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Journal Archive 2003, from Geo's Place (Return to home page.)
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Thursday, December 25, 2003Merry Christmas! Lots going on these past few weeks. Just got back on Tuesday from another trip, this time for seven days in England. That was a blast. I'm a Godfather, now, to a cute-as-the-dickens 10-month old boy, the son of good friends. We enjoyed the dedication service, a caroling service, neat time with their family, mince pies and mulled wine - an awesome Christmas! And why the US doesn't have mince pies, I'll never understand... I also left my coat, a nice one, on the Gatwick to Reading train. When it didn't turn up in lost and found (Merry Christmas, to whomever), I bought another one for only £40 (about US$70), which is much nicer and warmer, to boot. So it worked out okay in the end. I also scored a tiny bottle of Grand Marnier liqueur on the flight home, so I've added that to my collection (I hadn't had one of those before). Another very cool thing happened last night. I wrote in my journal on November 30th that I had once had an excruciatingly embarrassing episode trying to sing Mele Kalikimaka at a Christmas banquet some years back. Well, last night at our Christmas Eve gift exchange, someone suggested that we play a game whereby we go around the room and each person sings a carol from their native country. I'm not from Hawaii, but when it came to me, I just had to do it. My Thanksgiving success with Aretha had steeled my resolve and given me renewed hope. Plus, I was just tired of letting the old experience get the better of me. So I sang that song again, solo, in front of a dozen friends last night and it went great! Many of the foreigners and some of the US folks had never heard it before and thought it was pretty cool. I didn't botch it, and I think I've now completely exorcised the mortification of that former, embarrassing episode. In retrospect, thank God I had such a nice Christmas with friends and their family last week and leading up to yesterday, since now I've got a horrible flu (picked it up on the flight home, I think) and am unfortunately enjoying Christmas at home, alone, in bed for the most part. You know, fever, chills, lungs synthesizing glue - the whole nine yards. Fortunately, judicious use of hot lemon and honey tea, a heating pad and repeated naps seem to be controlling the shivers. I'm planning another trip on Saturday, this one to Spain, so I'm hoping I get past the worst of this bout before I go. Right now, my headache is starting to come back, though, so I'd better to go lie down again. Mele Kalikimaka, everyone! :-)
Tuesday, December 2, 2003Well, I'm on the plane again, somewhere over the Atlantic, heading back to France. We just went through a serious patch of turbulence, but I had my headphones and iBook, playing Satriani's "Surfing with the Alien" and actually was enjoying rockin' along with the plane. It was a little like my own personal party - you can be-bop in your seat without people noticing, since everyone's being cast back and forth in their seats. I was even a little sad when it stopped and the ride smoothed out, though I'm sure it was a sentiment not shared by my companions on the flight. I suppose it would be selfish to hope for just a little more turbulence - The Peter Sullivan Band's "A Taste of Honey" just cued up... Smooth flying aside, I'm actually a little miffed at Lufthansa, right now. British Airways has a much better trans-Atlantic service, in my opinion. Individual video screens in the seat-back in front of you, multiple video channels with better videos, a little more legroom (I think) and better meals. I mean, the in-flight movie on this flight was Das Wunder von Bern, dubbed into English, for goodness' sake. It's a dour film about a football (soccer) team's success in the World Cup shortly after WW2, dragged down by a side story of a German ex-POW right out of the Russian camps and capped off by scene after scene of ugly, ugly children. I kid about the children (a little). But the movie's not what I'd call top-shelf. The upper crust in Business Class get to watch Governor Arnold lay the smackdown in Terminator III, after all. Plus, British Air offers those individual bottles of hooch, whereas Lufthansa pours the booze out of large bottles. This is thoroughly no good for me! I don't drink the hooch, but I do like to get the little bottles for my growing collection (okay, I guess I do have ONE collection of something, after all). It all started because it just seemed a shame to turn down the offer of anything free, so I started to accumulate them after my flights. I have visions of a "Planes, Trains and Automobiles" moment some day - you know the scene, where John Candy and Steve Martin break out all the tiny bottles and have a party in their hotel room? But on Lufthansa, without the tiny bottles, I just have to forget it. One point in Lufthansa's favor, though, is that they offer free Milka chocolate bars - to anyone who is aware that they are stored in the back of the plane...
Hmmm
Had a great Thanksgiving here in Georgia. Gorged on turkey (yum) and got a chance to spend some much appreciated time with my family and really get a chance to unwind a bit. Did some shopping - picked up some Dockers chinos and a couple new pairs of familiar, American-style underwear. You never realize what you will miss once you go overseas.
Dad's a member of the local Elks' lodge, so we went down there to spend an easy night chatting with some of his friends. It went well - they're very cool folks - but there are some elements of the extremely conservative political persuasion that I found a little frustrating, still. I'm a registered Republican, though philosophically an Independent, and really appreciate a balanced political discourse, when it comes right down to it. The partisanship finally reached a fevered pitch when someone finally said, in exasperation, "I just HATE that Hillary Clinton! She's RUINED health care in this country!"
Now, I mean, what? I've been out of the country for the better part of five years now, so maybe I'm not as up on all this as some folks. Okay, that's not true - I keep incredibly well informed by reading a dozen or more news and policy websites every day. So I knew this comment was out of hand. It's essentially tribalism, where reason doesn't even have to be invoked for a discourse to be given credence. I don't like it - but I didn't want to be ungraceful.
"So how did she do that, then?" I asked, neutrally.
"She's just ruined the whole thing! Her plan to change medicare has led us to this latest vote, and now what their giving us is too little, too late," said the woman.
I countered: "Well, I'm not too familiar with what's going on, but I didn't think Hillary's proposals for health care reform ever made it to law. And surely the latest vote to change Medicare was a Republican effort, not a Democrat one, and was essentially voted for along party lines predominately by Republicans."
"That's right! And it's too little, too late," was her rejoinder, as she swirled away to harangue someone else about the horrible evils of the Democrat menace. Whatever.
I was to learn later that this woman was actually quite enjoyable to be around, when she wasn't talking about politics. But the night didn't get into full swing until someone had the idea of turning on the karaoke machine. What I always called "hari-karaoke" since I've always found it somewhat like having a shiv in the guts, listening to people sing off-key in front of an audience. Something about an ear for pitch, combined with a sensitivity to public humiliation. I easily get embarrassed for people who don't have the good sense to be embarrassed for themselves, sometimes. Hey, it's who I am.
However, after about a dozen songs where we were all singing along with the guy up front, he set down the mike and that's when I made history. When the opening strains of Aretha Franklin's "Respect" started out, I couldn't contain myself. (I mean, really, who can honestly be expected to be circumspect and demure with that song playing?) Since no one had gone up to pick up the microphone for the song, I stood up where I was and started belting out at the top of my lungs:
"What you want, baby I got it!
Well, I didn't hold nuthin' back, as they say, and had the unreservedly supportive hoots and hollers of the crowd, including my Dad and Stepmom Carol, egging me on. It was my first time I'd ever done karaoke, didn't even use the mike, and acquitted myself okay, I think. Ahhh...sweet success. We spent the rest of the evening singing along to Neil Diamond hits, and I think we did a funky cover of "Sweet Caroline" that I wish we had on tape (if for no other reason than to blackmail my Dad).
It was an important victory for me, since the only other time in my life I've been possessed to sing solo in front of folks was at a Christmas banquet five years ago. I was insane enough to follow a luminously beautiful rendition of "O Holy Night" by a professional singer with my own a capella version of Bing Crosby's "Meli Kalikimaka". I botched it big-time. I mean, it was an archetypal, epic catastrophe. I still get chills thinking about it.
To begin, I mistakenly started out humming the opening bars to the Crosby/Andrews Sisters hit "Don't Fence Me In" and when I'd realized my error, I'd forgotten the opening words to the song I'd actually meant to sing. I picked through the first stanza, mixed up the words, and didn't know how in the world I was going to extricate myself from what was quickly becoming a complete gut-wrenching horror in front of a banquet hall full of folks.
Time slowed to a standstill during that song. At one point, I swear, I looked out at the folks in the audience and saw one of the pastors from my church just staring fixedly at the ceiling. It occurred to me afterward that he was probably praying for the Lord to please come back soon and spare him the rest of this torment. Either that, or he was just feeling embarrassed for me, imagining I didn't have the good sense to feel embarrassed for myself. He heedn't have worried - I was embarrassed enough for me and every one of the 200 people in that room.
Anyway, I cut it off short, actually dwindling, or perhaps grinding, to a painful halt. My eyes glazed over as I willed myself to go blind so as not not see the faces of the people in the room. I stumbled numbly in abject shame back to my table and swore under my quavering breath that I would NEVER do impromptu, solo singing again. It's the absolutely most mortified I've ever been in my life. To this day, I am unable to hear a Crosby song without inwardly cringing.
But that was five years ago. This time, I think there was the briefest of moments in the Elks' lodge, just before I stood up and started singing, that thoughts flashed in my mind of Greg and how he died young without ever experiencing the adventures he'd always wanted to. I think it hit me then, in that briefest of moments, that I had to do this - I had to sing out even if it were a mess. Maybe some of the talks I had recently with my sister helped out, too. Carpe diem, et cetera.
And, to my surprise it turned out pretty well, with high-fives all around when it was over. So thank you, Greg (and Aretha, and Karen). Thank you for helping me take that risk again, overcome my shame and redeem myself.
Just don't expect me to ever sing another Crosby tune, though...
I also went to church with my Dad & Carol. You know the word bling-bling has finally come fully into the mainstream when you hear it spoken from the pulpit at the Presbyterian church. I don't know which was more unsettling, the co-opting of gangsta rap vernacular for a conservative, deep-South Advent Day sermon or the fact that the senior pastor was younger than me! Nice service, but I think Dad was a little freaked by some of it - just not what he grew up with.
I'm in the States now. The trip here lasted forever. It took me 21 hours from door to door and involved getting shouted at by German security in Frankfurt.
In fact, I was in a mob of folks who were in the process of missing their flights because the airport had decided to set up another security checkpoint in the corridor near the gates. Folks were agitated, to say the least and were expressing their impatience by shoving forward toward the x-ray machines and venting loudly their consternation. After being repeatedly told by the baggage inspectors to "get behind ze yellow line" and not being able to because of the maddening throng, a visibly perturbed security guard came to stand in front of me and shouted in my face, in German, to "Get behind the yellow line, NOW!"
I seem to be lapsing more than I used to with people and I'm not sure what the cause is. This time, it was hot, I was crowded, still being pushed forward, and my flight was taking off in 5 minutes. They'd repeatedly allowed business class folks to break in link in front of us, and everyone was upset, including me.
Speaking of which, what is THAT all about, anyway? The inspection and security checkpoint is a GOVERNMENT-OPERATED function! Why should the amount one has paid for one's ticket to the COMMERCIAL airline allow you preferential treatment at the government security checkpoint? It's absurd, and thoroughly classist disregard for people. But I digress...
So when the security guard shouted in my face, I forewent aplomb. But I'm not too practiced at doing so, and as such, I forgot which language I was supposed to be using. Plus, I'm not really skillful enough in German to rattle off an appropriately vehement rejoinder. So when I shouted frantically back at him, it was in English, but with a thick German accent: "I'm tryink to do chust det!" I shouted, "but dey are pooshink me for-vert und I kent help it!"
I think the guard was more bemused at my freakish attempt to communicate with him, or perhaps he just took pity on me, because he sidestepped me and started harassing the folks behind me who were causing the problem. I was quite relieved. It generally doesn't pay to shout at German airport security.
At last, I arrived and met a French buddy at the airport when we got our bags. We'd both missed dinner so I had the honor of introducing him to the fine American cuisine of Chik-fil-A! I grew up on this ambrosiest of ambrosias, and our family even used to go to the original Chik-fil-A Dwarf House in Hapeville, Georgia, not too far from where we lived when I was a kid. It's still my favorite fast food. My French pal was appropriately impressed, of course.
Just bought a car here - a 1993 Renault 19, 4-door hatchback sedan. Nice car and all the paperwork, registration and insurance went well, too. It's having a problem, though, and I think there's water in the gas, cuz it has a hard time in getting going in the morning. Me too, for that matter.
I've decided to say the heck with perma-linking. Its a pain in the backside to have to code the links and update the archive every time I make an entry and, really, how many people are linking to this, anyway? Sorry Cleanthes!
I'm back in France now. It was a superb trip all around. The conference went well - I got to see old friends and practice my German all over the place. My pal Ed, a virtuoso pianist, taught me "The Busy Bee" on the piano in two days during our breaks! I'm now eager to wow the unsuspecting with my l337 5killZ on the piano!
Afterward, it was an excellent time relaxing in Germany with my sister and her husband. I was able to really connect with my sister in a few talks we had, which turned out to be my favorite part of the whole trip. I really miss being able to just hang out with them - they're both great. (Are you reading this?) I also scored some cool clothes including a pair of functional German shoes which are light as a feather, but are going to take some time to break in.
We all went to the army base where they work and recorded a short greeting to our family back in the States. Evidently, it'll be aired on t.v. sometime in the holidays, which will be neat.
Scott and I also had a fun time on a day trip to Czech Republic with his pal Bob. At long last, my dream of having a Pilsner-Urquell in Plzn, Czech has been realized! We had to dodge the attentions of a pair of Czech streetwalkers, one of whom overcame the communication barrier by grabbing Bob in a - ahem - delicate place to make her intentions clear, but other than this somewhat surreal scene, it went smoothly.
After our lunch and a beer in Plzn, we headed up to Karlovy Vary, a picturesque town in the mountains where they sell beautiful crystal. The chandeliers alone were awesome - and cost about 1/4 what they would run in the States. I bought a bohemian crystal cream pitcher (about all I could afford) as a gift for some friends back in the States. Evidently, it's a big tourist destination for the Russian mafia, too, if you're into that kind of thing.
We also had a nice morning in an ammunition shop in Weiden. Scott's a big collector of shells (tank, artillery, etc.) and a another friend of his and I went with him to peruse the hoard and pick up their latest acquisitions. A neat morning, and I thought we might have collected a few odd stares walking down the German street afterward and packing what appeared to be live munitions into our trunk!
It's frightening how many things in this world are collectible. I've said it before: if I got into the whole collectible book scene, I think I'd go hungry to satisfy my addiction, so it's just as well I gave that up a while back.
Near the end of my trip, I got a surprise and an honor - a call from a British friend, who asked me to be the godfather for his son! Of course, I said yes, and immediately began picking out my pinstripe suit and fedora...
Well, I'm in Weiden, Germany with my sister Karen and brother-in-law Scott!
After a linguistics conference up near Frankfurt (at which I met a Hungarian actually named Attila, which I thought pretty cool), I headed down here about a week ago for a ten-day vacation. It's going great, getting a chance to catch up on things and relax, too. I needed the down time. Right now, we're waiting for a friend to come over and we're going to Plzn, Czech to have a Pilsner-Urquell in the birthplace of pilsner beer.
A humorous anecdote just came to mind as I'm sitting here. At the linguistics conference, I was coming down with a cold. After the evening session, a few of us were still in the meeting room working on our computers and I coughed and cleared my throat, tapping my chest symbolically. At this moment, one of the other conference attendees, a Dutch man, walked by and asked:
"Are you constipated?"
Taken aback by being asked such a question by a virtual stranger, I stalled for time.
"Ummm..."
"Your chest..." he said, tapping his own. "...are you constipated?"
I momently realized what he meant. "Congested?" I asked, helpfully.
"Ah yes, congested...are you congested?"
"A little bit," I said, stifling laughter. I've made too many of these kinds of mistakes to want to rub someone's nose in it when they make one.
He nodded understanding. After a short pause, though, he looked at me quizzically and asked, "What does this word mean...constipated?"
Knowing he was Dutch, I didn't try to be too delicate. A simple clinical explanation would suffice.
"It's when you can't move your bowels."
"Aahhh," he said, the light dawning. And then a big smile lit up his face and we both laughed.
Finally, yesterday, I went back to the computer shop for my reimbursement, a full month after I'd started the process. I reminded them why I'd come back and the manager, thankfully with all speed and cheeriness, handed me a check for the reimbursement amount and asked me to sign a receipt.
Now, I didn't want to be a jerk, and frankly wanted to get out of there and cut them out of the loop on this thing. So I ignored the little voice (another mistake) in the back of my mind that said that I should be getting cash, and not a check. I signed the receipt, took the check and was out of there within 5 minutes.
I noted that the bank's name is "Societe´ Generale" and that there is a branch just up the street on Cours Mirabeau. So, I walked the few minutes it took to get there. I went inside, stood in line for the next teller, and when she was available, I handed her the check and told her I'd like to cash it. Heh, I was almost smug about it.
"What is your account number?" she asked. By now, the little voice was screaming at me, as I realized I'm not out of the woods, yet.
"I don't have an account here," I confirmed, not fully willing to grasp fully what the implications of her question might be.
"Without an account, I can't cash your check." I paused, not sure of what I'd heard. When it registered, I was still not able to fully process the information.
"But..." I stammered in French, my incredulity overwhelming the language centers of my brain. "But it's a check drawn from your bank..." I pleaded, with appropriate hand gestures, hoping by force of will to apply what was a commonly accepted business practice in the States to the French bureaucracy.
"Yes," she said, "but I can't cash it unless you have an account with us."
She shrugged as she said it, with no emotion evident in her delivery.
"But...," I tried again, "I don't have a bank account in France at all..." I was completely flummoxed. The teller was silent. "Then, how is it ever possible for a foreigner to cash a French check?" I asked. The concept is staggering...it means a bank check is totally useless to outsiders, and that a French bank will not honor even their own bank note unless you are one of their customers. Absolutely incredible.
"I'm sorry sir, but I can't do it if you don't have an account" she said with finality. I cast about, stunned, for a sympathetic soul. A supervisor was standing behind her and caught my gaze. He nodded, confirming what the woman had said.
It then fully hits me that I now have a check for 45 euros which I can't cash. My mouth agape, my shoulders slumped, I turned slowly and walked out of the bank in a daze.
Later, after some further uncharitable, clenched-teeth muttering in the street, this time directed at the French banking system, I realized that all is not lost. I'm reasonably sure I can sign the check over to a friend and have them cash it for me. At least, I should be able to, unless, of course, France has something against that, too.
Yesterday was a study in vocalized frustration. I was running errands in the heat of the day (my first mistake), during which I had a rip-snorter of an argument with a French salesman. First time I've ever done that with quite so much elan. I confess to being a little embarrassed, in a kind of a half-hearted way. I overreacted, and shouldn't have, but I think it was culturally appropriate, after all.
The whole idea of customer service and customer support is somewhat different here in France. I've never encountered the stereotypical surly retailer, but I have come across those who are quite detached from the whole "customer is always right" motif. And some who, while meaning well, suffer from working in an establishment which has developed in a culture which doesn't place a value on assuaging buyer's remorse, or any of the other things one tacitly expects in commerce in the States.
The worst situation a customer faces in a retail purchase situation, aside from verbal or physical abuse from the shopkeeper, is the return for reimbursement. All of my life, I have engaged in this particular event with a mixture of vulnerability and dread. Sure, I try to spice it up with a little disaffectedness, or even righteous indignation. But it's no use. Unspoken questions of "whose fault is it that I bought the wrong size" and "why didn't the salesperson tell me it only works on Hungarian electricity" arise, lending a whole recriminatory subtext to the experience.
Plus, I know the store has me over a barrel (the transaction is already completed and they have my money -- what are you doing back here?) and we both know it. One is totally at the mercy of the store to either make it a painless, reasonable process or require the customer to jump through the twinned flaming hoops of frustration and outrage, in order to get his money back. I hate that.
Civilized merchants -- at least those in the States -- realize all this is going on, percolating just under the surface of the social dynamic of a simple reimbursement transaction -- and go out of their way to make it a cheery, professional and rapid process so that discomfort for all parties is minimized and a loyal, future customer is cultivated. Fiends, on the other hand, do not. Today was a classic example of the latter.
Four weeks ago, I bought a webcam from this little computer store here in Aix, which does a surprisingly brisk business, in spite of its size. I suspect this is due to lack of competition, but I'm getting ahead of myself. I bought this webcam for my Mac. Now, I won't go into all the reasons why I switched back to a Mac, nor the implicit "well, what do you expect?" The Mac, you see, has excellent customer support except for supporting USB webcams. It seems that Apple has decided to focus on the iSight and allow third parties to provide support for other models (and, in doing so, charge extra for the drivers). Fair enough. However, neither the salesperson nor I knew this when I bought the thing.
So when I made my purchase, I stepped out of the door and, just on a gut instinct, took out the box again and looked all over the packaging, but didn't find a specific "Supports Mac" comment on it. I went back in the store and brought this to the salesman's attention. The fellow, in his late 20's, said in French, "Oh yes, but if it's USB, it will support Mac automatically."
This rang true, since this is generally the case with Macs. I have had great success at just hot-plugging something in and having it just work. So I ignored my hunch (mistake) and took the webcam home to find that it didn't "just work." Whereupon I launched into Google and found out all I've just mentioned about third party support for USB webcams.
So, two days later, I took the webcam back to the store, which DOES have an exchange policy allowing me to get a reimbursement, and told the same salesman all of this. Now, normally, there's about a five-to-ten second moment in this kind of social scene where the salesperson is trying to decide what should be done and you are waiting on tenterhooks for a good decision to be handed down, a little like standing before a judge. You really don't want to show vulnerability at a time like this, but you also want to be as sycophantic as necessary to get your money back. It's a fine line. And a frown on the salesman's face, presaging either confusion or anger, is not really what you want to see. I'll call it the frown of "set up the flaming hoops".
Alas, the frown.
For the next 30 minutes, I described to him again the situation, talked to his colleague at the cash register, talked to their manager, and finally, having been polite the whole while, got them to set about doing something about it. I was finally handed a piece of paper with my purchase invoice and "Remboursement" written in pen across the top. The salesman stood there looking expectantly at me.
I looked down at the paper, confused, then back at the salesman. "What is this?" I asked.
"That's your receipt for your reimbursement."
"But, I haven't gotten my reimbursement, yet."
He rolled his eyes. "You have to come back next week to get your money. We'll call you."
Now, I have done too much business in this world to blindly believe a French businessman or bureaucrat when he says "it will be ready in X days." What they really mean, I've come to learn, is that "we don't know how long it will take, but don't bother us until it happens."
I was incredulous and wanted to confirm that I'd understood him. "You can't give me a reimbursement right now? I have to wait a week to get it?"
"Oui. Next week."
I thought for a moment and then accepted it. You have to pick your battles, and while it was bad business to force a customer to wait a week for a reimbursement, I swallowed my frustration, said thank you and walked out.
Flash forward two and a half weeks later, after my trip to England. I wasn't home to receive their call, I thought, but surely, the reimbursement would be there and plus, I could use the cash. I went back to the store and the same fellow was there -- excellent! That always helps, I thought, naively. I showed him the reimbursement form and asked if I could pick up the cash.
What the...? He's giving me that frown again! That's not supposed to happen!
"Is this for a reimbursement or an exchange?"
Ahem. "Reimbursement," I said, gently, and indicated where it said so, written in ball-point pen on the top of the invoice.
He frowned again. "Who wrote that?"
Now, at this point, it hits me that I've been in this store now four times for this dratted webcam and already gone around and around with this guy about this. Now he's implying that the whole concept of the reimbursement may be flawed and I may be back at square one all over again. It doesn't help that it's hot as a furnace in the un-air-conditioned store (France is going through its hottest summer on record).
A trickle of sweat rolls down my right ribcage and I actually grunt in frustration.
"I don't know who wrote that. I assumed you or one of your colleagues did. It was like that when you gave it to me."
He grimaced and said "Wait," and turned to go into the loft where his manager was working. Looking back on it now, I realize that, at this point in the drama, I'm beginning to think of them and their store and, indeed, all of France, in quite an uncharitable way. I had mixed emotions of "what a bunch of incompetent, French..." and "are they seriously going to accuse me of doctoring the invoice in order to get a reimbursement" and "how does one handle small claims court in France when one is a foreigner" and "sweet MAGNOLIA, it's HOT!"
Perspiration from my eyebrows had begun to cloud on my glasses, which I removed to wipe off. In doing so, I only succeeded in smearing sweat all over the lenses, so when I put them back on, it was like looking through a dirty milk glass. And when the salesperson came back, handed me back the paper, and say "Next week" in a flat tone, my attitude promptly took a left turn and headed straight for the hamlet of Righteous Indignation, population: me.
Happily, in doing so, I became quintessentially French.
The supervisor peered his head over the balcony and agreed, perfunctorily, that I'd have to come back in a week. I was ready for him.
"You have got to be kidding!!!" I shouted back, waving my arms like a lunatic to punctuate my speech, which only slightly unnerved the four other customers in the store. Evidently, the French are used to this kind of thing. I guess they would have to be.
"Incredible!!! This is the fourth time I've been here for this thing! It's not possible! You told me ONE week, it's been TWO and a HALF and now you tell me ONE more week again!?"
And on and on, all with more arm waving. In fact, I think I may have pulled a muscle in my shoulder. French exhortation can be quite an aerobic activity.
The manager, realizing I was just heading through that second flaming hoop, came down the stairs quietly to stand at the counter, I guess to get me to lower my voice. It didn't work. "This is crazy!" I continued. "When your customers buy things from you, do they tell you to wait a week for the money!? Or three!? So what makes you think it's okay to do this to us!? It's these kinds of incivilities that are ruining society!" Okay, I was becoming hyperbolic, but it's almost expected. Plus, on some level, I realized it was really cool that my French had progressed so much.
After a couple more minutes of this, though, I ran out of steam. The store was too hot, the manager was taking it in stride (as I would have done, were I him) and the other customers were signaling (by turning their gaze away from us) that, while my rant was justified, I'd had my fair run of it and it was time for everyone to move on.
"It's not good," I said, rather anticlimactically. I folded up the invoice, which I'd been waving around like a flag rallying the troops, and put it in my shirt pocket.
"When do I get the reimbursement?" I asked, raising my eyebrows in doubt and leaving me to peer uselessly through the greasiest part of the eyeglass lenses. I tried to adjust my head so I was actually able to see the manager, and failing, finally removed my glasses entirely. I knew I was showing weakness and it gave me a sense that I was being thoroughly laughable, now. A momentary entertainment in their otherwise hot business day.
And then I pitied them. I pitied them the heat they had to work in and the business climate which made these kinds of asinine problems occur probably with more frequency than they, themselves, would wish.
And with that final realization, the wind went completely from my sails and the manager knew it.
"Next week," he said, with a nod. "We'll call you."
Having just returned to my new pad in Aix (it's great - I can actually stand up without hitting my head now), I was struck again by the fact that I'm single. Well, hey, it's not something I normally give much thought. So when I do realize I'm thinking about it, it's something of an event.
The catalyst this time was coming back from England to an apartment without any sign of other human habitation. Exactly as I left it ten days ago, right down to the coffee cup I'd left in the sink. And absolutely still. For a moment or two, it reminded me a lot of being alone at my house in Chandler, right after Greg's death, and cleaning up his things. Washing his coffee cup, dusting out his room and office, airing out the house. A cloying incense of grief, aloneness and mortality hung in the place, so much that, after failing to sleep for three solid nights in the house, I finally had to ask another friend to let me crash at their place.
So, when I returned to Aix and set about dusting and airing out the place, doing my laundry, making a grocery list, the realities of my choice to remain single occurred to me more than once. You know, I long ago accepted that my lifestyle is a tradeoff. I'm afforded a dramatic degree of freedom compared to my married friends. Many of whom would love to be able to travel and shift their schedules with the short notice I enjoy. And, coming home to an empty apartment has its advantages, when there's no one to interfere with total relaxation and quiet. No wife or kids to have to interact with...
In fact, while I dearly enjoy kids, it's nice to be able to go home after a while, leaving them with their parents who have to deal with the baths, the nappies (diapers), the screaming, the argumentative feeding times, etc. I've heard Intelligent Design theorists (or, as I prefer to call them, Incompetent Scientists) suggest as one argument in their favor that the systemic organization of human biology violates the 2nd Law of Thermodynamics which purportedly says that entropy does not decrease. They argue that humans represent a great example of ordering in the universe and therefore decrease entropy.
In fact, aside from being a gross misunderstanding of the 2nd Law of Thermodynamics (which speaks of overall entropy of a system and says nothing about isolated incidences or agents of order), this comment can only be otherwise made honestly by someone who is thoroughly unacquainted with the utter chaos which surrounds children. I mean, you want to talk about entropy increasing? Give a child access to a toy box and watch. The individual toys (and their components) will, like gas molecules, expand rapidly to fill the available volume of a room. Trust me, children are excellent examples of how humans are natural agents of entropy. And don't even get me started on their impact on a clean carpet. Children can be cute, lovable, hilarious and quite entertaining. I dearly love my friends' kids. But there is something to be said for the occasional, quiet evening not punctuated by their particular, if often charming, antics. To which, I believe, my friends would probably attest.
Nevertheless, I'm coming to realize that it will be at such times of returning that the bittersweetness of my life will be particularly noticeable. A grand adventure, yes. But also, no one to enfold me in welcoming, loving arms. No kids to hop into my lap and hug my neck. Perhaps I'm more sensitized to my unfamilied state recently, with Greg's passing so young, and suddenly. But it's amazing how something so simple as washing out a coffee cup can tear you up inside.
Just listening to NPR news, which had a story about Mabel Cabot's new book, Vanished Kingdoms. The book documents the four-year expedition by her parents, Frederick and Janet Wulsin, to Tibet, Mongolia and China in the early 1920's. As an occasional explorer myself, as part of my job documenting sociolinguistic and anthropological aspects of minority people groups, I find the whole "explorer" theme to be compelling. So my ears perked up a bit at the story.
However, what really caught my attention was a brief mention in the Cabot interview of how the Wulsins first became interested in exploration. Evidently, they had heard one Roy Chapman Andrews give a talk about his exploration experiences on behalf of The American Museum of Natural History. Coming out of the talk, Frederick Wulsin is reported to have emphatically told his wife, "That's it, I'm becoming an explorer." This was the beginning of the Wulsins' illustrious exploration, in which they rode camels and mules, yak-rafted down the Yangtze and met a number of interesting personalities, including a "living Buddha" in Kumdum. At which, Mrs Wulsin wrote in her diary:
Furthermore, the NPR segment noted (and the Chapman website also states) this Roy Chapman Andrews was said to be the inspiration/prototype for the character of Indiana Jones (a personal, if fictional, icon of mine, though I blush to confess it).
Chapman's expeditions were informative not only for the geography and ethnography they turned up, but because they also discovered the first evidence of a nest of dinosaur eggs, among other fossils. He wrote numerous books and one quote gives some insight into his personality as well as the nature of his explorations:
Personally, I cannot compete, having jousted only with obstreperous camels and donkeys, rats and bats, extreme heat, grass fires, mud bogs, a knife-wielding village lunatic, bad water, malarial mosquitoes, dysentery and the occasional snarl with low-level bureaucrats. Oh, once, riding in a 4WD, we ran over a python. I wanted to turn around and get it (pounds and pounds of fresh meat!), but the driver was too squeamish and kept going. What a waste!
Wow, this new asthma medication really works. It's called Seretide (the "overseas" version of Advair) and comes in a discus as an inhaled powder. I've only been taking it for a month, but my congestion and coughing has diminished dramatically and my shortness of breath has been greatly reduced. I've even joined a gym here in Aix to try to take advantage of the improvement in lung capacity.
Actually, this is timely, since I started noticing, about a year ago, a slight jelly-roll over my belt when I'd sit down. Ho, there! Having been slender all my life, that was a rude shock! Anyway, I've been to the gym twice so far, doing some stationary bike and weight training, and hope to keep it up despite my travel schedule. It feels good to be able to engage in aerobic activity again without having to stop and catch my breath every two minutes!
...
The Anglo-American Group of Provence (AAGP) celebrated our annual 4th of July Weekend back a couple of weeks ago (see last year). Nice outing, especially for families. I didn't enjoy it quite as much this time out, since I didn't get to participate in the tug-o-war or the sprint. However, did get to play shortstop in the softball game and did okay. Two out of two hits (a single and a double)! Well, okay, the single was a base on error, when the first baseman bobbled the ball as I was crossing the base. However, I did knock three runs in, crossed home plate twice myself and we won 9 to 3. Not that I was keeping track or anything.
...
I've been thinking recently about politics back home. This is unusual because I've generally ignored it while overseas, except to maintain a basic overview of what's been going on. Just way too much to do to keep up on what's in the States. But lately I've been spending a lot of time delving, the way I used to when I was back home.
I'm beginning to wonder, as a centrist "libertarian" (that is, a generally moderate Republican, with a strong sense of personal liberty -- not to be confused with the libertarians of the extreme right), just which of the two major political parties in the US -- Republican or Democrat -- fits more in line with my values on the question of Homeland Security. Conventional wisdom would have said that's an easy choice, but now I'm not so sure. I mean, you may have a choice of a Democrat who is putatively in favor of larger taxes and government programs but may favor more civil liberty, or a Republican who is in favor of smaller taxes, but borrows record amounts and is in favor of increasing homeland security programs to the point that individual civil liberties are potentially compromised.
If I had to choose, I'm tempted to say I'd rather forfeit my 10% more of my money than 10% of my personal liberty. This isn't the exact dichotomy one faces, but it seems to be at risk of heading that way if we allow our fears to guide us. I've identified with the Republicans all my life - I'm just not comfortable with the current trend of borrow-and-spend deficit-driving and increased government invasion of personal liberties which seems, watching from overseas, to be the way things are heading.
Well, quite a bit going on, recently. In the past few months, I've made two flights back to the States, with trips to Chicago, Phoenix (x3), Atlanta, Orlando, Charlotte, D.C., and Dallas (x3). Two weeks in Spain and a week in London. Whew.
Also the death of a close friend, Greg, of a massive heart attack in bed on Easter morning. He was 40. I believe Greg was also the only one who regularly read this site (it was, according to my logs, one of the last things he did before he went to bed in the wee a.m. on Easter day).
After the memorial service, we scattered Greg's ashes in the Arizona desert, where we often went camping or hiking. It was a very grim and draining time. But, in what may have been a last gesture of defiant snarkiness, I suspect that Greg was responsible for the shift in wind at that moment which had me literally choking on his dust.
So, taken together, a lot of my motivation and time for regularly updating the site is gone.
Also, just switched from my Toshiba laptop to a Mac iBook, with which I'm extremely pleased, but only today have I installed and configured the ftp software to update the site.
I'm pitching the links to Brunching and BoingBoing. Brunching is now defunct (sniff) and BoingBoing has gotten so it seems that every third post was about Cory's new book or the latest RIAA shenanigans or some other self-pitying or self-aggrandizing thing. Plus, you have to be discriminating with your time, and Metafilter is quite enough, thank you.
Which got me to thinking. And what I thought was, how expensive an $80 billion war is! And our tax money is going to go to pay that bill. But I wonder... Just how much will we be saving, in total, because of a 6-cent-pre-gallon drop in gas prices?
I love this kind of inquiry. Quick as a wink, I googled out the average annual consumption of motor gasoline in the USA. In 2001, it was 361.6 million gallons per day. Assuming a conservative zero-growth in consumption of gasoline, a 6-cent-per-gallon reduction in gas prices saves the U.S. populace $21.7 million per day. Or, $8 billion per year -- one-tenth of the cost of the war.
So, because the average cost of gasoline has increased about $0.30 per gallon over the past year because of war fears, the war has already cost U.S. citizens about $40 billion, just in gas costs, before the $80 billion is even considered.
But, if winning the Iraq war were to cause a net $0.60 per gallon reduction in gas prices, the market savings to the US taxpayers would pay for the taxation cost of the war within one year!
Of course, the price has to come down quite a bit, in fact, down to about $1.00 a gallon, for there to be this kind of savings. This is because it was driven up quite a bit already because of market fears base on the looming war. And, too, the reality of all this is that when the average U.S. taxpayer pays more for gasoline, the money really is still staying in the economy, since it's U.S. investors in commodities markets and refinery shareholders who are actually making the extra money.
Still, I thought it was interesting that the volume of gasoline consumed in the U.S. was so large that even a small shift in the price could dramatically impact the overall cost or benefit to one demographic of the U.S. populace, compared to another demographic.
And don't even get me started about the cumulative loss in personnel-hour productivity from hundreds of thousands of protestors milling in the streets.
This kills me. I live downtown in the centre ville, at the southwest corner of the beautiful Place de l'Hôtel de Ville. You can't get closer to the middle of this lovely town. And in this wonderful, medieval town, sidewalks really are almost non-existent. With a gutter that runs down the middle of a narrow street, packed with people and cars and vendors' wares, doggie bombs become Everyman's landmines.
The French find it incredible that there would be some kind of control over canine excretions. And because there are no grassy lawns or parks in centre ville, dog owners pretty much give their puppies carte blanche to have a big bowel movement right where thousands of people will be walking every day. The result is a series of brown footprints everywhere, and I'm sure a significant number of tourists have ruined their Pradas when they found, to their chagrin, that there are different attitudes to "poop patrol" here than at home.
I recall a story told to me by a fellow from the States, who had been here only a few months:
One quick observation, though. I find it an incredible statement on the immediate-gratification culture and short attention span of some people that they consider the war in Iraq to be taking too long, at so preliminary a stage in hostilities. I mean, this isn't a Nintendo game, people. A few weeks is not too long to expect it to take to invade a country and topple a regime. Especially when extreme care (perhaps greater care than in any other war in history) is being taken to minimize civilian suffering.
And as for casualties, I mourn the loss of each and every troop and civilian so far claimed in the conflict. However, Perry de Havilland (on Samizdata.net) makes an excellent point when he notes that:
A little perspective forces one to thank God for the relatively light casualties and the swiftness with which military success is being bred in this conflagration in Iraq, whatever one's position on its relative merits.
Scott's got his own collection started, too. Though not as developed as the other fellow's, Scott makes up for it in other memorabilia, especially WWII uniforms and equipment. His nicest items, in my opinion, are a Panzer commander's wrap and a Spetsnaz beret. I got a picture in each.
For Christmas, among other things, we even went out to a surplus store and he bought me a Bundeswehr BDU jacket. It'll come in handy during those bivouacs in the Arizona desert.
Now, while I can't actually bring myself to get involved in becoming an afficionado of collectibles, these things do offer a temptation. Historic memorabilia, especially from emotionally intense periods, and good books could be the end of me if I ever gave in fully to the urge.
Because I told myself I would, at some point, post on the obnoxiousness of Guardian authors and their seedy ilk and get it out of my system, one of my New Year's Resolutions has been to do it immediately. Today. Right now. You know, get it over with. Get that punditry-monkey off of my back and go on to living life without seething about the hyperliberal sewage being served up by liberal British rags.
George Monbiot's as good a target as any and he'll certainly serve as a vessel for my vitriol while I achieve my catharsis at the expense of his bleaching hide.
In Monbiot's latest, extreme-liberal, moonranting Guardian nonsense (to which I refuse to link, on general principles), in which he, so typically, decries all things capitalist and consumerist, he tries to make the argument that capitalism itself is based upon an invalid premise. One support he offers for this is what he seems to feel is the rather dodgy practice of investing at compound interest.
His brilliant evidence? The following wildly lunatic extrapolation, showing how untenable this whole dang capitalism thing truly is:
I mean, of all things to pick on to make your marxist "point"...compound interest? Compound interest is really nothing more than simple interest with the returns being reinvested. So you make a return on the resulting increase of principle. Nothing nefarious. Nothing mystical. Nothing devised by the Bavarian Illuminati to undermine the world economy.
As I mentioned on Samizdata.net, let's play along:
One penny, invested at 5% compound interest for 2000 years yields 2.39e+42 pennies or 2.4e+40 dollars.
(Not counting deductions from bank fees, taxes and utter, bizarre absurdity).
Anyway, dividing by $344 (the approximate current price of gold) = 6.95e+37 ounces of gold. Divided by 12 = approximately 6.0e+36 pounds of gold. Divide by 2.2 = 2.7e+36 kg of gold.
Using the recently revised estimate for the weight of the earth as approximately 6.0e+21kg. Dividing the weight of the gold by the weight of the world, the mass of gold is 2.2e+15 times the mass of the earth. Or, in long notation, 2,200,000,000,000,000 -- just over two quatrillion --times as massive.
An interesting point.
And now, extrapolating that point to absurdity as Monbiot so capably does, we should incarcerate everyone who invests money at compound interest, since these lousy capitalists are clearly jeopardizing the safety of the human race. How?
Well, the mass of the sun is about 2e+30 kg. Which, dividing the mass of gold by the mass of the sun, we see that the mass of gold returned from our initial investment has approximately 1e+6 (or one million) solar masses.
And since our most recent theories suggest that it only requires two solar masses for a [non fusional] body to contract to a black hole, our initial investment would eventually cause us all to be destroyed in the massive radiation pouring off of the birth of a new singularity, and then our whole solar system would be swallowed up by this celestial menace.
Lousy capitalists.
So, it turns out the Emperor doesn't need a Death Star to destroy planets. Monbiot has discovered a much more insidious and deadly weapons technology: sound investment strategy!
"Now witness the firepower of this FULLY OPERATIONAL fiscal policy."
*evil capitalist sneer and fist-clenching optional*
(Disclaimer: math errors are due to sun spots and not the fault of the author.)
(p.s. Of course, the monstrous supernova would destroy us all before the singularity would. But I claim my point is still valid.)
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