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Journal Archive 2002, from Geo's Place (Return to home page.)
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Tuesday, December 31, 2002(Excerpted from a comment I posted last night on Samizdata.net...)I just returned from Germany where I spent Christmas week with my sister and her husband. As a favor to me, they took me to tour the Nazi concentration camps at Dachau and Flossenbürg. A little bizarre for the holidays, I know, but I've always wanted to go. It was raining, foggy and cold (hovering at 1 degree C) -- in short, perfect weather for the visit. My God. If ever there was an eloquent argument for the occasional necessity to forcibly resist evil in this world, it is made perfectly (and far beyond the ability of words to express) by simply standing a silent moment or two in front of the ovens at Dachau.
Monday, December 30, 2002Got back from Germany last night, after spending a spectacular time with my sister and brother-in-law. It'll take a while to write it all up, but the highlight of the trip was a traditional Christmas morning: getting up early, putting on a bright red bathrobe and green alligator slippers, padding downstairs, lighting candles and opening presents as a family. This experience, getting to spend holiday time together, was the best Christmas present.
Sunday, December 22, 2002I'm heading out tomorrow, going to Germany (Weiden) to visit my sister Karen and her husband Scott for the week. It'll be good to be with family for Christmas. We're planning to take a day-trip to Prague, the Golden City and capital of Bohemia, which should be fun. I'm hoping to stop in Plzn for a cold Urquell, too. I used to brew beer as a hobby and visiting the birthplace of the original pilsner was always a fond wish -- maybe now it'll come true! Happy holidays all!
December 14, 2002An interesting encounter Thursday night. I was returning from visiting some friends near Marseille (Sainte Marthe, actually) and got to the train station a little early. Deciding to kill the 20 minutes by having a slice of pizza, I stepped up to the little vendor's shack near the station and ordered. While I was waiting, I noticed a group of three teenagers sitting at one of the tables nearby, talking loudly in the obviously slurred post-bender vernacular. I paid for my pizza and, instead of sitting out in the cold and listening to boozy mumblings, I withdrew to the station to sit in the small but warm waiting room until the train arrived.Within a few minutes of doing so and beginning to chew on an uninspiring slice of pizza, the three lads came in, boisterously claiming the room for themselves in the universal manner of all loud inebriates. When one of them came over to me where I was sitting on a bench, I rapidly thought, "Well, I'm going to have to hurt him bad, and quickly, and get up fast so I don't get pinned on the bench by the other two." A crude thought, but one I've been trained to process reflexively. Fortunately for us all, the kid stopped just outside of my personal space. Leaning down, he pointed at the pizza and told me to give him some. The bold twinkle in his eye told me he wasn't really hungry - he was just messing with me, so I responded with a little heated banter of my own. "Oh la, la! C'est pas possible! Didn't I just see you eating outside? Surely you don't also need my dinner to satisfy you!" I have discovered that I have an almost different personality when I speak a different language. Though I esteem politesse, in French, when pushed a little, I can quickly become a man of rare and indignant passion. I have vitriolically cursed out Cameroonian cab drivers in French (they deserved it) and wondered where in the world all that came from afterward. The kid and his friends responded, as might be expected, with a little bristling and chest-thumping. As I was once more gauging the threat, I made to respond again only, this time (and for some completely unknown reason) I spoke to them in Arabic. "O, my brother! What has gotten into you? I'm just sitting here enjoying my meal and you have to disrupt my repose. Where are you from? Are you French? Do you live here in Sainte Marthe or are you visiting?" For, you see, my Arabic personality is one of hospitality culture, relationships, social obligation and, very usefully, shame. The leader started to say something and stood up straight, poleaxed. "He speaks Arabic!" he shouted to his friends. "You speak Arabic! How is it that you speak Arabic??" From then on it was quite a different scene. I was twice their age, but I was in - a teen among them. We all spoke in Arabic for another quarter hour, for my instincts had been right - they were North African. We compared where we'd lived and I found all about them - this one from Tunis, that one from Casablanca, another who grew up in Italy. They lived in Marseille and were hanging out with friends in Sainte Marthe, but because of the greffe today (all of the bus and metro workers were on strike), they had to take the train home instead. Three more of their friends came in and soon it was quite the party. We were talking and laughing and joking around, mostly in Arabic, with a little French when my vocab wasn't up to it. I shared my pizza with them and, in return, the leader showed me the wound he received when he fell off of his moto. They found it most incredible that I was an American, speaking Arabic, who had Arabic friends and didn't categorically hate Arabs. We were talking about misconceptions in nationalism when one of them brought up the War on Terrorism. "Osama Ben Laden really kicked America's butt, didn't he?" one of them opined. "Yes," I said, "but he kind of knocked down a wasp's nest when he did, don't you think?" The kid agreed, but seemed to think that was purely secondary to the idea of someone having the chutzpah to defy the U.S. so boldly and so visibly. "It's like a scorpion that stings a horse," I said. "The horse is in pain for a little while, but will recover. But the scorpion is still just an insect, and will get stepped on, eventually." He agreed with that, but it occurs to me that no matter how or when we step on Osama or Al Qaeda or any of the terrorists, they have already won something that can never be taken away from them - their stature as heroes around the world. The train to Aix finally arrived and I left them, a raucous bunch, with many a warmly reciprocated bislemma and fi-lemen. Their train, heading the opposite way to Marseille, arrived about the same time. As we rolled out of the station, I could see the small waiting room was empty again, a mute witness to one more short, strange encounter among strange human beings.
December 9, 2002. Several computer crashes, reinstalling windows and eventually reformatting and reinstalling all of my software later... Anyway, a lot of water under the bridge. What's been going on? Grandma Gregg died on Friday. She was my last surviving grandparent, the other two having died, one a year, over the past two years. That whole generation is gone now. I know it's selfish, but it makes you think, if you're the thinking kind. Well...Christmas season in Aix. Some warm scenes include: Chestnuts literally roasting over an open fire. A vendor is parked out in the Place de la Poste on most days and he cooks 'em up right there. Two euros gets you a medium sized paper cone of hot, fresh-roasted chestnuts. Mmmm... Caroling in the Cathedral. Last Sunday, we held a Christmas caroling service in the Cathedral down the rue and invited, oh, several hundred of our closest friends. A mixture of French and Americans sang all kinds of traditional (pardon me) chestnuts. The French, not knowing most of the songs (it's amazing what one takes for granted as a member of one's own culture) gamely joined in. I even gave the invocation (no relation to sorcery) in French, with a little pre-event coaching from francophone pal Christophe. After it was over, we ate cookies and drank mulled wine while watching the traditional Provençal Dancers perform in front of the Cathedral in period garb. One of the hilarious prouvenco folk dances could have been called "The Shrew and the Wife-beater." It was a cheery little dance wherein three men and three women first went through a mime of the women beating the men, then chattering together, then the men beating the women, with the women sulking. When everyone is reconciled, they dance happily together and exit, stage left. All of this to happy chirping of traditional pipe-and-drum. An interesting dip into folk entertainment history before political correctness would have culled this kind of thing from public consciousness. Cour Mirabeau is lit up like Energie de France gave Aix a Christmas half-off discount on power. Very festive. Now they're setting up outbuildings all along the south side of the thoroughfare to house local vendors of every provençal craft, including Marseillaise soaps, lavender sachets, olives, honey, santons (nativity set pieces) and whatever else local shops disgorge to the maddening hordes. Actually, it's quite a cheery spectacle, but the longer lines at the local Monoprix are beginning to grate. And even the homeless punk that roams around my quartier has gotten into the spirit of the season by dying his hair spikes red and green, all festive-like. Yesterday (Sunday) I went with Louis, a very genteel, retired gentilhomme provençal, to Chateau Bas, about 30 minutes west of Aix. Chateau Bas is one of the finer caves of the Aix region and Louis wanted to take me out to see it, not only because it is quintessentially representative of this area, but it was also built on a Gallo-Roman village site and he knows I'm into that stuff. Ruins of a roman temple can still be visited. Quite neat. We sat in on an unexpected wine-tasting class with sixty other French and I learned a few things. Louis reminds me a little of my Dad (also named Lewis), with his dry humor and absolute confidence. When things dragged on a bit and Louis had to leave, he was so chagrined at having to take me home, he went up to the presenter and asked if he could make an announcement. The presenter, one of the managers of the cave, said yes. In French, Louis addressed the assembly: "This fellow" he said, gesturing to me, "is a guest of mine from America. I brought him here to experience the true French culture, but I have an appointment and have to leave. I hate to make him miss the rest of the tour. Is there anyone here that can take him back to Aix when you go?"Oh la, la. "I'm happy to go back with you," I told him, and many in the crowd shouted me down. Mais, non! Of course not! They wouldn't hear of it, and several offered to take me back. Quite embarrassingly kind of them, really. I asked a couple sitting near me who had volunteered and they took me under their wing for the rest of the afternoon. As Louis left, the manager mugged at the audience and, in a stage whisper, pointed at me and suggested I was a spy. This is so bizarre, since I get that all the time. Speaking of stereotype-driven acccusations, I'll take a bit of a tangent and recount an episode from my recent trip into North Africa. I was hanging out with a bunch of guys at a barbecue - something they do every week in their palm grove - and a young fellow, Omar, pointed to me and said "Clintstwood." It's not the first time a foreigner has accused me of looking like Clint - a Chinese friend once told me I look like "that actor...you know, Easta Crintwood." It helps when I'm grimy and unshaven and need a haircut, as was the case at the barbecue. It also helps that I have this habit of answering the question "Where are you from?" with "Arizona." It seems to defuse the whole undercurrent of political sensitivity many folks have with America if I tell them the state I'm from and let their brain synthesize "American" from that information. In fact, I have been pleasantly surprised at how many folks over here know about Arizona, at least in the stereotypical sense, as a cowboy and indians, desert state.One Korean pal, in fact, tipped me off to one of the first ever rock songs to hit Korea back in the day, called "Arizona Cowboy." We scoped it out on the internet - it's a kick, all korean lyrics except for those two words in the chorus. Anyway, when Omar suggested I looked like Clintstwood, I gave my best Clint-squint, smiled and, in a gravelly Arabic, said "yep, that's me" and made twin pistol motions with my hands. And when he asked where my pistols were, I told him they were in my backpack, with my horse. Much gratifying laughter ensued while I sipped my tea nonchalantly. Well, life was made for such moments. When I'm not being accused of being a renegade cowboy, the most common suggestion is that I'm a spy. I have heard a French taxi driver boldly declaim I was with the CIA, a British archaeologist surmise I was "in intelligence work" and various other gentle and not-so-gentle suggestions that I was collecting information for some government or another. Few understand what a sociolinguist does or why one would choose to do it in the most remote places in the world, though that is exactly the kind of places sociolinguists like to do it (yes, I can imagine the bumper sticker, too). So naturally, it figures that a 35 year old foreign man traipsing around ancient villages and asking a lot of questions must be in the same line of work as 007, if not Indiana Jones. Anyway, back to Chateau Bas. Idle accusations of espionage notwitstanding, Nicolas and Patricia, both in their early thirties, were the epitome of kindness. We took a tour of the grounds, including the ruins and I took a lot of pictures. When it was over, Nicolas asked if I was ready to go and I said sure! But just as I was stepping into their car, I looked out across the valley and noticed the ruins of a castle. Asking Nicolas about it, he assured me that I had to see it. They proceeded to drive me to the other side of the valley, hike up the hill with me and then be my private guides around the hilltop. As we went, Nicolas explained to me and to Patricia all about the foliage as well as the history of the place (in a village called Vernègues). Evidently, Nicolas had lived nearby since he was a baby. We passed a group of college kids dressed in Lord of the Rings-esque gear and videotaping their antics in one of the caves on the hill. I would have liked to stayed and watch, maybe even offered to help them with their cinematography (hey, I did work in Hollywood once!), but I was already involved in one social encounter and considered myself fortunate.The air was chill. When we reached the very top, there was an observation post on a water tank. Surmounting that, we saw a map which pointed to the visible horizons: the shining water of the Mediterranean, the peak of Mt. Sainte Victoire and the Luberon range. Beautiful, even though it was a bit overcast and windy. As Nicolas and Patricia drove me back to Aix, I found out that, actually, they had no other reason to go in that direction. In fact, they were going about an hour out of their way to take me home! With many profuse thanks and collecting their phone number to contact them again, I bade them adieu and wondered why I'm so fortunate as to meet cool people like this as often as I do. Well, I suppose meeting neat friends is often a matter of being a neat friend - which seems like a sound challenge to try to live up to. And now, my mandolin is calling...
October 27, 2002. It's been over a month since I've updated this site, but I have an excuse. Two weeks working in Africa and a week in Spain demanded my attention. Two quick observations: one, there are very cool, friendly people hidden in just about every little nook and cranny of this world and, two, the older I get, the more I appreciate having someplace to come home to...
September 11, 2002. At 11:10 p.m., it's the first moment I've had free today to think about the 9/11 anniversary. Of course, I remember where I was when it happened -- in a hotel room in Chiang Mai, Thailand. It was early evening and I'd just come back from a long day of Language Assessment Conference sessions and was winding down for the day. My roommate came in the room and told me to turn on the t.v. and we were just in time to see the second plane hit. We spent the next few hours watching the coverage via CNNBC because CNN channel wasn't working on the set. Over and over and over and over again. What a night. God help us all.
September 8, 2002. It's 12:06 a.m. and I've just returned from watching a late showing of the new movie "Ararat." Well, more precisely, I just returned from an hour-long walk through the night streets and back alleys of Aix, which was necessitated by watching the movie. I won't review the film here, especially since I'm not quite sure whether I think it's a good movie, yet. But I found some of the scenes and the theme, based on the Armenian genocide of 1915 by the Turks, to be quite moving. I especially appreciated Christopher Plummer's character in the film. It hits me at a contemplative moment. I returned from Castelldefels, near Barcelona, a week ago to a bit of an anticlimax. For two weeks in Spain, I'd helped coordinate our Strategic Plan which, itself, was the culmination of a four-month-long effort. It was a fortnight packed with action and adventure! Well, to be more accurate, it was packed with meetings, planning, discussion and debate. Returning to Aix last Saturday has left me in a week-long funk for some reason. Post-partum depression? All of a piece, an interesting encounter took place on the train back from Barcelona when an Armenian family joined us in our car. The kids (six or eight of them) were well-behaved and the mother was dressed in clothes which weren't quite ethnic, but were worn with traditional style. The father was in a suit. When I struck up a conversation and asked him what language they had been speaking, the father responded "French," which was patently not the case. I pressed him, saying I thought it was a beautiful language, but it didn't sound French. At my compliment, he smiled and admitted it had been Armenian. I asked them a few questions and told them how fascinated I was with their culture. Later, after I had sat down, the mother turned to me and, smiling, offered me a cookie, which I accepted gladly, with thanks. As we dismounted the car at Montpellier to change trains, I asked the father how to say "Goodbye" in Armenian. His face lit up and he said "Beshlamma." Interestingly similar to Arabic "Bislemma" (lit. "with peace") and I suspect it is a loanword. I profusely offered them many beshlammas, much to the family's joy. As we parted, the father turned and stepped close to me and said, "But usually we would say 'Go with God' -- Ma-aanu." I repeated my leavetaking to the family with the new phrase and a wave, whereupon they all responded similarly and laughed. Interestingly, it only now occurs to me that my landlady here in Aix is Armenian. I begin to wonder how much Armenian history I have ignored. I think I'll make an effort to find out more. A quiet inspiration on the train, having nothing to do with Armenians (I think): I believe the best poem I've ever written happened somewhere among the Pyrenees. As it deals with my currently dormant, but nevertheless tortuous, love-life, which I semi-affectionately refer to as My Blue Dream, and is therefore of an extremely personal nature, I won't repeat it here. Much, I am sure, to every reader's relief - Armenian and non-Armenian alike. From diplomat to poet to diplomat once more. On the Montpellier-to-Marseille leg, I brokered a cease-fire between two gay British men and a French family which had erupted over limited luggage rack space in our crowded compartment. Evidently, the French feel it's "first-come-first-entitled-to-take-all-the-luggage-rack-space-in-sight" while the British feel that a reserved ticket should entitle you to some space for your luggage, too. It was classic Anglo-French fare. The French pretended not to speak English so as to avoid finding a resolution to the problem which would involve their having to relinquish their monopoly on rack space. The British, who spoke no French (but did, strangely, speak Catalan), at least once fired off a round of "Bloody French!" and shot lethal glares, fuming and sputtering, over the bows of their gallic nemeses. Things were really heating up and both parties were using me as their mediator, since I was the only one who could communicate between them, so I finally offered to "chercher une autre solution." The solution was to find another compartment with plenty of space and no French occupation, where the Brit couple could hie thence. Everyone saved face and I was thanked profusely by both parties who had evil things to say about the others once they were almost out of earshot. And finally, from diplomat to passive observer of police harassment in the home stretch. From Marseille to Aix, a 45 minute ride, I had the pleasure of sitting near a drunk Frenchman who looked, I swear, like he had been whomped recently, and often. A massive scar down the left side of his face and a fresh cut over one eye gave him the aspect of someone who spent a lot of time living in the bottle and wasn't a cheery occupant. Of course, when the conductor came by to ask for his ticket, he said it was in his bag but refused to look for it (translation from drunk-ese, "I don't have one.") The conductor, sensing the man's inebriated and borderline psychotic state, maintained his cool and offered repeatedly to allow him time to look. Otherwise, he said, without a ticket, the man would have to get off at the next stop. Two stops came and went with this farce being played out in the aisle next to me. The conductor must have had a certificate from the Gandhi Institute of Peace and Love or something. Long story short, amid much dignified harrumphing by the now liberated, elderly onlookers, the man was finally escorted off the train at Aix by a low-key K-9 unit with a big, muzzled rottweiler. I mean, can't we all just get along?
August 10, 2002. Nice day, today. It rained last night and it's unseasonably cool for this time of year. It was a pleasant Saturday to spend in Marseille having couscous and elben (buttermilk) and tea with friends. Yesterday I wrapped up three days of house-sitting for a couple out in Ventabren, a toney rural community in the shadow of a 13th Century village, about 10 minutes' drive west of Aix. The village is perched on the top of a hill, as they are wont to do in the countryside, and even has ruins of an old castle. The environs are superb grape country, and Ste. Hilaire, a local vintner, is one of the best crus in the Bouche du Rhone. Their '98 red is the most mature 4-year-old wine I've ever tasted - the flavor of oak is magic and it finishes like silk. Anyway, it was nice to have a few days working out in the countryside, watering the flowers, petting the cat and reading all the past year's editions of "The Economist." I took my computer and even got more work done than I expected. I ought to do that more often. Last Saturday was a pretty neat treat, too. A couple of friends and I took the ferry out to Chateau d'If, about 20 minutes ride out from the port of Marseille. Sitting on a tiny island, only about 28 hectares, If is one of the Iles du Frioul. The islands have a pretty rich history as a group, but I wanted specifically to see If (pronounced "eef."). That's where the famous fort stands, constructed in 1524 by King Francois I, to defend the port from invasion. The construction had been spurred on by the attempted siege of Marseille by troops of His Majesty, King Charles V of Spain! The seige failed but the need for the fort became quite evident. Even so, Marseille wasn't happy about it. Having been annexed to France in 1481, the port town had retained the privilege of providing for its own defence and having the King usurp this privilege and build and garrison a fort in the mouth of the harbor didn't sit too well. However, it proved a smart move. The fort was finished in 1531 and only five years later, King Charles V came in person to take Marseille. This time, though bringing a larger force to achieve the job, he ran up against the completed fort and his attack failed once more. It is interesting to think that this is the same generation leading up to the Great Siege of Malta in 1565. Almost immediately after the fort was constructed, it began to be used as a prison, though it wasn't really intended for it. The geographical position and construction made it ideal for this purpose. Seemingly inescapable, it was 16th Century France's equivalent to Alcatraz. The records indicate that the first prisoner was the knight Anselme, incarcerated in 1580, accused of plotting against the monarchy. Sir Anselme was - ahem - strangled in his cell. In addition to opponents of the crown, over 3500 Protestants were incarcerated on If during the two hundred years following the repeal of the Edict of Nantes (see my Journal entry on May 20th for more on this). Other prisoners were held here up until the mid 19th Century. The Chateau forms a square about 28 meters on a side, has three stories, and three round towers. It was finally 'decommissioned' as a fort and prison and opened to the public in 1890 and declared a historic monument on July 7, 1926. Notwithstanding all of this neat history, and the fact that Chateau d'If affords a commanding and picturesque view of the coastline and port of Marseille, the main reason I wanted to go had to do with events which never occurred, and for which the fort is most famous. Chateau d'If was the setting for much of Alexandre Dumas' 1844 novel The Count of Monte Cristo. The main character, Edmund Dantes, is unjustly acccused and incarcerated at If for 14 years, until he finally escapes and orchestrates a well-plotted revenge on those that betrayed him. The plot gave rise to the legend of the only man ever to escape from Chateau d'If -- a fiction, but a pleasant one. The novel is considered to be "the world's first best-seller" by many, since it reached so far afield so quickly after it was written. One might argue that more impressive distribution statistics were achieved by the Bible, the Koran, the Vedas, etc. etc. Nevertheless, the story is a classic, the characters compelling, the setting gripping. The castle itself is not terribly impressive from an aesthetic standpoint, save that the aesthetic of brute functionality commends it as a masterpiece. The walls are thick, simple and afford a wonderfully commanding field of fire over the approaches to the port. The island is all limestone, and is tiny, making approach to the walls and sapping virtually impossible. The upper ramparts have an impressive double-lined, offset crenelation, which prevents anyone walking the parapets from being exposed to enemy fire unless they specifically step into the narrow defensive aisles. Although it was a scorching summer day, with temperatures in the 90's, the interior of the castle was very cool and comfortable. However, I wouldn't have wanted a posting (or a sentence) there in the winter, when it must have been miserable. The small dry moat outside the fort is adequate defense, because to get there, enemies would have had to weather cannon and musket fire from the ramparts as their ships drew up to the only point on the shore accessible from the water, wend their way up three zig-zagging walks well set up as kill-zones by flanking walls, and forced their way through the main gate to get onto the island, just so they could then assault the fort. If I had to take the place, it wouldn't have been amphibiously. Either by subversion, by people working on the inside, or otherwise keeping my ships at range and pounding the rock into dust with my long guns. A forced landing would have been carnage for assaulting troops. Once up to the fort, there is the moat, with excellent flanking fire from both sides, an outer gate, a portcullis, and an inner gate. This gets you into a tiny antechamber with murder holes and another gate. If you get through this, then you are in the courtyard of the fort, which has a freeshwater well in the center. From the stone-lined courtyard, stairs lead up to a balcony which accesses the dozen or so upper rooms (all have doors which lead off of the balcony). With this design, the courtyard becomes a killing floor for anyone able to make their way that far into the fort -- every room on the second floor balcony has a narrow window with a field of fire covering the courtyard below. The whole place had me chilled as I imagined trying to lead an assault, then smiling as I imagined myself commanding the defense. Even the corbelling of the tower roofs would help deflect cannonballs. It often impressed me with the sheer simple brilliance of its design. From the second floor, a spiral staircase winds up to the roof where the parapets are accessible as well as the large room in the tallest tower. Midway up that staircase is a very secure cell where those sentenced to death were kept, awaiting execution. Once up on the roof, and then into the large room of the tall tower, more stairs lead up from there to the highest ramparts on the island, 22 meters above the ground. The view from there of Marseille is terrific. In most of the rooms, visitors have scratched their names and dates. I couldn't quite bring myself engage in this kind of tedious and pedestrian vandalism, but almost relented, with the rather romantic thought of scratching my name in the wall of a limestone cell in Chateau d'If. I contented myself with picking up a small stone which had fallen from one of the towers and was lying at the base of the wall. It will go in my collection of rocks, shells and other items from around the world. The island now is a tourist attraction, as well as serving as a good place for a lighthouse. As we were waiting for the ferry to take us back to the mainland, a young lady asked us to take a tourism poll to determine people's attitudes and understanding of the historic site they'd just visited. Among the questions was one which had me wondering just how much classical education people are getting nowadays, as well as how much attention they're paying to the things they're paying to attend. The question: Well, it's certainly true that no other prisoner of Chateau d'If is so well known, or so much admired, by so many, both for his flaws and his virtues. Dumas captured something in Dantes, something great. Literature reverberates with characters like him who, in the end, because of this kind of greatness, cannot help but be real.
July 29, 2002. This is too priceless. Not five minutes after writing that last bit, a monstrous flash of lightning and thunderclap set off neighborhood car alarms and ushered in an unseasonally abrupt downpour. The Place de la Poste is now devoid of unwashed heathen, and is instead resounding with a much more pleasant percussion than ten minutes ago. Sun Tzu wins without firing a shot.
July 29, 2002. Last night it was a brass band, at midnight. Now, I think they actually did a ripping version of "Besame Mucho" and all, but one wonders what their intended audience was at midnight Sunday night in the nearly deserted Place de la Poste. However, tonight it's a dozen scruffy "gathering of the tribes"-esque drum-and-cowbell-circle percussionist rejects from a Grateful Dead concert parking lot, doing their rendition of "Bring in da noiz, bring in da Funk" on their mish-mash assemblage of really loud bangy thingies. It sounds like the theme music to a medieval chinese battle. My roommate just shouted through the racket to me "Well, if you wanted to kill somebody, now'd be the time." An odd, if strangely understandable sentiment. And, after hearing twenty-seven versions of the same mindless, drumthumping theme, I'm beginning to feel like someone should be getting all Sun Tzu on their quasimusical hineys: "Son of Heaven! General Cao Bao has broken through the enemy infantry on the right flank! He's taking heavy losses from archery fire, but the enemy's vile drum corps is being trod to a writhing, red pulp under the flashing hooves of Your Celestial Excellency's Horse Guard!" My response? "Aix-cellent."
July 28, 2002. Way to go, Lance! Boy it must really steam the French that an American is womping everybody at the Tour de France. That makes four in a row for Armstrong, the record is five. Twice more, buddy...
July 23, 2002.
Top 12 best things about life in Aix-en-Provence:
Top 12 worst things about life in Aix-en-Provence:
July 17, 2002.
Well, Bastille Day passed relatively uneventfully here, with the exception of an assassination attempt (thankfully, botched) on Chirac during his parade down the Champs Elysées. There are some pretty wacked out people.
Aix celebrated (the holiday, not the assassination attempt) by having a Saturday night fête, complete with fireworks and a bandstand at the top of the Cours Mirabeau, the main promenade of town. I avoided most of the festivities and instead went to see "Star Wars: Attack of the Clowns" for the second time, only this time in English. I shouldn't have wasted my money, as it is not improved by being completely comprehensible. I won't go into it in depth. Long story short: I suffer from a good memory. I remember how excited I was at the first three movies (well, except for the Ewoks) so the latest two have just saddened me. Ah well, I hear Matrix II is supposed to be good.
In personal celebration of French independence, I decided I'd learn the national anthem "La Marseillaise." Funky tune - especially when accompanied by my own histrionic hand gestures and an indomitable Mireille Mathieu belting it out in the background. The lyrics are kinda gruesome, of course. If one thinks the "rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air" is a bit martial and over the top for a hymn of national unity, dig my translation of the chorus of the French anthem:
"To arms, citizens!
Ewww...I think I'll skip the fresh veggies this season...
The anthem goes on to rhapsodize about "vile despots" and the revenge that will be exacted on traitors,
"Tigers all, pitiless, Well, it's topical, anyway. Warfare is the great test of national unity. Unfortunately, as we have seen in the world, it sometimes is its raison d'être, as well.
July 2, 2002. Pleasant outing on Saturday with the Anglo-American Group of Provence. While not specifically celebrating the 4th of July (or, "commemorating the rebellion of the colonies from His Majesty, King George III," depending upon your view) it was a nice bar-be-cue and game day with about 400 in attendance. Neat moments included: winning my heat in the 100-meter dash, but being too wiped out, pulmonarily speaking, to compete in the final run-off, coaching the tug-of-war team to victory ("puullll, you slugabed miscreants!), and losing at softball (11-to-3). Well, in all fairness to myself, I did okay at softball. In our three inning game, I batted 1000 with two doubles, ran our first point home and then got two rbi's, and made four outs as the second baseman. Not too shabby. So when they handed out medals to the losing team, I took mine without irony - our team did okay even if we did lose. Also nice was the sizeable French contingency there. The day was sponsored by a number of groups, one of which being the Organization for Franco-American Amity. The petanque tourney was a big hit with the French, and the medals for that competition were handed out with great ceremony by the Deputy Mayor of Aix. Speaking of ceremony, it was a striking moment when a mixed color guard, composed of members of a nearby US Air Force base and pompiers from the local fire brigade posted the colors just prior to the awards ceremony. It never ceases to amaze me how simple moments symbolizing US nationalism can stir me, all the more so since I've been overseas for the better part of four years now. Christophe commented on the nationalistic pride of the US and how we are always waving flags and such. The French, he said, don't do that. Possibly because the US is a relatively new, insecure nation, he suggested? It led to a compelling discussion on the differences in French and American attitudes and some ways they manifest themselves - the French in cultural pride and intellectualism, the US in nationalism and independent-mindedness. By the end of the conversation, Christophe said I seemed more British than American to him. I think he meant it as a compliment. Oh well. I even got a chance to do a little medicine, when our friend Jordan, visiting from Spain for the month, pulled a calf muscle playing football. So all around, a pretty cool day (well, okay, maybe not for Jordan).
June 23, 2002. Ahh, "In the Mood." With the annual, national Fête de la Musique held this past Friday night, a Summer-long musical season has begun. Every evening witnesses another musical group in the Place de l'Hôtel de Ville just outside our window. Tonight, it is a concert band of about 40 members, currently (8:32 p.m.) playing a decent rendition of Big Band favorites. Having an apartment on the place is like having a private box, every night. A hot, stuffy, box, every sweltering... Well, gimme a break: it's 90 F (32 C) inside, at my desk, right now. Ahem...stewing-in-my-own-juices aside, Friday's World Cup defeat of the U.S. by Germany was no surprise. What was a pleasant surprise was that the U.S. went to the Final-8, further (farther?) than they'd been in 70 years. After the match, my friend Christophe invited me to another football match on Saturday. Football americain, at the Stade Carcassonne, just outside Aix. We went and it was a blast. It seems that Aix-en-Provence has the best American football club in all of France: Les Argonautes. This was, in fact, the championship game between them and Le Flash, a competing team from La Courneuve. Very much a cultural experience, just enough was different to force one to evaluate it as an outsider, although so much was the same that there were moments of surreal familiarity. Like being in an alternate universe, where every fifth thing was skewed just a little bit - just enough to keep you wondering. The national anthem was, of course, La Marseillaise, which was my first minor wake-up call. The three flags flying over the stadium were those of the European Union, France and Aix-en-Provence. The quarters were 12 minutes long, and the thoroughly biased announcements over the loudspeaker were way more "home-town advantage" than was really fair. The space between the 40- and 50-yard lines was only 6 yards each, in an effort to adapt a field which obviously was not originally intended for the sport, making the field about 8 yards short. And, the cheerleaders danced to French and English songs clearly chosen for the beat, not for content, including techno (Kraftwerk), punk (Offspring) and contemporary Christian (Mary, Mary), which had me laughing at the incongruity. But the most surreal moment was when the home team scored it's first touchdown in the second quarter and the "Indian war-dance" music came on and the whole stadium (the Argo fans, anyway) erupted in the "tomahawk chop!" I couldn't make up my mind whether to smile wryly and take part as a sensitive anthropologist, remain frozen in alternate universe confusion or just split my sides laughing. As it happened, the sensitive anthropologist in me took over and I simply joined in the fun. By the second touchdown, I was already too far gone to notice the irony and chopped gladly with the rest. It was a good cultural exchange. Christophe learned the basic rules of American football and I learned some neat French vocab, too: placage (tackle), troisième tentative (3rd down), conduite antisportive (unsportsmanlike conduct), saisie volontaire de la grille du casque: quinze yards (facemasking: fifteen yards) and fumble (fumble). It struck me how long it's been since I've seen a game in a stadium when I realized I was becoming frustrated by not having an instant replay! No czar of the telestrator, no color commentary and no Tyrannovision. You really gotta pay attention. Once I got into the swing of things, somewhere near the end of the first quarter, it went much better. As for the level of play, it seemed to be solid, somewhere between "good high school" and "community college." When Les Argos won the game (23-21) after Le Flash missed two field-goal attempts from about 25 yards out, in the last 30 seconds of the game, Madame le Maire was on hand to present them with the championship trophy. This was their 8th National Championship in their 14 years of play. All of the fans poured out onto the field to greet and congratulate the teams and it was pretty cool - can't do that in the States. But I still can't get that "tomahawk chop" thing out of my mind...
June 18, 2002. So...the US moves on to Final-8 in the World Cup. Interesting, but I'm not holding my breath. We play Germany next. Football is not the only thing that's heating up. Warming up here in Aix, and without A.C., the indoor thermometer, next to my bed, right now reads 88.7 F / 31.5 C. Considering that it's June, I'm not sanguine about how this is going to turn out over the next few months. So, with the rising mercury, this past Saturday, the gang and I headed out to the waterpark at La Ciotat sur Mer. Five hours exposure in the intense provençal sun, including exposing a little more of myself than intended on one of the water slides (which I'm still hearing about) yielded lots of fun, and also some banged-up knees and elbows. Thank God for SPF 50. The one thing it impressed on me was the cultural observation that the French are really not that different than us. Oh, sure, there are different attitudes to various things, different values, different expectations and so forth. But just a little observation suffices to indicate that there is something visceral, fundamental, about enjoying a waterslide, that appeals to all of us on a most profound level. These thrills and fun and enjoyment of water seem to reside at a level deeper than culture, tradition, politesse. And it must be confessed that a French toddler giggling on a water slide is every bit as cute as a Cameroonian or US or Thai child.
June 8, 2002. Saturday, today, and I must come to grips with the idea that, as beautiful and wonderful as it can be in the South of France, I miss home. Be it ever so humble... Nevertheless, I'm finding myself getting caught up in the World Cup hoopla in spite of my general disinterest in being a sports spectator. The fluke that was the US victory over Portugal was really agonizing. I mean, you begin to harbor all these absurd dreams like, "Hey, we beat Portugal...maybe we're gonna go to the next round... and if we can do that, why can't we make it to the Final Four. And then, what's to stop us...?" Never mind the hypocrisy that I never once before now used "we" or "us" when referring to the US football (soccer) team. In my perambulations, I have found a sad, charming sense of pity for me among my friends in Europe or Africa, who are delicately kind with their observations of the quality of US football. When I lament to them that the US doesn't have a good team, they make all kinds of excuses for us: "Well, football isn't that popular in the States," "you're not all that bad," and "there are worse teams." How precious...my friends are great. But their gentility on this topic only serves to underscore that this is one area in which they are so supremely better than us that they don't feel the need to argue the fact. One generally only needs to boast when there is uncertainty about one's claims. Fact is, friendly encouragement and wishful thinking notwithstanding, there is plenty to stop the US team from going all the way. Simple physics being the most relevant obstacle. Germany, Brazil and a dozen other, better teams are out there to stop them. Sheer statistics will stop them. Global karma will stop them. The rational mind cannot help but admit all this (okay, maybe not that last one). Still...it could happen... So I found myself irredeemably gleeful when France could only tie their most recent game with Paraguay, and when Croatia beat Italy. I dream of seeing the US beat Germany to face Brazil for the Cup, and win. Of course, I also dream about being able to levitate and fly, too, so there you have it.
June 1, 2002. Well, national depression following France's agonizing first-round defeat by Senegal wasn't enough to stop the hordes from pouring onto the beaches today. A group of us headed down to the coastal port town of Cassis, about an hour away by bus. It was a beautiful day, temp in the 80's and a cool breeze. Cassis is a little jewel, with the grand, imposing elegance of cloud-wreathed cliffs set against a bold, turquoise sky. I can see why Churchill et al. used to come here to paint and relax. The water, however, was frigid.
May 28, 2002. Charming provençal moment, today. About 8 p.m., smoke began filling up the hallway of our apartment building, resulting in one of the neighbors calling the fire department. The pompiers arrived shortly thereafter in full regalia, rebreathers and everything. Tracking the smoke down to our next-door-neighbor, they pounded on the door, shouting, and were greeted by the woman who let them in. Two minutes later, the firemen reappeared at the door looking much less concerned. Taking off his helmet, one of the fellows paused before leaving, turned to the sheepish-looking woman at the door, smiled and said "Bon appetit!"
May 20, 2002. Just returned from a wonderful 4-day stay at the private chateau Le Solier de Clarou, just above LaSalle in the Languedoc Cevennes. Work was caught up and an invitation by the owner led to an exceptional holiday. Some friends went spelunking in a nearby grotte, while I was exquisitely content poring over dusty tomes in the tower, sifting through documents in the library, stalking the parapets by night and walking the beautiful castle grounds by day with the kind and insightful owner, Etienne de Cazenove. We spent hours discussing the portraits of his ancestors, the lore of the surrounding area, the local flora, philosophy, science, politics, military history, and French literature. C'était un vrai rêve. Before I left, he signed and gave me a 1916 first-run printing of Genevoix' personal mémoire of Verdun. In odd moments, I'm translating it into English and will post sections as it is completed in my Library. Also took a side trip to nearby Anduze to visit the Musee du Desert, dedicated to remembering the persecution of the Huguenot Protestants following the 1685 revocation of the Edict of Nantes, by Louis XIV. One of the sadder episodes in human history.
May 5, 2002. Hi, c'mon in! Excuse the mess - I just moved in and haven't finished unpacking. Make yourself at home. Grab a soda, read a book, play a game, watch t.v., belly dance or write a deconstructionist ode to classical values. Pet the cat, play with the dog, plan your next coup. Jam, grok or just fall asleep on the sofa. You're always welcome. I'll just be unpacking in the next room. If you want to talk, let me know. George
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