Looking Up to You, BubThe Last Day of November
Paris, France
30_11_2007
Paris, France
30_11_2007
The Inverted Pyramid, Inverted
This is probably the most poorly written news item I have ever seen from a major media outlet, and that’s saying A LOT. Not to mention how sad and oddly riveting it is, which is maybe why the idiots who put it together have lost their minds.
L’Observateur du Jour : Around the Office
Joking around with the Colombian cleaning crew in Spanish, I asked them if they’d heard of Juan Valdez. One said no. But the other said sí, then vividly described Valdez, his job picking café, his burro, and his bigote. He got a serious look on his face and postulated that Valdez was muerto. ¿No? [Update]Yesterday my boss took off for his one vacation this year, to South Africa. Upon arrival, he was denied entry – in spite of holding a valid U.S. passport – because the authorities there have so many stamps to stamp in a passport, that they need at least one full empty page in which to put them, and he did not have the space, as his passport is 10 years old and has already been stamped a lot. They offered him a night in the Cape Town jail or a seat on the next flight back to Amsterdam. He called me from Schiphol airport this afternoon, in distress.
The crux of my job is meeting jet-lagged Americans and taking them to their apartment rentals. Most are great, and it’s fun meeting strange new people almost every day. Since my boss was supposed to be in South Africa, he asked me to take a certain client around to show her some apartment options, since she and her husband are repeat customers and they are looking for a place they can rent for one week a month. This woman bitches about everything – to the point of surreality – but her biggest complaint is French food. She told me that if she saw another piece of fois gras, she was “going to puke.” Then, standing across from the Châtelet metro stop this morning she leaned into me, and in a hushed, yet forceful tone, she said: “You know what I want? I want to go home and go to a fucking Cracker Barrel.”
L’Observateur : Alternative Uses for Baguette
If it’s cold outside, and your baguette happens to be fresh out of the oven, you can use it to warm your hands.In crowds, you can create space for yourself by wantonly swinging a baguette. Another method is to cradle it in such a way that it juts out a foot or so from your side, as no self-respecting French person would dare come into contact with someone else’s baguette. It just doesn’t happen.
A hard baguette can be pummeled and used for breadcrumbs, which can then top a tuna casserole or be fed to hungry pigeons.
A really hard baguette can be used as a javelin, cane, poker, pointer, paperweight, or kindling.
Dizznyland Paris
Imagine for a moment what would happen in the United States if a youth mob burned down a police station or wounded two dozen officers or both.
And then did it again the next day.
And then did it again the next day.
L'Observateur du Jour
On Avenue des Gobelins heading north from Place d’Italie, I was tailing another cyclist as we busted through a yellow light at Boulevard Arago. There was a blind man standing on the sidewalk who could tell we were going through late. He took a vicious swipe at us with his cane. The guy in front of me swerved. We coasted through unscathed.
There is a puppeteer who performs on the Rue d’Arcole bridge between Hôtel de Ville and Ile de la Cité. One day, I saw the puppet performing a Pixies song. There were some American tourists standing around who were totally into it.
Steak tartare is not at all what I thought it was. Confession: I used to eat raw beef on saltines when I was a child.
World maps in France are not centered on North America. They are centered on Eurasia.
The temperature dial on our stove is in Celsius.
There is a puppeteer who performs on the Rue d’Arcole bridge between Hôtel de Ville and Ile de la Cité. One day, I saw the puppet performing a Pixies song. There were some American tourists standing around who were totally into it.
Steak tartare is not at all what I thought it was. Confession: I used to eat raw beef on saltines when I was a child.
World maps in France are not centered on North America. They are centered on Eurasia.
The temperature dial on our stove is in Celsius.
Contrails : Today in Paris, Partly Cloudy With a Chance of Extinction
Five and a half years ago, I read this article. Ever since, I’ve been completely freaked out by airplane pollution, and totally shocked that it’s not a larger part of the discourse on global warming. I notice contrails a lot, and there is so much air traffic in and out of a city like Paris that on an otherwise-cloudless day, you can get as much as 10-15% cover from contrails that have expanded into toxic cirrus clouds.
And, since I’m not actually going to do anything to better the situation, I’ve decided instead to make everyone around me neurotically aware of the problem by posting pretty pictures of them.
L’Observateur du Jour
Martini Rosato is one tasty aperitif. If you can find it in the United States, I’d like to hear about it.I was on my bike in a steady drizzle underneath the arches near the roundabout on the north side of the Louvre when a middle-aged man on a moped pulled up next to me at a red light. He pulled out an iPhone, dialed a number, and then wedged it between the interior padding of his helmet and his ear, shut the visor on his helmet, started talking to someone, and sped off. Allez-y.
There is a French cell phone commercial that has “The W.A.N.D.” by Oklahoma’s Flaming Lips in it. The “characters” seemed to be taking the lyrical content of the song literally, which I thought strange, but not nearly as strange as hearing the Lips in a French TV commercial.
The French call Edinburgh “Edimbourg,” and Scotland “L’Ecosse.”
Three bulbs of garlic cost 1.5 euros at the corner store.
This column is a loose homage to R.U. Steinberg’s Mr. Smarty Pants Knows, which, when read in URL, says: “Mrs. Marty Pants Knows.”
Fraxico
France and Mexico are the two countries other than the U.S.A. that I’ve spent the most time in, and as it turns out, they have the same annoyance: It is nearly impossible to get anything done in a timely fashion. To relieve my frustration with the escargot pace of my homes away from home, I wrote a poem:mexico and france
facíl becomes difficile
france too organized
mexico not at all
results are the same
Resident Alien
Today I received my NaviGO card in the mail. It’s a rechargeable Metro ticket with a puce (computer chip) in the back. I made my eyes about 10% bigger in Photoshop so I’d look like an alien. Oh yeah, the strike is over.
La Photo du Jour 66
Vue de la Rue du DragonThis is the view from the bathroom of one of the vacation apartment rentals that I show people into.
Paris, France
23_11_2007
Paris, France
23_11_2007
Duck, You Sucker : Thanksgiving in Art Spiegelman’s Apartment
We have some friends-of-friends who rent Art Spiegelman and Françoise Mouly’s Paris apartment, and naturally, they invited us over for Thanksgiving dinner. Realizing this would be a great opportunity to expand on the coterie of famous people with which we have exactly one degree of separation, we accepted.Aside from apartment’s gargantuan bathroom, the most interesting thing about it was the wall hangings. Among them were a print of Chris Ware’s “Rocket Sam,” various New Yorker covers (yet only one was Spiegelman’s, his black-on-black post-9/11 homage), and a Dan Clowes poster that one of the girls who lives there had taken down because it gives her nightmares.
End result: fleeting pangs of homesickness have been sated by roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, Stove Top stuffing, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie, and of course lots of French wine, cheese, and bread. I was so full and drunk afterward, that I felt like torching an Indian village.
A re-interpretation of Art Spiegelman’s 9/11 cover. Deep... :
L’Observateur : Photos du Jour That Never Were
From the passenger seat of a moving taxi, I saw a man who looked vaguely like Art Garfunkel headed due south on a black Dutch-made bicycle in front of the Notre Dame cathedral. The chain guard covering the crank shaft bore a bumper sticker reading “FUCK BUSH.” My window was down, and I said to Bob Mertienssen, the Australian man riding in the back seat behind me, “Where is your camera when you need it?” He laughed.
Two days ago, I noticed the French flag above the Conciergerie was in tatters, giving it that “La Marseillaise” look. Again, no camera. I went by again today, but it had become tangled in the flagpole, and was no longer photogenic. I hope they don’t replace it before tomorrow.
There was a big white Laverne “L” on a painted-blue wall somewhere near Place Jeanne d’Arc. Now I cannot find it.
I saw a handicapped baby in a stroller, fiercely shaking an orange in the produce section at Tang Freres.
Two days ago, I noticed the French flag above the Conciergerie was in tatters, giving it that “La Marseillaise” look. Again, no camera. I went by again today, but it had become tangled in the flagpole, and was no longer photogenic. I hope they don’t replace it before tomorrow.
There was a big white Laverne “L” on a painted-blue wall somewhere near Place Jeanne d’Arc. Now I cannot find it.
I saw a handicapped baby in a stroller, fiercely shaking an orange in the produce section at Tang Freres.
Duck, You Sucker : French Tortillas
Plus Tard has neglected to mention food.One reality of life in France is that you spend exorbitant amounts of time either shopping at the market, cooking, or eating. Yet, post exile, I’m a notch down on my belt. I say it’s from lugging large canvas bags of food a full ten blocks twice a week with the notion of saving a Euro on apero fixings. And I just pulled that little muscle right under my shoulder blade. You know the one.
But let’s talk about Mexican food. They don’t make it in France.
This a problem after having had it three meals a day for thirteen years.
The crux of the problem is that the tortillas from Hyper Casino taste like styrofoam and cost a fortune. So I decided to make my own taco towels. Not so much. These also tasted like styrofoam, but this time they were unbending and carried the aroma of dried glue. Above you see the world’s first (and hopefully last) flour-tortilla tostada. People, there is no corn masa in France and the flour thing ain’t happening. Express mail me some fresh tortillas, and I’ll send you something from France that you can’t get where you live.
Bitter Yeti
It’s “Tout Some Friends Day” at Plus Tard, so check outBitter Yeti’s cynical, illustrative musings at:
http://bitteryeti.blogspot.com/
Césky Monesçou : Milk, No Papers
Check out Plus Tard’s buddy Brando’s photosfrom our sojourn to Praha:
http://flickr.com/photos/thejosephboys/sets/72157602417213434/
L’Observateur : Sporting Goods Edition
When you shop at the French sporting goods store, Go Sport, they have two NBA jerseys: The Phoenix Suns’ Boris Diaw and the San Antonio Spurs’ Tony Parker.It is apparently near-impossible to find a proper yoga mat in France. Instead, they sell thick foamy “exercise” mats that are about 85% the size of a ’Merican yoga mat. It’s just not the same. Especially if you’re 195cm tall.
Most men’s bicycles don’t have the “rack” bar. I am still learning the easy way to get on, though I still tip the bike toward me and swing my right leg over the back of seat about half the time.
Squash, badminton, hiking, and skiing are huge here.
In the back corner, they sell ’Merican footballs and baseball gloves for exorbitant prices.
They also have ping pong balls that look like basketballs, soccer balls, and tennis balls. Sold.
La Grève: Day 6
The transportation strike is not nearly as bad as they make it look in news reports. Every photo you see online is of 200 commuters stacked up on a platform or 20 bikers lined up in a row blocking traffic. Sure, the few trains that run are crowded, but for the most part life bustles in spite of itself.
À La Poitrine Généreuse 1
When I was a kid, my friend Puddles told me that in France they showed boobies on regular TV. Turns out he was right! Seriously, this town is the breast. Thanks, I’ll be here all winter. Did I mention that it’s so cold here that even the mannequins have hard nipples? …
Seriously, there are many a titty in this city. On statues, paintings, billboards, magazines, sidewalks, trains, walls, and ceilings. And, because I can’t imagine not sharing this embarrassment of riches, I give you the first of what will be many illustrative postings concerning the bare French bosom.
This old, cracked pair come to us from inside the Louvre.
La Photo du Jour 59
Le Jeune VinParis, France
16_11_2007
The beaujolais nouveau was released last night, and it’s a big fête.
The acidic aftertaste reminded me of mezcal.
16_11_2007
The beaujolais nouveau was released last night, and it’s a big fête.
The acidic aftertaste reminded me of mezcal.
Does Anybody Remember Laughter?
“This next one’s about leaving. And I see my friend Taylor Holland standing in the back there, because he’s the tallest person in the room. He just moved to Paris from Texas. Let’s hear it for leaving!”And so, my first international shout-out was followed by a smattering of half-hearted, confused applause from some French hipsters who braved the rail strike to go see the Fiery Furnaces.
Of note, the bass player (left) is Jason Lowenstein from Sebadoh.
L’Observateur du Jour
French people like to walk one step into the crosswalk before looking in any direction. When they realize they are about to be struck by a bus, car, moped, bicycle, or pedestrian, they take a step backward onto the sidewalk, then seem amused with themselves.
At 8:15 this morning, a French girl lunged through a rapidly closing door on the #14 train. She – at a jogger’s pace – made partial contact, but not enough to wake me.
The cleaning guy at my work is a Colombian named Italo. We spoke Spanish for about two hours today as he showed me around some apartments. He kiped some ham, cheese, and butter from the mini-fridge at the one on Rue d’Arcole.
A man called the office phone speaking French. I told him in French that I did not. In broken English, he said he would call back later.
Pretty much everyone in Paris can tell that I speak English after hearing two or three French words come out of my mouth. (Sometimes it’s one. Literally. It’s hard to say un – sounds like the grunty version of “uh”). Or sometimes, they can tell just by looking at me.
At 8:15 this morning, a French girl lunged through a rapidly closing door on the #14 train. She – at a jogger’s pace – made partial contact, but not enough to wake me.
The cleaning guy at my work is a Colombian named Italo. We spoke Spanish for about two hours today as he showed me around some apartments. He kiped some ham, cheese, and butter from the mini-fridge at the one on Rue d’Arcole.
A man called the office phone speaking French. I told him in French that I did not. In broken English, he said he would call back later.
Pretty much everyone in Paris can tell that I speak English after hearing two or three French words come out of my mouth. (Sometimes it’s one. Literally. It’s hard to say un – sounds like the grunty version of “uh”). Or sometimes, they can tell just by looking at me.
La Photo du Jour 57
La GrèveDay One
Paris, France
14_11_2007
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/11/14/world/europe/14cnd-france.html?_r=1&hp&oref=slogin
Paris, France
14_11_2007
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/11/14/world/europe/14cnd-france.html?_r=1&hp&oref=slogin
Plus Tard Comment of the Week
This one, courtesy of Shawn M. Badgley:
joke time:
Q: what did Milton S. Hershey say to the priest?
A: i've got a confection to make.
L’Observateur du Jour
Like certain clouds, the bottoms of the window latches in our apartment appear to have “a face” in them. (photo above) I cannot remember the last time I stood next to a heater to get warm. While doing so today, I noticed that the bottoms of the window latches in the apartment appear to have a face in them.
The parking garage under Hôtel de Ville has a ceiling that is about 2cm taller than me, and I find it almost as discomfiting as looking at the window latches in the apartment.
I thought I heard the neighbors having sex, but it turned out someone was vacuuming.
In French, se blottir means “to snuggle.”
Three Months, Nine Days...
That’s how long I was unemployed. Yes, you read that right. As the French are going on strike, I’m taking a part-time job showing vacationers into their apartment rentals in the center of Paris (http://www.rentals-paris.org/). It’s a hand-me-down job from another American, working for an American-speaking American who the rents the flats to other American Americans. I meet them at the office, show them to their flat, and learn them the right (or left) way to turn a French key in a French door, so they can get into the bedroom and French kiss in private. In case you are nosy like me, it pays 700 euros a month, which at press time is like $125,000 a year. Also, I get a small commission if I line up clients, so if you are really rich and want to stay in a private apartment in Paris, email me.
After the first four hours, I have to say that the best thing about the job is the location at 274 Rue Saint Honore, one block from the Louvre and the Jardin du Tuileries. It’s a mind-altering experience to see some of the most famous and beautiful sites in the world while riding your bike (in a dedicated bike lane) to work in the morning. It certainly beats the hell out of almost getting run over by some redneck Longhorn fan in a seven-ton pickup and then sitting at my desk all day. Vive le France. Or, if vous ne parlez pas Français, here it is in bumper sticker: Tuck Fexas.
Here we see a map of how I get to work in the morning, riding along the Seine. Green = home, red = work:
All told, it was a great 98 days (+/-) of blissful freedom. I managed to visit such desperate locales as Real de Catorce, Zacatecas, and San Tiburcio, Mexico; New Orleans, Louisiana; Albertville, Alabama; Clarksville, Tennessee; Springfield, Missouri; Bartlesville and Norman, Oklahoma; Austin, Texas; Baltimore, Maryland; Bethany Beach, Delaware; Paris, France; and Prague and Cesky Krumlov, Czech Republic. Quite an adventure after 13 years of static cling.
In homage, here are a few panoramic photos from our trip to Mexico in August:
Real de Catorce: The Lucero
Real de Catorce: The Road to El Quemado
Real de Catorce: Looking West from the bottom of El Callejon Zaragoza
... and a special shout-out to recently unchained Plus Tard donor Shawn Badgley
who will be taking an immersion course in Zacatecas (pictured below) before going to Real de Catorce to write a novel about what an awesome friend and confidant I have been to him. Good luck, buddy. Say hi (and then adios) to that delicious sopa de mariscos (and a shot of Don Julio) at La Leyenda for me.
After the first four hours, I have to say that the best thing about the job is the location at 274 Rue Saint Honore, one block from the Louvre and the Jardin du Tuileries. It’s a mind-altering experience to see some of the most famous and beautiful sites in the world while riding your bike (in a dedicated bike lane) to work in the morning. It certainly beats the hell out of almost getting run over by some redneck Longhorn fan in a seven-ton pickup and then sitting at my desk all day. Vive le France. Or, if vous ne parlez pas Français, here it is in bumper sticker: Tuck Fexas.
Here we see a map of how I get to work in the morning, riding along the Seine. Green = home, red = work:
All told, it was a great 98 days (+/-) of blissful freedom. I managed to visit such desperate locales as Real de Catorce, Zacatecas, and San Tiburcio, Mexico; New Orleans, Louisiana; Albertville, Alabama; Clarksville, Tennessee; Springfield, Missouri; Bartlesville and Norman, Oklahoma; Austin, Texas; Baltimore, Maryland; Bethany Beach, Delaware; Paris, France; and Prague and Cesky Krumlov, Czech Republic. Quite an adventure after 13 years of static cling.
In homage, here are a few panoramic photos from our trip to Mexico in August:
Real de Catorce: The Lucero
Real de Catorce: The Road to El Quemado
Real de Catorce: Looking West from the bottom of El Callejon Zaragoza... and a special shout-out to recently unchained Plus Tard donor Shawn Badgley
who will be taking an immersion course in Zacatecas (pictured below) before going to Real de Catorce to write a novel about what an awesome friend and confidant I have been to him. Good luck, buddy. Say hi (and then adios) to that delicious sopa de mariscos (and a shot of Don Julio) at La Leyenda for me.
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