one main two mile street with hotels doubling to the beach on one side, restaurants, bars, and small grocery/liquer stores layering the other: the only thing of interest in this town was a Slovakian man named Stephan, half blind, who spoke neither French, nor English, nor Italian, and who had come to the city to work before the summer tourist season started. He was able to explain, using two hand gestures: turning a key, and putting invisible money in his pocket, the mentality of the proprieters of the city. In April nine tenths of the cafés are closed. I met him at the end of the strip, I asked him where I could find coffee. I think he rowed across the sea on a row boat--his week long beard and homeless dress, yet sturdy stature like someone who worked, maybe put this idea in my head. That, and he kept saying the word rowboati. When he understood I was from America he made a jest like swimming across the sea the way the Cubans do, we both laughed. He gave me a plastic bag full of candy that he brought down from his hotel room, which I think he might have snagged from work. I gave most of it to the hotel clerks. I lent him 2.50€ for cigarettes, and we spent half an hour arranging a rendez vous the next night so he could pay me back. The next night I was too fatigued to venture into the rain to find him.
My first day in Venice I had two goals, buy coffee in a nice café, and see the beaux arts museum. I got the coffee, but the museum was packed full. I ended up walking for six hours, in and out of moss covered passageways like a rich man in a labryrinth of jewelry stores and gourmet restaurants. I was looking for a higher level of inspiration than I had found in Grenoble. I think it was noon time when I discovered the small squares and cafés of the district north of the city, the sun had just come out, and I walked into a square where a handsomely dressed accordian player serenaded the slow dance of an old couple who walked back and forth the sunny square. I watched and felt invisible enough. Their four slow laps will be the first sonnet I write when get home. In this half hour the church bells rang, a short break for the accordian player who leaned his instrument against the wall behind him and went for a coffee, the couple kept walking, pausing at intervals for rest: two old ladies in dress passed the place, then a younger one accompanied by a man and a photographer, she danced with the accordian player and waved her purple dress, the man tipped graciously. I found my café not far from this square, had a coffee and quickly pulled my pen out to journal--sitting still wasn't an option. That's Italian coffee.
Day two I went to the museum and waited an hour to get in. The museum hosts the worlds largest collection of Venetian art, go figure. There was a Titian expedition which amused me slightly, but Bellini took the cake with his three movingly simple Mary with child, and his Pitié. It was a classy stroll through the museum, an extensive collection of mostly Renaissance work. I left hungry, but it was 2:30 and all the restaurants were closed. I was resigned to eating my sack lunch, packed by the hotel. I stopped again for a coffee, and had the liquer drink grappa to wash it down. This was followed by an intense but not overwhelming anxiety that was soon magnificantly medicated by jotting quick black lines in my notebook with a fountain pen. I took a small nap beneath a covered alley, and made up for photographs that I didn't take the first day. Two Italian girls gasped and said "my love!" at me, which maybe they thought I didn't understand, sadly that was one of the higher points of my day. I ended the day by buying a Virginia knife, a strange souvenir, but I figured it would come in handy for slicing apples while on the road.
Day three, my shoes were still wet in the morning from the day before. The weather was no better, rainy half the time, sunny one fourth the time. I had two museums on my itinerary, and was determined to eat a good lunch. I managed all three, and had my most satisfying of days. I left the modern art museum after a quick hour, and found a decent restaurant in the same quarter as my friendly café. I sat down at a table and ordered. The waiter spoke neither French, nor English, and there was no menu. I'd already learned the word vegetariano at the hotel restaurant. Spegetti, I understood. For the second course I let him pick, I thought by his drawing that it was another pasta, but turned out to be red beans in tomato sauce, not bad. Finally I had to pick how much wine I wanted to drink. Not wanting to look like a schmuck in front of the seven burly workers seated near the door, I pointed to the larger of the two pitchers that he'd placed on the counter. I was served my bread, my wine, and my speghetti and set to eating the luscious meal with an appetite to match. Washing down every third mouthful with a swig of cool wine, I felt like a Hemingway character from one of his many short stories whose names I've forgotten--sitting on the banks of a Spanish river drinking wine from a leather flask. This relief from a long suffering one ravishes greedily like a starving dog ravishes a doe, a pleasure not evident but for it's eagerness.
So I finished with a cappachino, my first since I don't know when, the last I remember is getting to eat the cream when my Papa used to make them, maybe this was my first cappachino. It was more than I'd hoped and expected: I was refreshed, and forgot that I was half drunk on the wine. So I paid, "payoto" in Italian...and sat by the canal outside and took some photos. The black boat with "construzioni e restauri" written on it belongs to this restaurant, if you've already seen the pictures. I found the grand canal, and got off at the Guggenheim collection museum. This is the best art museum I've seen, though I couldn't stay more than two hours. The major painters of the XXth century are there, movements ranging from Cubism (Picasso, Duchamp), Surrealism (Dali, Tanguy, Magritte), Abtractionism (Malevich, Mondrian), and Polluck, Futurism (Boccioni, Giorgionni). I made a sketch of a Picasso and an Italian painter--Modigliano: all of the security workers were cute girls. I taught one how to say five o'clock, she taught me how to say good evening, "buona sera." I tried to say good evening to the cute coat girl, but she didn't get it, so I had to say it in French. I would have been equally happy to ask her to dinner.
I was on my way back to the boat, where my last moment of tranquility was sketching a button I'd found like a cubist, twirling it studiously to know every dimension at once, and then liberating the concept from my head with the imperfect though pleasing representation. Next I would have to sit down among the stupidly friendly tourists who all knew my name, none of whose names I knew, and eat an affordably bland dinner at the hotel. This affordable-traveling, 310€ "all expenses included" didn't ruin my vacation, but I look forward to this summer where affordable means sleeping on the beach and stealing apples.
Wouldn't there be more to say?
Take care,
Elias
Saturday, March 8, 2008
To see snow
To see snow I had to take a train five hours south, then take a ride with the brother of the room mate of guy I was staying with two hours on a road winding into the mountains. This happens is the French Alps.
I didn't bring my camera skiing. But there are other pictures, here. mostly of mountains.
A bit of preliminary information. I decided to save money by using couchsurfing.com, a website for budget travelers. The idea is let people stay at your place, and stay at their's. As usual, (think freshman year of college, summer on the farm after freshman year of college), I ended up staying with one of those "silent" people. Someone who is capable of living in the same space with someone and not sharing a single thought, impression, or figure of speech. The gullibility of these people is amusing, and slightly depressing. Freshman year I pulled a prank on my roommate: he had giant wicker chair, with a round base, round bowl that fit inside, and then the pillowy padding. Walking back from class one day I found a round bowl that was identical to his, except it had been washed to shreds by the river. Naturally, I took it back to the room, switchted it with Misha's, and waited in my friend Danny's room for the results. I heard him open the door, waited five minutes then walked in. He gives me a look like my mom does when I smash a plate because I don't want to walk the dog (hypothetically). I say, hey, yeah, Misha, my friends and I wanted to see if we could float your chair in the river. It didn't really work though. Luckily I found a new wicker on the street, I'll sell it to you for two bucks. His thought wheels start turning, "two bucks...that's like two hot dogs..." "O.K." he says, as if he's trading his dorky button-up shirt for a red camero. I say yeah, actually, I'll just give it too you. My heart was too soft to not explain that I had found the other one, and switched it as a joke. He didn't seem to get it.
After my second day of skiing I returned the skis to the rental shop, and went back to the appartement. Nick asks me where my skis are, I say that I lost them. His face drops, and I start to laugh. Yeah, I say, I just lost them. He looks seriously relieved when I tell him that I'm joking.
As any young man might hope, whose bank account is padded monthly with stipends, and who dares to vacation alone for a week, I had a luxurious and memorable experience. I started Tuesday morning, with the 6:45 train to Grenoble. I arrived at noon, and since the appartement wouldn't be open until 8PMish, I had planned to visit the museum. The museum was closed, so I took a lift over the river and to the top of a cliff where a fort was built before nuclear warheads were invented. My backpack was heavy, my overpreperation for the alps reminds me now of my mother's worriedness. I could have skiied two weeks without have to wash my clothes, with the amount I brought. "You never know" she might say. But as I become more comfortable traveling what to pack becomes more obvious, and I'm picking up the skill well. I packed a lot of food, and in six days away, spent 45€ on food. Thanks mostly to having a stove where I was staying.
I wanted to talk about the train, a cozy environment, beautiful country, and I wrote dozens of pages in my journal. I met a beautiful French literature professor on the train ride to Strasbourg, in a tight cotton dress, and a perfume like the most purple of springs; we flirted for awhile at the end of the trip. She got off the stop before me, and we didn't bother changing numbers. The fatal "if only" look in our eyes made for a pathetic goodbye, and I tried easy my suffering by banging my head on the window. The French country side--it's small farms, lines of tall naked trees, and sunset layered as if Van Gogh painted sandstone, make the train heartwarmingly romantic.
Allow me to personify Grenoble. A tourist town. Home to visiting amateur-snow-sporters and professionals-snow-sporters alike. Mountains surround the city. Some blocky, come craggy, the city is entrenched in their romantic atmosphere. A student city, the young and they hippy doze in the many parks and squares. The sun baked faces are a friendly reminder that I'm in the south of France. Health stores are everywhere, due perhaps to the fact that you'll see more short-shorts and halter tops in the summer than in the north, and the wealthy chaps sporting their stuff. I bought sun screen right away, the service was slightly rude, as is stereotypical for Southern France, but mostly the people were nice. Tourists, after all, bring money, smiles, and easy conversation.
I rented my skis from a place in town, friendly dudes, and 31€ for two days. I took them on the tramway to the appartement, a big clumsy armful of plastic and metal. I finally found Nick's appartement, and settled in for the night, trying my best to be interested at his soirée, where his friend's told inside jokes and laughed. I ate a lot of raclette, my first time. It was a perfect heavy-stomach filler for skiing the next morning. I finally snuck away to sleep around 1AM. I woke up the next morning, and read French translations of Russian poets of the XXth century, while waiting for the two other skiiers to wake up, wondering if I would have been better off taking the bus to the mountains. I prodded them a bit, and we were out by 9:30. The drive to the mountains was beautiful. Tiny bridges, tiny streams, old painted houses, cliffs, facades, and rugged trees. The winding road lasted about an hour and a half, myself capuchioned comfortably in the back, snacking on dry fruit and nuts.
My ski experience is limited to: Minnesota. It had been about four years ago, and my memory of rocketing down slopes, however accurate, turned out to be less skillful, and more dangerous, than I thought. After 3O minutes, however, I felt comfortable with the sport, and headed to the top of the Alps. My thirst for altitude was fulfilled at about 3600 meters, where, in the midst of clouds and snow, a dinky pull lift ramped me over an imperceptable elevation (the exit point for the day) and for all my efforts to hold on, to the lift handle, my poles, and my upright position (a lost cause), I finally let go of the handle. I then realized a man who had been maybe 10 meters ahead of me (though invisible in the snow and fog) was standing 10 meters behind me, and I figured I should have gotten off at the point of the ramp. Embarassed to have fallen, I looked down at my boots and saw my left ski pole, bent like my trumpet horn in 10th grade after a misjudged "correction bend", at an acute angle of about 35 degress. My embarassement turned to disappointment, then more embarassement, then anger. I snapped the pole and futilely tossed the bottom half aside downslope, into the bank that had trumped me. It took an hour and a half of careful winding to get down, adjusting slowly to my handicap. After five hours of ski I had had enough, and my new friends, who had gone off to do tricks, had stopped early because of the bad weather, so we went home.
The next day the guys had gone home, so I took the tram to the bus station in the morning to a smaller ski resort. I had an adventurous day, although nothing like the pitch white mountains of the day before, where I sometimes lost my sense of movement and I could only tell by the sound of my skis if I had stopped, or was still descending. The beauty reminded me of the romantics, Shelly and his mountains, Byron and his mountains, and I found a few rare moments of tranquility among the throngs of tourist skiiers.
Friday I said goodbye to Nick, and spent my afternoon at the modern art museum. My friend from school, Lucie, texted me there, told me that her aunt had come to Strasbourg, and it would be better if I found somewhere else to stay. After seeing enough Matisse for the day I went to a cyber cafe, had some coffee, and booked a hostel. I found a pizza place, and caught the train to Strasbourg at 2PM. I arrived at 10PM, a head full of letters, fantasies about professors, and legs needing to be stretched. I walked to the hostel, stopping to get some fries for dinner on the way. The city was quiet, the trees trimmed, and the architecture made the walk worthwhile. I had the hostel room to myself, a lucky buy for 18€, and slept like a king for eight hours.
I was on the sidewalk around 9 the next morning, after a decent breakfast and large coffee. I had two destinations in mind, ten hours to get there, so I took the long way to the cathedrale, and "Little France." I stumbed on a great market, where I bought some hazelbank tea, and a tea infuser, and an apple. I made it to the cathedrale around 11AM, after seeing enough of the ugly residences on the outskirts. Tired, I dozed for two hours in the sun, on a small notch in the wall of the cathedrale. Some passerbys stopped to take a pictures of me, and I was hardly disturbed to feel like a cat in the zoo; I purred like a leopard.
I left my perch, perhaps the most perfect two hours of my life, and had lunch at a Greek restaurant. Moderately priced, delicous and healthy food, a vegetarian option, and interesting patrons, I'm sure I picked the best restuarant in town to keep myself in high spirits. I can't remember the greek name of the meal, but the main course was rice wrapped in olive leaves.
Destination number two was a mystery for me. I was expecting a sort of China Town, but instead saw a few old houses, a random wall, two towers, and classic Alsace architecture, whose technical name I stumbled upon in my dictionary: columbar. I decided to hit my second modern art museum in two days, and had a full range of emotions: jealousy--dada movement, anger--poor art, boredom--XVth century, love--Matisse, and inspiration--Malevich. I left a changed man, not with the cynical comment "I could do that," but rather, "I'm going to do that." I hope to be in the Poor Art scene within the next three years. I've got a collection of crumpled cabinet hinges and striped wrapping paper for my first sculpture.
I met my friend Lucie on the train and we took the three hour train together. I read her some of my poems in French, she didn't correct my grammar mistakes, and said she liked the images. I told her about the professor I had been fallen in love with, and we joked about the professors at the school who reference me being American as often as possible. Just one letter from my dad waiting for me in the mailbox at the residence. I buckled in for the night, bought my soup ingredients the next morning, and carried out Sunday as usual--hating only a little the cold and the hollow sunlight of Lille.
I didn't bring my camera skiing. But there are other pictures, here. mostly of mountains.
A bit of preliminary information. I decided to save money by using couchsurfing.com, a website for budget travelers. The idea is let people stay at your place, and stay at their's. As usual, (think freshman year of college, summer on the farm after freshman year of college), I ended up staying with one of those "silent" people. Someone who is capable of living in the same space with someone and not sharing a single thought, impression, or figure of speech. The gullibility of these people is amusing, and slightly depressing. Freshman year I pulled a prank on my roommate: he had giant wicker chair, with a round base, round bowl that fit inside, and then the pillowy padding. Walking back from class one day I found a round bowl that was identical to his, except it had been washed to shreds by the river. Naturally, I took it back to the room, switchted it with Misha's, and waited in my friend Danny's room for the results. I heard him open the door, waited five minutes then walked in. He gives me a look like my mom does when I smash a plate because I don't want to walk the dog (hypothetically). I say, hey, yeah, Misha, my friends and I wanted to see if we could float your chair in the river. It didn't really work though. Luckily I found a new wicker on the street, I'll sell it to you for two bucks. His thought wheels start turning, "two bucks...that's like two hot dogs..." "O.K." he says, as if he's trading his dorky button-up shirt for a red camero. I say yeah, actually, I'll just give it too you. My heart was too soft to not explain that I had found the other one, and switched it as a joke. He didn't seem to get it.
After my second day of skiing I returned the skis to the rental shop, and went back to the appartement. Nick asks me where my skis are, I say that I lost them. His face drops, and I start to laugh. Yeah, I say, I just lost them. He looks seriously relieved when I tell him that I'm joking.
As any young man might hope, whose bank account is padded monthly with stipends, and who dares to vacation alone for a week, I had a luxurious and memorable experience. I started Tuesday morning, with the 6:45 train to Grenoble. I arrived at noon, and since the appartement wouldn't be open until 8PMish, I had planned to visit the museum. The museum was closed, so I took a lift over the river and to the top of a cliff where a fort was built before nuclear warheads were invented. My backpack was heavy, my overpreperation for the alps reminds me now of my mother's worriedness. I could have skiied two weeks without have to wash my clothes, with the amount I brought. "You never know" she might say. But as I become more comfortable traveling what to pack becomes more obvious, and I'm picking up the skill well. I packed a lot of food, and in six days away, spent 45€ on food. Thanks mostly to having a stove where I was staying.
I wanted to talk about the train, a cozy environment, beautiful country, and I wrote dozens of pages in my journal. I met a beautiful French literature professor on the train ride to Strasbourg, in a tight cotton dress, and a perfume like the most purple of springs; we flirted for awhile at the end of the trip. She got off the stop before me, and we didn't bother changing numbers. The fatal "if only" look in our eyes made for a pathetic goodbye, and I tried easy my suffering by banging my head on the window. The French country side--it's small farms, lines of tall naked trees, and sunset layered as if Van Gogh painted sandstone, make the train heartwarmingly romantic.
Allow me to personify Grenoble. A tourist town. Home to visiting amateur-snow-sporters and professionals-snow-sporters alike. Mountains surround the city. Some blocky, come craggy, the city is entrenched in their romantic atmosphere. A student city, the young and they hippy doze in the many parks and squares. The sun baked faces are a friendly reminder that I'm in the south of France. Health stores are everywhere, due perhaps to the fact that you'll see more short-shorts and halter tops in the summer than in the north, and the wealthy chaps sporting their stuff. I bought sun screen right away, the service was slightly rude, as is stereotypical for Southern France, but mostly the people were nice. Tourists, after all, bring money, smiles, and easy conversation.
I rented my skis from a place in town, friendly dudes, and 31€ for two days. I took them on the tramway to the appartement, a big clumsy armful of plastic and metal. I finally found Nick's appartement, and settled in for the night, trying my best to be interested at his soirée, where his friend's told inside jokes and laughed. I ate a lot of raclette, my first time. It was a perfect heavy-stomach filler for skiing the next morning. I finally snuck away to sleep around 1AM. I woke up the next morning, and read French translations of Russian poets of the XXth century, while waiting for the two other skiiers to wake up, wondering if I would have been better off taking the bus to the mountains. I prodded them a bit, and we were out by 9:30. The drive to the mountains was beautiful. Tiny bridges, tiny streams, old painted houses, cliffs, facades, and rugged trees. The winding road lasted about an hour and a half, myself capuchioned comfortably in the back, snacking on dry fruit and nuts.
My ski experience is limited to: Minnesota. It had been about four years ago, and my memory of rocketing down slopes, however accurate, turned out to be less skillful, and more dangerous, than I thought. After 3O minutes, however, I felt comfortable with the sport, and headed to the top of the Alps. My thirst for altitude was fulfilled at about 3600 meters, where, in the midst of clouds and snow, a dinky pull lift ramped me over an imperceptable elevation (the exit point for the day) and for all my efforts to hold on, to the lift handle, my poles, and my upright position (a lost cause), I finally let go of the handle. I then realized a man who had been maybe 10 meters ahead of me (though invisible in the snow and fog) was standing 10 meters behind me, and I figured I should have gotten off at the point of the ramp. Embarassed to have fallen, I looked down at my boots and saw my left ski pole, bent like my trumpet horn in 10th grade after a misjudged "correction bend", at an acute angle of about 35 degress. My embarassement turned to disappointment, then more embarassement, then anger. I snapped the pole and futilely tossed the bottom half aside downslope, into the bank that had trumped me. It took an hour and a half of careful winding to get down, adjusting slowly to my handicap. After five hours of ski I had had enough, and my new friends, who had gone off to do tricks, had stopped early because of the bad weather, so we went home.
The next day the guys had gone home, so I took the tram to the bus station in the morning to a smaller ski resort. I had an adventurous day, although nothing like the pitch white mountains of the day before, where I sometimes lost my sense of movement and I could only tell by the sound of my skis if I had stopped, or was still descending. The beauty reminded me of the romantics, Shelly and his mountains, Byron and his mountains, and I found a few rare moments of tranquility among the throngs of tourist skiiers.
Friday I said goodbye to Nick, and spent my afternoon at the modern art museum. My friend from school, Lucie, texted me there, told me that her aunt had come to Strasbourg, and it would be better if I found somewhere else to stay. After seeing enough Matisse for the day I went to a cyber cafe, had some coffee, and booked a hostel. I found a pizza place, and caught the train to Strasbourg at 2PM. I arrived at 10PM, a head full of letters, fantasies about professors, and legs needing to be stretched. I walked to the hostel, stopping to get some fries for dinner on the way. The city was quiet, the trees trimmed, and the architecture made the walk worthwhile. I had the hostel room to myself, a lucky buy for 18€, and slept like a king for eight hours.
I was on the sidewalk around 9 the next morning, after a decent breakfast and large coffee. I had two destinations in mind, ten hours to get there, so I took the long way to the cathedrale, and "Little France." I stumbed on a great market, where I bought some hazelbank tea, and a tea infuser, and an apple. I made it to the cathedrale around 11AM, after seeing enough of the ugly residences on the outskirts. Tired, I dozed for two hours in the sun, on a small notch in the wall of the cathedrale. Some passerbys stopped to take a pictures of me, and I was hardly disturbed to feel like a cat in the zoo; I purred like a leopard.
I left my perch, perhaps the most perfect two hours of my life, and had lunch at a Greek restaurant. Moderately priced, delicous and healthy food, a vegetarian option, and interesting patrons, I'm sure I picked the best restuarant in town to keep myself in high spirits. I can't remember the greek name of the meal, but the main course was rice wrapped in olive leaves.
Destination number two was a mystery for me. I was expecting a sort of China Town, but instead saw a few old houses, a random wall, two towers, and classic Alsace architecture, whose technical name I stumbled upon in my dictionary: columbar. I decided to hit my second modern art museum in two days, and had a full range of emotions: jealousy--dada movement, anger--poor art, boredom--XVth century, love--Matisse, and inspiration--Malevich. I left a changed man, not with the cynical comment "I could do that," but rather, "I'm going to do that." I hope to be in the Poor Art scene within the next three years. I've got a collection of crumpled cabinet hinges and striped wrapping paper for my first sculpture.
I met my friend Lucie on the train and we took the three hour train together. I read her some of my poems in French, she didn't correct my grammar mistakes, and said she liked the images. I told her about the professor I had been fallen in love with, and we joked about the professors at the school who reference me being American as often as possible. Just one letter from my dad waiting for me in the mailbox at the residence. I buckled in for the night, bought my soup ingredients the next morning, and carried out Sunday as usual--hating only a little the cold and the hollow sunlight of Lille.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Carnival
I didn't think I would have anything to talk about. It's been a month. Last weekend I did something worth mentioning:
Dunkirk, France
Only know that I look up the English spelling of this city do I realize that it sounds familiar because it played a pivotal role in WWII. That has nothing to do with Carnival.
Contrary to what I said last post, I clung to my camera, depended on its filter of the world, and appreciated its usually sobering effects. As a result, I have a photobook that is fairly interesting, and holds, what I will call, my best photo ever!
I just had to put an exclamation mark there, not that I had to call it my best photo ever, but I'm exercising my liberties. There is a culture built around Carnival. There are scores of songs about beer, weewee's, and homosexuality that support it's liberal cause. My favorite line, maybe because it was one of the few I could understand amidst the mob like brew, was "oh, la la, I have lost my woman, oh, la la, and my man as well."
The environment was madness. Costumes of all colors, types, degrees, and purposes: events of all colors, types, degrees, and purposes, people of all colors, types, degrees, and purposes, basically it was a whole lot of whatever. Pictures.
Most of the men dressed up as women, it a wig, and dress, and make up. The colors were bright--red, pink, orange. One dude carried a big axe around. There was a cult that had umbrellas, only the umbrellas were ten feet in the air. I don't know the reason, but this group joined together in the parade, and has a reputation for bustling the most.
The events are numberous. There's a custom called "chapel"ing. This is a private kind of thing. Since my friends had friends in the town, we were invited to party in their house, drink beer, and then go out on the street again. Kind of like a pit stop, but backwards.
There is the "bande" event, which I thought would be like a general parade. It was that, basically, times 12, at least. In the bande all the lines link arms, and push, either forward, or backwards, depending on the song, or the point in the song, I didn't really get it. This isn't organized like freshman football practice, this is like--cockroaches fleeing from fire--intensity pushing. This is the worst place in the world for your shoe to come untied, or to be barefoot. Most people wear boots, but I only had running shoes, and my shoelace came untied. I was happy by the time it was shredded to bits by the people behind me, or in front of me (depending on the song, or the point in the song, I didn't really get it).
This bande happened after the fish throwing from the city hall event. I understood this one a little better, since my friend recapped the history. Once upon a time Dunkirke got a new mayor. The people said they wanted lobster, so the mayor threw lobster and fish from the city hall to make them all happy. To this day the people still want fish, and they get them. Generally, they are happy, but I hear the pushing here is as bad as in the bands. I missed most of the throwing, because of the chapel. I didn't catch a fish, but later, when I was waiting for the train at a station, a student I know from Hungary brought a fish over, and a random guy I was talking to, who kind of looked like a fish, said he would eat it if she didn't want it. I'm a vegetarian again, but made an exception for this custom. See picture of fish man opening fish (raw!).
In the night, after the bande, there's a stage of people playing music, and around the stage is a ring of people doing exactly what they did in the band! Despite the fact that my shoelace was tied, I had a tough time breathing. Again, they went backwards, and forwards. I saw a weird guy with a blind-stick-like stick tapping the ground in a break in the ring, and the front row jumped back from it like it was a phython. I would hate to be that phython. Anyway, that memory is only another unexplained moment of carnival.
I wish I had more to say. I should have watered down my sentences with fish blood and all that litter in the streets.
The school is open for good, knock on wood.
I've got 4ish French poetry classes this semester, so I should know how to pronounce Baudelaire by the time I get back.
Miss you all, especially the Ms. Weather. I had to go play soccer in the sun yesterday, and I hear you have -1 F, with snow storms regularly.
Happy Valentine's day.
Dunkirk, France
Only know that I look up the English spelling of this city do I realize that it sounds familiar because it played a pivotal role in WWII. That has nothing to do with Carnival.
Contrary to what I said last post, I clung to my camera, depended on its filter of the world, and appreciated its usually sobering effects. As a result, I have a photobook that is fairly interesting, and holds, what I will call, my best photo ever!
I just had to put an exclamation mark there, not that I had to call it my best photo ever, but I'm exercising my liberties. There is a culture built around Carnival. There are scores of songs about beer, weewee's, and homosexuality that support it's liberal cause. My favorite line, maybe because it was one of the few I could understand amidst the mob like brew, was "oh, la la, I have lost my woman, oh, la la, and my man as well."
The environment was madness. Costumes of all colors, types, degrees, and purposes: events of all colors, types, degrees, and purposes, people of all colors, types, degrees, and purposes, basically it was a whole lot of whatever. Pictures.
Most of the men dressed up as women, it a wig, and dress, and make up. The colors were bright--red, pink, orange. One dude carried a big axe around. There was a cult that had umbrellas, only the umbrellas were ten feet in the air. I don't know the reason, but this group joined together in the parade, and has a reputation for bustling the most.
The events are numberous. There's a custom called "chapel"ing. This is a private kind of thing. Since my friends had friends in the town, we were invited to party in their house, drink beer, and then go out on the street again. Kind of like a pit stop, but backwards.
There is the "bande" event, which I thought would be like a general parade. It was that, basically, times 12, at least. In the bande all the lines link arms, and push, either forward, or backwards, depending on the song, or the point in the song, I didn't really get it. This isn't organized like freshman football practice, this is like--cockroaches fleeing from fire--intensity pushing. This is the worst place in the world for your shoe to come untied, or to be barefoot. Most people wear boots, but I only had running shoes, and my shoelace came untied. I was happy by the time it was shredded to bits by the people behind me, or in front of me (depending on the song, or the point in the song, I didn't really get it).
This bande happened after the fish throwing from the city hall event. I understood this one a little better, since my friend recapped the history. Once upon a time Dunkirke got a new mayor. The people said they wanted lobster, so the mayor threw lobster and fish from the city hall to make them all happy. To this day the people still want fish, and they get them. Generally, they are happy, but I hear the pushing here is as bad as in the bands. I missed most of the throwing, because of the chapel. I didn't catch a fish, but later, when I was waiting for the train at a station, a student I know from Hungary brought a fish over, and a random guy I was talking to, who kind of looked like a fish, said he would eat it if she didn't want it. I'm a vegetarian again, but made an exception for this custom. See picture of fish man opening fish (raw!).
In the night, after the bande, there's a stage of people playing music, and around the stage is a ring of people doing exactly what they did in the band! Despite the fact that my shoelace was tied, I had a tough time breathing. Again, they went backwards, and forwards. I saw a weird guy with a blind-stick-like stick tapping the ground in a break in the ring, and the front row jumped back from it like it was a phython. I would hate to be that phython. Anyway, that memory is only another unexplained moment of carnival.
I wish I had more to say. I should have watered down my sentences with fish blood and all that litter in the streets.
The school is open for good, knock on wood.
I've got 4ish French poetry classes this semester, so I should know how to pronounce Baudelaire by the time I get back.
Miss you all, especially the Ms. Weather. I had to go play soccer in the sun yesterday, and I hear you have -1 F, with snow storms regularly.
Happy Valentine's day.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Quatro
I will get right to it, because it is hot in this room, and my keyboard feels like an old typewriter, eventually my finger muscles will get bigger than my wrists from tapping so hard. It's great to see that I have yet to mention London, so I will say a few things about the city, the typical predictable me-blabber. I finally took the hour trip to Paris, with my big sister. And I spent a week in Prague. Since these constitute my only journeys that lasted more than one day, I'm not sure how to approach them. As should be expected, there is more to tell, and much more not to tell. I will try to warm myself up with London. Cool down will be some chattering about scholastic affairs.
New pictures, as always.
London
I remember it was raining in London. They say it always rains in London, but that doesn't prepare you to get rained on. My socks were wet, and my pants we wet, one of the girls I was with summed it up with one of comments everyone must be thinking but no one says--"I'm going to remember this day forever." I think we were all very unhappy. We got some coffee, though, Starbucks. There was a long manifestation for the environment, so I saw many demonstrators with posters of Bush, and a target around him. I made sure to speak quietly around there, and pretend English was my second language. I hear the British are typically apathetic, I dunno, it was warming to see so many environmentalists, and I tried to dry myself with enthusiasm. I could not take pictures because it was raining, to capture the spirit of the moment I danced to some of the horn/drum combos in the street.
My original itinerary included I don't recall what. I do know that after two hours looking for Starbucks, it got whittled down to the museum. Tate Museum has one of the finest modern art collections. On the walk there everyone was pokey, maybe tired already. Anyway, it was there fault for having hot chocolate and not coffee, I felt like a drill sergeant telling my troops to hurry to the art museum. By the time we got there, we had seen most of what there is to see as far as London sight-seeing goes. There was the Parliament, Big Ben, and the London Eye. You'll find the photos much more informational, maybe. As I said, it was raining. I got to spend my hour staring at some Picasso, Magritte, Duchamp. I did a fair deal of rubbing my chin and saying, "Yes, I do think I recognize this."
We got lost walking back to the bus. I wish I could attribute it to the simple--short cut turns out to be much longer than the normal route--but I think we were profoundly lost. None of us four expected the bus to be there when we arrived an hour late. I remember jogging through a muddy park and thinking I would have to meet some girl with whom I could spend the night. I was feeling that desperate. The bus was there, and besides from a few ill-wishing glares from those who had been waiting, no one was too upset. I would like to fill in this paragraph by saying that Britain, as the Mother of the U.S., if you will, is, as far as is represented by its capital city, a dignified, respectable, entertaining, and expensive city. Cheers to independence.
Paris
I spent a week with my older sister, Theresa. We went to Paris for Christmas, which was maybe a good idea. I think I enjoyed it more than see did. I, for example, don't think I'm dying if I don't drink 3 gallons of water a day. At any rate, we were pretty good troopers. People ask me what we saw, and I think I just forgot everything. Or it's the too many images trying to get through one question at once syndrome. I saw the Eiffel Tower, covered in flashing lights, and it was majestic, pretty, other adjectives for such simple things that sparkle one's heart with, je ne sais quoi, pride in humanity perhaps. Christmas day we say a kiddy opera. Not much to say about that, but it was a nice place to take a nap, as each of us had our own private miniature balcony. We did try buying tickets to other places, even going last minute to see them, alas, nothing like that happened. We were in Notre Dame for Christmas mass, a little after noon. It was pretty, majestic, a little boring. I think it was Christmas night we stumbled upon an organ concert in Sacre Coeur. It was most exciting because I wanted to brag about it to Aaron S., my only friend who plays organ. Holler?
Musée d'Orsée houses the most renowned collection of impressionist works. Theresa rested her legs halfway through, I tried to retain something about dates, points, names. Impressionism is nice, but really only a period that was meant to change into something else. Of course, there might be a lot to say for an art movement with enough class that it doesn't have to propagate itself, but then again, maybe it did. We saw some big palaces, and took a picture of me with a map, pretending I knew what they were, or why they were. I've never seen so many seemingly superfluous palaces. The food was good, not as expensive as I thought. I tried to be really selective about where we ate, but since I had lost the pages from my guide book about Paris, I based selections on arbitrary criteria, such as the color scheme of the awning. I ate mussels, and talked about government for one dinner, I think that was by favorite. It was sad to see my sister leave the next morning, but Prague was waiting, so I couldn't get too upset.
Prague
The call it the Paris of the East. So I wasted the money on a plane ticket, I guess. My first and lasting impression of Eastern Europe is that I like it. It's cheap, Christian morality seems to take a back seat to a more individual sense of profiting from flocks of tourists who want to see strippers. I actually didn't mean to see strippers, but we went into a bar and there were there. Don't worry mom, I covered my eyes. Aside from that, the beer is cheep. It costs one € for a pint, so I profited, as the French would say. As far as sight-seeing goes, Prague is lovely, dark, and huge. (I barely meant to mimic Frost). The castle which shadows the bustling side of the river is the second largest in Europe. Funny, it didn't seem that big. Anyway, I didn't see the strategic fortifications typical of castles. Maybe it was a luxury castle. I must say that it was pretty majestic.
I took one afternoon to see the Franz Kafka museum. I did not know that he grew up in Prague, and maybe I'm only pretending to be surprised because I don't know if I knew that he wrote in German until a few days ago. At any rate, I enjoyed my walk through, appreciated the long English explanations of the authors childhood, and how the psychological environment affected his writing. Wasn't he an existentialist? Yes, I believe so. I've only read The Trial, an obscure piece of work if there ever was one, or maybe the text was too small and I read it in the hot sun. If I can sum what I saw there into one enlightening idea about Kafka, it's that he was genuine, constructed by his city, overbearing father, and race (Jewish), coming from a dangerous and tense environment, devoted entirely to writing and doing exactly that to reproduce a world that makes no sense.
New Year's Eve was an event of spectacular proportions. The main square, and the Charles Bridge were filled with PSF, pedestrians shooting fireworks.
A night in a jazz club with the beautiful Russian women who I met on the street was the highlight of the vacation. In Eastern Europe, even the middle class can feel posh, sometimes.
The food in Prague was heavy. I had duck, with potatoe dumplings. Goulosh, with potatoe dumplings. Boar, with potatoe dumplings. Always with delicious gravy-like sauche. There was a chinese place next to the hostel that have more than you could eat chinese for about 1 or 2 €, depending on what you ordered. It was a favorite spot for most of the guys I met in the hostel, since we were located far enough from town that finding another restaurant was never easy. I met one guy in the airport, most since I didn't have a place to stay that night (for some reason my friend advised me to sleep in the airport, but my plane got in around 9 pm and the chairs looked uncomfortable). He told me he was staying in a hostel. I was nervous there would be no space, but we went there together, and just before we got there I discovered it was the same hostel I had booked for the week, and they had an open room that night. We hung out all week, and he says I can stay at his place whenever I go to Paris. I also met three other students from Paris, who said the same thing, so anyway I feel like I'm making important contacts. I still haven't gotten into the secret artist's society, but I'm not spending enough time in Paris to find it.
As far as studies go, I'll repeat what I said to my dad: The strike was voted down for a week, so we can have a week of review before exams. We will have to vote again afterwards. Personally, the will of the students is cold enough that it might continue. But really, no one is sure. My translation teacher was talking about high school teachers going on strike, maybe leading to university teachers as well. Alas, maybe I chose a bad year to come. Most of my teachers feel that Sarkozy is destroying French education, seriously, in much the same way Bush affected the U.S.
Well, I don't think I have anything else to say. I quit taking so many pictures, as the French would say, il me fait chier, it's boring. I'd rather see than think of a good frame.
Happy New Year
New pictures, as always.
London
I remember it was raining in London. They say it always rains in London, but that doesn't prepare you to get rained on. My socks were wet, and my pants we wet, one of the girls I was with summed it up with one of comments everyone must be thinking but no one says--"I'm going to remember this day forever." I think we were all very unhappy. We got some coffee, though, Starbucks. There was a long manifestation for the environment, so I saw many demonstrators with posters of Bush, and a target around him. I made sure to speak quietly around there, and pretend English was my second language. I hear the British are typically apathetic, I dunno, it was warming to see so many environmentalists, and I tried to dry myself with enthusiasm. I could not take pictures because it was raining, to capture the spirit of the moment I danced to some of the horn/drum combos in the street.
My original itinerary included I don't recall what. I do know that after two hours looking for Starbucks, it got whittled down to the museum. Tate Museum has one of the finest modern art collections. On the walk there everyone was pokey, maybe tired already. Anyway, it was there fault for having hot chocolate and not coffee, I felt like a drill sergeant telling my troops to hurry to the art museum. By the time we got there, we had seen most of what there is to see as far as London sight-seeing goes. There was the Parliament, Big Ben, and the London Eye. You'll find the photos much more informational, maybe. As I said, it was raining. I got to spend my hour staring at some Picasso, Magritte, Duchamp. I did a fair deal of rubbing my chin and saying, "Yes, I do think I recognize this."
We got lost walking back to the bus. I wish I could attribute it to the simple--short cut turns out to be much longer than the normal route--but I think we were profoundly lost. None of us four expected the bus to be there when we arrived an hour late. I remember jogging through a muddy park and thinking I would have to meet some girl with whom I could spend the night. I was feeling that desperate. The bus was there, and besides from a few ill-wishing glares from those who had been waiting, no one was too upset. I would like to fill in this paragraph by saying that Britain, as the Mother of the U.S., if you will, is, as far as is represented by its capital city, a dignified, respectable, entertaining, and expensive city. Cheers to independence.
Paris
I spent a week with my older sister, Theresa. We went to Paris for Christmas, which was maybe a good idea. I think I enjoyed it more than see did. I, for example, don't think I'm dying if I don't drink 3 gallons of water a day. At any rate, we were pretty good troopers. People ask me what we saw, and I think I just forgot everything. Or it's the too many images trying to get through one question at once syndrome. I saw the Eiffel Tower, covered in flashing lights, and it was majestic, pretty, other adjectives for such simple things that sparkle one's heart with, je ne sais quoi, pride in humanity perhaps. Christmas day we say a kiddy opera. Not much to say about that, but it was a nice place to take a nap, as each of us had our own private miniature balcony. We did try buying tickets to other places, even going last minute to see them, alas, nothing like that happened. We were in Notre Dame for Christmas mass, a little after noon. It was pretty, majestic, a little boring. I think it was Christmas night we stumbled upon an organ concert in Sacre Coeur. It was most exciting because I wanted to brag about it to Aaron S., my only friend who plays organ. Holler?
Musée d'Orsée houses the most renowned collection of impressionist works. Theresa rested her legs halfway through, I tried to retain something about dates, points, names. Impressionism is nice, but really only a period that was meant to change into something else. Of course, there might be a lot to say for an art movement with enough class that it doesn't have to propagate itself, but then again, maybe it did. We saw some big palaces, and took a picture of me with a map, pretending I knew what they were, or why they were. I've never seen so many seemingly superfluous palaces. The food was good, not as expensive as I thought. I tried to be really selective about where we ate, but since I had lost the pages from my guide book about Paris, I based selections on arbitrary criteria, such as the color scheme of the awning. I ate mussels, and talked about government for one dinner, I think that was by favorite. It was sad to see my sister leave the next morning, but Prague was waiting, so I couldn't get too upset.
Prague
The call it the Paris of the East. So I wasted the money on a plane ticket, I guess. My first and lasting impression of Eastern Europe is that I like it. It's cheap, Christian morality seems to take a back seat to a more individual sense of profiting from flocks of tourists who want to see strippers. I actually didn't mean to see strippers, but we went into a bar and there were there. Don't worry mom, I covered my eyes. Aside from that, the beer is cheep. It costs one € for a pint, so I profited, as the French would say. As far as sight-seeing goes, Prague is lovely, dark, and huge. (I barely meant to mimic Frost). The castle which shadows the bustling side of the river is the second largest in Europe. Funny, it didn't seem that big. Anyway, I didn't see the strategic fortifications typical of castles. Maybe it was a luxury castle. I must say that it was pretty majestic.
I took one afternoon to see the Franz Kafka museum. I did not know that he grew up in Prague, and maybe I'm only pretending to be surprised because I don't know if I knew that he wrote in German until a few days ago. At any rate, I enjoyed my walk through, appreciated the long English explanations of the authors childhood, and how the psychological environment affected his writing. Wasn't he an existentialist? Yes, I believe so. I've only read The Trial, an obscure piece of work if there ever was one, or maybe the text was too small and I read it in the hot sun. If I can sum what I saw there into one enlightening idea about Kafka, it's that he was genuine, constructed by his city, overbearing father, and race (Jewish), coming from a dangerous and tense environment, devoted entirely to writing and doing exactly that to reproduce a world that makes no sense.
New Year's Eve was an event of spectacular proportions. The main square, and the Charles Bridge were filled with PSF, pedestrians shooting fireworks.
A night in a jazz club with the beautiful Russian women who I met on the street was the highlight of the vacation. In Eastern Europe, even the middle class can feel posh, sometimes.
The food in Prague was heavy. I had duck, with potatoe dumplings. Goulosh, with potatoe dumplings. Boar, with potatoe dumplings. Always with delicious gravy-like sauche. There was a chinese place next to the hostel that have more than you could eat chinese for about 1 or 2 €, depending on what you ordered. It was a favorite spot for most of the guys I met in the hostel, since we were located far enough from town that finding another restaurant was never easy. I met one guy in the airport, most since I didn't have a place to stay that night (for some reason my friend advised me to sleep in the airport, but my plane got in around 9 pm and the chairs looked uncomfortable). He told me he was staying in a hostel. I was nervous there would be no space, but we went there together, and just before we got there I discovered it was the same hostel I had booked for the week, and they had an open room that night. We hung out all week, and he says I can stay at his place whenever I go to Paris. I also met three other students from Paris, who said the same thing, so anyway I feel like I'm making important contacts. I still haven't gotten into the secret artist's society, but I'm not spending enough time in Paris to find it.
As far as studies go, I'll repeat what I said to my dad: The strike was voted down for a week, so we can have a week of review before exams. We will have to vote again afterwards. Personally, the will of the students is cold enough that it might continue. But really, no one is sure. My translation teacher was talking about high school teachers going on strike, maybe leading to university teachers as well. Alas, maybe I chose a bad year to come. Most of my teachers feel that Sarkozy is destroying French education, seriously, in much the same way Bush affected the U.S.
Well, I don't think I have anything else to say. I quit taking so many pictures, as the French would say, il me fait chier, it's boring. I'd rather see than think of a good frame.
Happy New Year
Monday, December 3, 2007
Frog Legs
I am supposed to address this post to my mom. The idea being that it would give my reader a solid state, and avoid confusion. I would love to, really, but my mom confessed that she Imagines I'm in Iowa City. I hate to disillusion anyone, especially my mother, so:
Dear Grandma,
Check out my new photos. Some of Bruge, some of the metro, and more of France.
This last month has been strange for me. I'm still learning about the culture, and am always surprised by what can happen in a new country. For example, I haven't been able to attend classes for a month, because the student union is blocking the doors. There is a strike against a law that Sarchozy passed, a president as infamous as Bush, for similar reasons, called the LRU. Every Monday the student body on the campus votes on whether or not the strike should continue. I have voted against, mostly for selfish reasons. The law would make public universities autonomous. The benefits are more freedom with spending, the downside is that funding could easily be reduced, and public universities could become a thing of the past. Considering the disparity between US and France tuition, there's reason for them to worry. Most students could not afford to attend school at US prices. For example, about 40% of students have need based scholarships, and pay about 40€ a semester to go to school here. It's 400€ without a scholarship. Not that the government is breaking its back to accomplish this. It's the universities that suffer from lack of money, and the condition of the campus facilities, as I've tried hard not to complain about, are nearly dire. Private donations, which are now illegal, will become legal if the law is sustained. The reputation of the French as "proud," is mostly correct. Few students are willing to sacrifice their financial independence for a shinier library named after Colonal Sanders. I guess that's the difference between us and them.
This gets me to a point that I've wanted to talk about for awhile. Waiting. Waiting in France is a serious past time. The mass of students doing nothing right now, except waiting for school to start again. Granted, their are demonstrations that students are encouraged to attend, but for the average student, a sort of haze settles on a life style. It was in considering this haze that glossed over my daily lifestyle that I realized how logical it is that existentialism started in France. And as I said to my friend, why no one in America can understand it, amongst the hustle bustle of ten minute lunches and yoga class. It is something inspired by cigarettes, coffee, and long afternoons. The sun has started setting at 6 PM. What are we to do? Let's wait until tomorrow, we'll have fruit for breakfast, and make a spectacle of the sun. If it is cold, I think I'll stay inside, and maybe watch the wind blow through my window. A base instinct begins to dictate my actions, its not so hedonistic as I once said in my 11th grade essay. It's more the necessities of human existence, the modern kind, where there's seagulls eating bread on the roof, and an inevitable puddle in front of the mall. I'll save surrealism for another day.
I visited Bruge since the last post. It was my favorite European city so far. It is in Belgium, and it's called the Venice of the north. It was small enough to get around by myself, and it wasn't as crowded as Brussels or Amsterdam. I would describe the city as quaint. It's got a lot of famous churches, and displays inside the churches. I visited three, and say Michaelangelo's Mary, a bunch of old women sitting making lace, and the holy relic of Jesus' blood. My favorite thing in the world, windmills, lined the east canal. Giant, archaic, I should have been reminded of Don Quixote, but alas, I haven't head it. There was a small store like Surplus back in Iowa City, were I found a small lamp for my room, better than reasonably priced. I assumed at first it was a pawn shop, but everything was too cheap. I regretted not asking where the junk came from, but people in Belgium don't always speak French, they prefer English. Nonetheless, I tried not to betray my French disguise. I saw a draw bridge and a big yacht. I saw the sunset on the canals, and felt full of color. There was ice-skating in the square, and I bought some snail soup, and a crepe, so I could tell my dad I'm tasting cultural food. They were delicious!
My friend Karl asked about transportation. I tried to take terrific photos, because I think the metro has some terrific stations, but I was stopped nearly every time by a control-man/woman. They encouraged me to get a press pass, and I didn't feel like admitting I wasn't with the press. I can certainly explain system in my region. The buses mostly work within cities. They have a reputation for being late, and seldom arrive spontaneously to save you from walking. Like an untrained French poodle, it promenades through more detours than convenient. The metro, on the other hand, stops usually every five minutes. It is fast, and stops everywhere I want to go. Most spaces are standing, and it is sometimes crowded. I amuse myself by trying to stand suavely without holding the bars. The trains are also expedient, from what I hear. Two of my friends commute every day on the train, one and a half hours. The distances range from local, regional, to continental. The cost is fairly expensive. 1.50€ a ride, 300€ for nine months, and about 20% off for students.
As far as traveling southern France, as sweet Rachel plans, I don't have much advice, as I've never been there. I know it is known for its mountains--the Pyrenees, and the Mediterranean coast. If you like to ski, check out the resorts. I would visit the cities, Marseilles for sure. And the city/country(?) of Monoco has a reputation for being, sweet. Posh might be a more realistic word. It would be fun to waste 20€ in Monte Carlo casino. I imagine the king and queen live in a giant palace, so take some photos to show your grandma. Don't worry about anti-Americanism. Everyone is reasonable about stereotyping, and you'll receive the benefit of the doubt. There are conservatives here, too! Be prepared to be another tourist. To escape, rent a bike and ride into the country side. If you're as lucky as Danny Valentine, you'll find a vineyard and cheap lunch. If it's too cold, or you're out of shape, walk to the outskirts of the city, and you'll find shops that cater less to souvenirs-shoppers. Here's a site that should help you.
Stay warm.
Love,
Elias
Dear Grandma,
Check out my new photos. Some of Bruge, some of the metro, and more of France.
This last month has been strange for me. I'm still learning about the culture, and am always surprised by what can happen in a new country. For example, I haven't been able to attend classes for a month, because the student union is blocking the doors. There is a strike against a law that Sarchozy passed, a president as infamous as Bush, for similar reasons, called the LRU. Every Monday the student body on the campus votes on whether or not the strike should continue. I have voted against, mostly for selfish reasons. The law would make public universities autonomous. The benefits are more freedom with spending, the downside is that funding could easily be reduced, and public universities could become a thing of the past. Considering the disparity between US and France tuition, there's reason for them to worry. Most students could not afford to attend school at US prices. For example, about 40% of students have need based scholarships, and pay about 40€ a semester to go to school here. It's 400€ without a scholarship. Not that the government is breaking its back to accomplish this. It's the universities that suffer from lack of money, and the condition of the campus facilities, as I've tried hard not to complain about, are nearly dire. Private donations, which are now illegal, will become legal if the law is sustained. The reputation of the French as "proud," is mostly correct. Few students are willing to sacrifice their financial independence for a shinier library named after Colonal Sanders. I guess that's the difference between us and them.
This gets me to a point that I've wanted to talk about for awhile. Waiting. Waiting in France is a serious past time. The mass of students doing nothing right now, except waiting for school to start again. Granted, their are demonstrations that students are encouraged to attend, but for the average student, a sort of haze settles on a life style. It was in considering this haze that glossed over my daily lifestyle that I realized how logical it is that existentialism started in France. And as I said to my friend, why no one in America can understand it, amongst the hustle bustle of ten minute lunches and yoga class. It is something inspired by cigarettes, coffee, and long afternoons. The sun has started setting at 6 PM. What are we to do? Let's wait until tomorrow, we'll have fruit for breakfast, and make a spectacle of the sun. If it is cold, I think I'll stay inside, and maybe watch the wind blow through my window. A base instinct begins to dictate my actions, its not so hedonistic as I once said in my 11th grade essay. It's more the necessities of human existence, the modern kind, where there's seagulls eating bread on the roof, and an inevitable puddle in front of the mall. I'll save surrealism for another day.
I visited Bruge since the last post. It was my favorite European city so far. It is in Belgium, and it's called the Venice of the north. It was small enough to get around by myself, and it wasn't as crowded as Brussels or Amsterdam. I would describe the city as quaint. It's got a lot of famous churches, and displays inside the churches. I visited three, and say Michaelangelo's Mary, a bunch of old women sitting making lace, and the holy relic of Jesus' blood. My favorite thing in the world, windmills, lined the east canal. Giant, archaic, I should have been reminded of Don Quixote, but alas, I haven't head it. There was a small store like Surplus back in Iowa City, were I found a small lamp for my room, better than reasonably priced. I assumed at first it was a pawn shop, but everything was too cheap. I regretted not asking where the junk came from, but people in Belgium don't always speak French, they prefer English. Nonetheless, I tried not to betray my French disguise. I saw a draw bridge and a big yacht. I saw the sunset on the canals, and felt full of color. There was ice-skating in the square, and I bought some snail soup, and a crepe, so I could tell my dad I'm tasting cultural food. They were delicious!
My friend Karl asked about transportation. I tried to take terrific photos, because I think the metro has some terrific stations, but I was stopped nearly every time by a control-man/woman. They encouraged me to get a press pass, and I didn't feel like admitting I wasn't with the press. I can certainly explain system in my region. The buses mostly work within cities. They have a reputation for being late, and seldom arrive spontaneously to save you from walking. Like an untrained French poodle, it promenades through more detours than convenient. The metro, on the other hand, stops usually every five minutes. It is fast, and stops everywhere I want to go. Most spaces are standing, and it is sometimes crowded. I amuse myself by trying to stand suavely without holding the bars. The trains are also expedient, from what I hear. Two of my friends commute every day on the train, one and a half hours. The distances range from local, regional, to continental. The cost is fairly expensive. 1.50€ a ride, 300€ for nine months, and about 20% off for students.
As far as traveling southern France, as sweet Rachel plans, I don't have much advice, as I've never been there. I know it is known for its mountains--the Pyrenees, and the Mediterranean coast. If you like to ski, check out the resorts. I would visit the cities, Marseilles for sure. And the city/country(?) of Monoco has a reputation for being, sweet. Posh might be a more realistic word. It would be fun to waste 20€ in Monte Carlo casino. I imagine the king and queen live in a giant palace, so take some photos to show your grandma. Don't worry about anti-Americanism. Everyone is reasonable about stereotyping, and you'll receive the benefit of the doubt. There are conservatives here, too! Be prepared to be another tourist. To escape, rent a bike and ride into the country side. If you're as lucky as Danny Valentine, you'll find a vineyard and cheap lunch. If it's too cold, or you're out of shape, walk to the outskirts of the city, and you'll find shops that cater less to souvenirs-shoppers. Here's a site that should help you.
Stay warm.
Love,
Elias
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
On International Affairs
As promised, I've visited Brussles, Belgium, and Amsterdam, Holland. I took some pictures, jotted a few notes, and will devote most of my post to these two, one-day adventures.
See pictures here http://www.flickr.com/photos/14678278@N02/ (the same page) They are big, and took a long time to upload, for what that's worth.
These trips are organized by the International Student group at the school. The students pay a fee for the bus, and it's a free for all once we get to the city. It took four hours to get to Amsterdam, which made for a long day, and not enough visiting time. Anyway, it's cheap travel, and an option I don't have at U of I.
Brussels
Brussels is a city of chocolate, and so, logically, happy people. A pleasant relief from the stern outlook of the French, the merry Belgiums and their capital city, capital, in fact, of the European Union, host flocks of tourists among the unpredictable assortment of new and old architecture. Aside from chocolate, spheres were a dominant theme. Obviously Atomium, the tourist trap that dominates the city's skyline, composed of enormous steel balls. The iconic sphere is repeated throughout the city, from its fountains, to doorstops, and even the plump cheeks and chocolate truffles propogated the sphere. Perhaps it signifies the nation's belief in compromise, and distaste for pointed comments.
The weather was terrific, sunny with fluffy clouds, but the wind was cold. I accompanied, or was accompanied by, two German girls, and two Greek girls. We spent the most of our day atop a double decker tour bus, either shielding ourselves from the wind, or taking photos to show our friends, or put on various under-read blogs. Churches and cathedrals in Europe, contrary to the midwest, where they resemble, well, churches in cornfields, display majestic spires hidden around corners, and remain an inspiring sight, as they must have been for the populations of men so many centuries ago, that walked the same streets hauling carts filled with horse manure. We made a special expedition to find the pissing fountain boy, who was remarkable small, yet detailed, and I suppose proportionate to a real boy.
Amsterdam.
Holland marks my 6th country I have stepped foot in, in my lifetime. Perhaps someday it will mark the 6th planet that an E.T. has visited, but I saw no such aliens on my visit, despite the plethora of legal hallucinogens available (mushrooms, liquid X, marijuana) for anyone with more than 18 years of age. It was three Canadian girls I tagged along with this time, fearing that my directional skills would be insufficient in the city of overambundant landmarks--it took time to adjust to the multitude bell towers, and bridges, and the recurring sense of deja-vu they incurred. I prefer this city to Brussels, the architecture is consisitent in period, and beautifully colored and ornate, and because of the plethora of bikes, of pretty women with brown hair, and because I find the sound of bells soothing.
We stopped at the Anne Frank museum, but it had been sufficiently touriturized to merit a block-long line, and time was too limited to wait in line. We stopped by the highest bell-tower, which would have provided a beautiful view of the city, had it not closed half an hour before we arrived. Another well-known lookout spot costed too much, so we vistited the mall next door, which was disappointingly only two stories high. I did buy a wool sweater, and the Canadian girls taught me how to tie my wool scarf, and with my wool gloves, I'm ready for winter in France. My French has become strong enough to speak French in non-speaking countries, to a cashier who will revert to Englsih, and I will reluctuntly, full of posh, pretend that it is my second language, in which I am very fluent. I must say a few things about the prostitutes, who sat poised behind windows in the red-light district, in lingerie, tapping on the glass at me. Sorry, there's no pictures, it seems like it would have been rude.
It's difficult to walk through Amsterdam without imagining being a famous painter. The highlights of the canals in the crepuscule, the orange and brown tints in the dresses of women carrying bundles wrapped in brown paper, the corner houses made with windows, and the boats, the cars, the bikes, the people, the trolleys, and the possibility of existing as a recluse amongst all of this, the rouge pommetes of the girls, red cheeks of the women, the vibrancy of earth leaking through the flowers, trees, and the feathers of a swan. Home to more art museums than any other city, I recommend a week visit devoted to visiting them, particuliarly the Van Gogh museum, living peacefully, and maybe bringing a scratch pad to capture the essence in the lines of the cobblestone walks.
Shortcomings of the Residence
The nice thing is it costs 165€ per month. The downside is it has one computer available six hours a day, that is probably ten years old. The recreation room consists of three ping-pong tables with floppy paddles, the weightroom of one tread-mill and one pull-down machine. There are two washers, and one dryer, there is no elevator, and the showers have pressure comparable onle to those of 630 Bloomington.
Other News
Granting all goes well, my status as uncle will be fortified in November, and my dear sister Darci is due on the 14th.
My sister Theresa is going to visit me for Christmas, so I have much to prepare for before then: making my room less of a baren place, more like a home.
I won a $4000 scholarship, for being Iowan, and having a 3.5.
Visits to London and Bruge and the future, but not for one month, so I expect to post before then. Possible subjects include: "The new French revolution, wool, leather, and stainless steel for all," and "How to ignore that really annoying American girl by pretending that you don't speak English."
See pictures here http://www.flickr.com/photos/14678278@N02/ (the same page) They are big, and took a long time to upload, for what that's worth.
These trips are organized by the International Student group at the school. The students pay a fee for the bus, and it's a free for all once we get to the city. It took four hours to get to Amsterdam, which made for a long day, and not enough visiting time. Anyway, it's cheap travel, and an option I don't have at U of I.
Brussels
Brussels is a city of chocolate, and so, logically, happy people. A pleasant relief from the stern outlook of the French, the merry Belgiums and their capital city, capital, in fact, of the European Union, host flocks of tourists among the unpredictable assortment of new and old architecture. Aside from chocolate, spheres were a dominant theme. Obviously Atomium, the tourist trap that dominates the city's skyline, composed of enormous steel balls. The iconic sphere is repeated throughout the city, from its fountains, to doorstops, and even the plump cheeks and chocolate truffles propogated the sphere. Perhaps it signifies the nation's belief in compromise, and distaste for pointed comments.
The weather was terrific, sunny with fluffy clouds, but the wind was cold. I accompanied, or was accompanied by, two German girls, and two Greek girls. We spent the most of our day atop a double decker tour bus, either shielding ourselves from the wind, or taking photos to show our friends, or put on various under-read blogs. Churches and cathedrals in Europe, contrary to the midwest, where they resemble, well, churches in cornfields, display majestic spires hidden around corners, and remain an inspiring sight, as they must have been for the populations of men so many centuries ago, that walked the same streets hauling carts filled with horse manure. We made a special expedition to find the pissing fountain boy, who was remarkable small, yet detailed, and I suppose proportionate to a real boy.
Amsterdam.
Holland marks my 6th country I have stepped foot in, in my lifetime. Perhaps someday it will mark the 6th planet that an E.T. has visited, but I saw no such aliens on my visit, despite the plethora of legal hallucinogens available (mushrooms, liquid X, marijuana) for anyone with more than 18 years of age. It was three Canadian girls I tagged along with this time, fearing that my directional skills would be insufficient in the city of overambundant landmarks--it took time to adjust to the multitude bell towers, and bridges, and the recurring sense of deja-vu they incurred. I prefer this city to Brussels, the architecture is consisitent in period, and beautifully colored and ornate, and because of the plethora of bikes, of pretty women with brown hair, and because I find the sound of bells soothing.
We stopped at the Anne Frank museum, but it had been sufficiently touriturized to merit a block-long line, and time was too limited to wait in line. We stopped by the highest bell-tower, which would have provided a beautiful view of the city, had it not closed half an hour before we arrived. Another well-known lookout spot costed too much, so we vistited the mall next door, which was disappointingly only two stories high. I did buy a wool sweater, and the Canadian girls taught me how to tie my wool scarf, and with my wool gloves, I'm ready for winter in France. My French has become strong enough to speak French in non-speaking countries, to a cashier who will revert to Englsih, and I will reluctuntly, full of posh, pretend that it is my second language, in which I am very fluent. I must say a few things about the prostitutes, who sat poised behind windows in the red-light district, in lingerie, tapping on the glass at me. Sorry, there's no pictures, it seems like it would have been rude.
It's difficult to walk through Amsterdam without imagining being a famous painter. The highlights of the canals in the crepuscule, the orange and brown tints in the dresses of women carrying bundles wrapped in brown paper, the corner houses made with windows, and the boats, the cars, the bikes, the people, the trolleys, and the possibility of existing as a recluse amongst all of this, the rouge pommetes of the girls, red cheeks of the women, the vibrancy of earth leaking through the flowers, trees, and the feathers of a swan. Home to more art museums than any other city, I recommend a week visit devoted to visiting them, particuliarly the Van Gogh museum, living peacefully, and maybe bringing a scratch pad to capture the essence in the lines of the cobblestone walks.
Shortcomings of the Residence
The nice thing is it costs 165€ per month. The downside is it has one computer available six hours a day, that is probably ten years old. The recreation room consists of three ping-pong tables with floppy paddles, the weightroom of one tread-mill and one pull-down machine. There are two washers, and one dryer, there is no elevator, and the showers have pressure comparable onle to those of 630 Bloomington.
Other News
Granting all goes well, my status as uncle will be fortified in November, and my dear sister Darci is due on the 14th.
My sister Theresa is going to visit me for Christmas, so I have much to prepare for before then: making my room less of a baren place, more like a home.
I won a $4000 scholarship, for being Iowan, and having a 3.5.
Visits to London and Bruge and the future, but not for one month, so I expect to post before then. Possible subjects include: "The new French revolution, wool, leather, and stainless steel for all," and "How to ignore that really annoying American girl by pretending that you don't speak English."
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