The French Connection

Last weekend, my friend Mieko (another assistant from Berkeley, CA) and I spent a day in Marseille. According to my guidebooks (and I have no reason to doubt them), Marseille is the oldest city in France, built in 600 BC by the ancient Greeks, who were then conquered by Romans, who were then conquered by the Franks (who had recently joined up with the Christians, a rather faddish thing to do at the time, which I think presages many French tendancies), and scattered through all these more historic conquerings were more minor ones, what with the constant influx of immigrants from all along the Mediterranean bringing with them disease and avarice, like one does. Marseille is more popularly known today for its bawdiness and mystery (which is a very nice way of saying gangs, drugs, and violent crime). Lots of crime novels, or "policiers" as they are known in France, are set here, as well as the famous film "The French Connection." In France, Marseille is considered the second most important city in the country after Paris, which to me goes to show exactly how arogant the parisiens actually are.

I didn't like Marseille at first, but I have to admit, its beginning to grow on me. The first time I saw the city, all that caught my eye was the apparent destitution of the people, the filthiness of the buildings and streets, and the way the roads having been destroyed in the process of reconstruction (I hope!) looked above all else like the gaping mouth of hell out of which the city seemed to be slowly oozing out! Of course, all that stuff was still there last weekend, but this time, and again, with my trusty guidebooks in hand, I got to see some of the really great parts of the city. For example, our first stop was L'abbaye St. Victor, a 5th century church which, like St. Peter, was built on the ruins of a pagan cemetery and currently houses the sarcophogi of several early Christian martyrs (though, none so famous as St. Peter). The church was especially remarkable since even though it housed all of these amazing early Christian and pagan artifacts, the place was not touristy at all. In fact, on a Saturday afternoon, we were the only ones there! The catacombes below the church where the most important artifacts were to be found, were very spacious (which meant I didn't get claustrophobic like at St. Peter's), and without the crowds we were able to wander around quite comfortably. The church also had a beautiful organ which was played while we weret there, adding a very authentic (and a bit creepy) ambience to the whole experience. Also, because the church is, like most ancient european churches, still in use, it was easy to feel as though one were being taken back in time, becoming swept up in the life and spirit of a living church community.

[Side note: right at this very moment, as I am typing these words, my next-door neighbor and his crew are apparently drunk and singing "Proud Mary" in slurred english at the top of their lungs and pounding on the floor. I just thought you'd all like to know that. Sailors.]

Anyway... L'abbaye St. Victor is located right next to the oldest bakery in Marseille, Le Fours aux Navettes, where they make, among other things, of course, the signature Marseille treat, the navette. Navettes are long, almost canoe shaped cookies that are so dry it is said that you can wait to eat them for up to one year after they are baked and they will still taste exactly the same. Mieko and I opted to eat ours right away. They were good, but as we say back home in MN, they were "different." Crispy on the outside, and just barely moist enough on the insight to not break your teeth, they taste strangely of almonds, vanilla, orange zest, anis, and something that tastes like Earl Grey tea, perhaps bergamot? According to legend, the navettes were created for the pilgrims who came to St. Victor (likely on hands and knees) to stave off hunger. And, since they last forever, I can imagine sailors smuggling a few onto the ship for an occassional treat during their long forays at sea.

[Good god! Will the pounding ever stop?!]

Ok... where was I? Right. So, after St. Victor and our navettes, we wander to the other side of the Old Port, the ancient heart of Marseille, to the opposite side to a neighborhood called the Panier, or Breadbasket. No bakeries on this side, though, mostly just residences tucked back into winding narrow streets at seemingly impossible angles. It was a nice place to escape the throngs of aggressive shoppers, moping smelly homeless folk, drug dealers, prostitutes, etc. It was there that we found a lovely and affordable place for lunch where we could soak up the southern sun and take a load off for, oh, two hours or so, since that's generally how long restaurant service takes in France. Around the corner was the apartment where Napolean actually lived (and not just took a nap or tripped over his shoe-laces, like most of the other monuments throughout France in the form of "Napoleon-was-here").

Finally, we joined the throngs of shoppers (if you can't beat 'em, join 'em!), and lightened the load in our wallets. Not a bad day.

I also bought a few postcards. Want one? Let's make this a little competition, shall we? Nothing like a prize to make things more interesting!

First 5 people to post comments to this blog-post will get a handwritten postcard from yours truly!

Say anything you want, just put your address in there somewhere's so's I can get the darn thing to ya.

Finding Hope in Bluegrass

I don't usually post links to other stories like this -- I know my readers are busy people, and aren't likely to chase links all day -- but this one is truly special and deserving of your attention. It is a beautiful story, full of heart, the likes of which you don't often find in a newspaper anymore.

Bluegrass beats the cancer blues

Mark and Karyn Nelson mean a lot to my family, and their strength and creativity has greatly inspired me over the years. I don't pray much, but I'm praying for them.

How I'm Paying for All This Bling (and by Bling, I mean Book-learning)

Ok, so this has nothing whatsoever to do with my being in France (unless you consider that my increasing alienation has drawn me closer to my computer and the endless frontier of the information super-highway). I was just reading a random blog, and, like you do, I clicked a link and landed on another random blog, and another, and yet another, until I found myself at the home of Steve Pavlina. Mr. Pavlina -- oh hell, let's call him Steve, since I am certain we are soul-mates hence we can do without the formalities -- Steve has promised to give $1 million to anyone who joins him in his great endeavor. The catch? All you have to do is repeat the following phrase to yourself once every day:

" In an easy and relaxed manner, in a healthy and positive way, in its own perfect time, for the highest good of all, I intend $1,000,000 to come into my life and into the lives of everyone who holds this intention."

That's it! Steve calls it "passive manifestation." And, it works! How do we know? Because, Steve keeps track! If you join up with the team, he puts your name in a database and you tell him when you've made your million, and Steve records the data. So far, Steve's team has made a whopping $2,878,202.86! Granted, no one individual has actually made a million dollars yet -- that figure I just quoted is the sum total amount for the hundreds of people who so far have promised to passively manifest money with him -- and some folks haven't made a dime. (What? Not passively manifesting hard enough? Time to be more passive!) Not only is Steve the team bean-counter, he also works tech support. For example, you can download from his website wallpaper and screensavers that are designed to reinforce your passive manifesting. Is there anything Steve hasn't thought of? [Mom, please disregard the following paragraph.]

Maybe. Like, how do you know when you've actually made money off of this passive manifesting scheme? Will I get a check in the mail? Will Richy McRicherson call me and pay me a million dollars to give his poodle a bath? Will I have to report the income I make from passive manifestation on my tax returns? And, if hundreds more people become millionaires without doing any actual work, how will this affect the economy? I mean, the rich/poor gap is already as wide as its ever been. Plus, money doesn't just grow on trees -- might my riches obtained through passive manifestation come at the cost of labor exploitation, that is, people who are actively manifesting their dollars through work?

[Mom, you may continue reading.] Nope, Steve thought of everything! Soon I'll have my passive manifestation merch (screen-savers, t-shirts, and the like), and I'll be ready to fully commit all my energies to productive passivity. Time to put all those hours I wasted on work to good use -- ooh! The hit WB series "Charmed" featuring Shannon Doherty is almost on TV, dubbed in French! Now, that's entertainment. So, no worries about all that mounting debt, Mom. Me and Steve got it all figured out!

[My appologies to Mr. Steve Pavlina for the sarcastic tone I have taken in this blog post -- the truth is, I'm totally reading your entire blog and I'm embarassed to admit it. I especially like the stuff about subjective world view...]

Top Ten Reasons Toulon Is For the Dogs

Does it ever happen to you that you're just walking down the street, minding your own business, when you are suddenly alerted to the presence of a disgruntled wino by virtue his incoherent shouting (to no one in particular, it seems)? Does it usually turn out that the wino also happens to be a bit of an exhibitionist, and is making all this comotion so that everyone has the pleasure of watching him pee on the street? I don't know about you, but this happens to me all the time! Though, today's incident had a special twist in that the wino decided to strip off most of his clothes to facilitate his peeing, which was much more theatrical than the usual "drop trow' and pee" routine. Granted, it was an unusually warm day. I'm sure he found it refreshing. Me, I wanted to cry. Which brings me to...

The Top Ten Reasons I Wish I Weren't In Toulon (and Why I Want to Go Home)
1. Winos. They're everywhere. They smell. They expose themselves and masturbate in public.
2. Dog shit. It's everywhere. It smells. I step in it, and I smell.
3. France Telecom. My phone doesn't work and I don't why. Is it worth the pain of trying to get customer service to get it fixed? Can I even afford to pay for customer service? No. Unequivically no.
4. French TV. I turned on the TV last night, and it was nothing but soft-core porn and the Maury Povich show. It was Sunday night. I'm not kidding.
5. Men who carry purses. Every time I look at my purse and wonder if it looks "too masculine," I want to cry.
6. Men with greasy mullets who leer at you and then spit on the street. This could really be three separate points, but I'm trying to limit myself to only ten reasons.
7. The post office. They send me the wrong mail, and I have to wait an hour in line just to try to give it back to them, which I am just not willing to do because my blood sugar is tanking, I have to pee, and it's like a million degrees in the post office like it is in every building here... I also need stamps, and the stamp machine is always busted. Why can't they fix the damn machine? Why can't I just buy stamps at an ATM like in America? Why?!
8. Having to pay for everything, including customer service and using the toilet. Every time I go out I have to plan my route based on my proximity to free and semi-hygenic toilets combined with a careful calculation of when I think I will next have the urge to go. There are certain places I just can't go, because, well, I just can't go there. I try to extend my territory by drinking fewer fluids, but then I'm just dehydrated all the time.
9. People who bump into you or refuse to get out of your way. Which is, like, everyone. They're rude, they don't care. I walk down the street, and I cease to exist.
10. French high school students. They don't want to learn, I don't want to teach them. They think they're too cool to waste their time with me, and they're probably right. They should be at home, styling their mullets.

and, oh, what the hell...

11. French food. All empty carbohydrates and crazy meats that you wouldn't eat even if you were the kind of person who eats meat, which I am decidedly not. Dry lumpy sausages, horse meat, fatty liver, giblets, intestines, and even testicles are some of their favorite delicacies. Why, lord, why? I would kill for some Smart Bacon or a veggie dog right now. Tofu, tempeh, seitan, even a little vegan cheez! Also, they won't castrate their dogs because they seem to think its cruel, and yet they'll eat the testicles off cattle? You know what's cruel? Forcing me to look at big ugly dog testicles!

Ugh.

I Knew It!, or, What Italy Taught Me About France

I have but recently returned from my whirlwind tour of France and Italy with my mom for the Christmas Holiday. Soon, I will have photos posted on my sister photo site for you all to feast your eyes upon and share my journey vicariously. (I would have had these photos up sooner, but I've basically been asleep for the past 48 hours since I've been back in my Toulon pad.) Until that time, I have the above photo for you as a bit of a teaser. A picture is worth a thousand words, as they say, and as far as I'm concerned, this photo captures everything I could possibly want to say about France. I found this little shop on a random street in Paris, and I just couldn't help myself. I think it gives the viewer a good sense of the fact that Paris wants desperately to be, or at least, to be perceived as, an international city, but she finds herself foiled time and again by the foibles of her backwards and provincial citizens. The French incorporate English, the international language (for better or worse), into their own patois the way they litter their sidewalks with poodle poop, like haphazard little bombs for the consummate linguist to stumble into and either grimace or giggle (depending on whether or not one happens to be a glass half-full or half-empty sort). I think the photo also reflects a kind of decadence on the part of the French. The sign reads like a list of favorites for the average frenchman, first liquor and wine ("alcool and stranger wine", a poor attempt at translating the french "alcool et vin etranger" into English), followed by fruit, which could be read either as their "gourmand" disposition or a more tongue-in-cheek reference to their "fruity" behavior (no offense, but we all know that frenchmen are yellow-bellied turncoats who carry purses, which is absolutely true). I also get a whiff of xenophobia when I read "stranger wine," which is probably just my attempt at reading too much into the silly sign, but when it comes to the French, you just never know where a racist joke might weave its way into the most benign situations, so I always keep my guard up. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that France is not it's all cracked up to be -- but Italy is!

Please, if you have plans to go to Europe...
a) take me with you,
b) go to Italy
c) learn Italian or make sure that your children do.

Look, Italy has everything that France has, with none of the shitty parts (I mean that literally and figuratively, of course). Italy has great food, in fact, the food is better in Italy since all the good food that you get in France is Mediterranean anyway (unless you really really love to eat frogs legs and horse meat, and in that case, I don't think you should be my friend anymore). I mean, Italy is the home of the Slow Food movement, for crying out loud! France only got CSA's five years ago, and the STILL don't have co-ops (think about it, people, this is a 3rd world country!). Italy also has great cities. I know, I know, Paris is the most visited city in the world, but who wants to do what everyone else is doing? What, are you lemmings?! Rome is a million times better than Paris! 1st, there is no poop. The Romans keep adorable dogs, but, unlike the French, they actually pick up after them. Now, that's what I call civilization (well, the Romans did INVENT Western Civilization, afterall, remember?). 2nd, Rome is much more "walkable," in my opinion. Romans are just as maniacal behind the wheel as the French, and they will kill you if you try to cross a busy street without looking, but there are many more small streets where cars simply can't go. And, if you really want to leave the world of gas-guzzlers behind, go to Venice, where cars are not allowed! Heck, not only cars, but motorcycles, and bicycles as well! And, I promise, you cannot get hit by a gondola, try as you might. 3rd, Rome (though not Venice) is not nearly as touristy as Paris (remember that part about being the most visited city in the world? well, guess what, Paris is chock full of annoying and annoyed tourists). If you want to connect with real local people and culture, Italy is the place, and Italians are the people, since even if you go outside of Paris the French will still ignore you because you're not French (unless they are ripping you off or teasing you, both of which the French enjoy very much). Which brings me to the 4th reason to go to Italy, which is that the Italians are nice. Bump into an Italian, and you will hear, "Oh, mi scuzi!" Bump into a Frenchman, and you will hear.... nothing. Probably, you will just hear the sound of yourself saying, "ouch" because they've just whacked you with their enormous Chloe bag with the giant solid gold lock on the front of it. How about a 5th reason? Here's one for you history buffs: Italy practically invented Western history. Sure, France has history too, but basically all their history they just copy from Rome. You like churches? You could go see Sacre Coeur or Notre Dame, the two most famous churches in Paris OR you could go see St. Peter's church where Peter is actually buried. We're talking the birthplace of the Christian church, here! How about other kinds of monuments? The Pantheon? Yeah, France has one, but Rome has THE Pantheon! What about art? Well, Paris has some nice museums, but again, Italy invented the Renaissance (why it's a French word, I have no idea). Oh, and here's a 6th reason for you ladies: the Italian men are gorgeous. I mean, H O T, hot! And, charming.... sigh. Long story short, I am totally kicking myself for having learned French instead of Italian. Every time I see a French man in a track suit with gold chains around his neck, a mullet hair-do, and a fake Louis Vuitton purse over his shoulder I just want to throw up.

But, it's not all bad. Coming home to my little flat in Toulon was really nice. They turned off the Christmas lights, which was sort of too bad because it was really the only beautiful thing about Toulon this time of year. Still, the weather was warm and sunny, as always, which was a comfort after the cold, grey raininess of Paris. And, seeing the old gang of winos lounging around in the late afternoon sun after I finally got myself out of bed to get some groceries at the neighborhood store was almost comforting. They look so peaceful, really, all snuggled up with their plastic wine jugs, drooling and scratching themselves. With the holidays over, life is slowing down a bit, and I don't mind that at all. Hope your was as good as mine.