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.

The Big Move

Please forgive my delinquance, "chers" readers, for it has been too long since I have reported on my comings and goings for all of you. Indeed, it has already been a full week since I moved into my new apartment in Toulon. The explanation for the move is a bit complicated, but suffice it to say for now that it was simply too difficult to commute from Bandol to Toulon every day to go to work. Public transportation in these parts is not always as reliable or as convenient as is often necessary, and even in the best of times, when there is not strike or other "manifestation" to "perturbe" the traffic, it was still quite a long journey on foot or by bike to and from the train station. And so, I now have new digs in the city. Truth be told, it is quite a transition to come to terms with, and that is perhaps why it has taken me so long to write. I miss the beauty and the tranquility of the country side, but I can't help but revel in all the delights and attractions of city life!

First, there are all the lights! The Xmas lights in Toulon went up months ago, but they stayed dark until December 1st. All the locals complain that they are a waste of electricity and tax-payer euros, but at least I can tell that they truly adore them. The Xmas lights are everywhere, arching over the grand boulevard at each block, twining up palm trees, and sculpted into figures of animals and Santa sleighs at every "rond point." There are so many lights, in fact, that at night it is still bright as day! Excessive? Oh, yes. And, very tacky. The toulonais clearly adore Xmas, and they throw themselves with abandon into the spirit of the season, never stopping to wonder if their decor might not be in the best taste. Xmas carrols are being piped, as we speak, through loudspeakers installed at the tops of all the lamp-posts, and there is even an M.C. who announces all the Xmas sales and specials at every local shop and restaurant in between the songs. With the beaches closed for the season, there is little selse to do besides sipping "vin chaud" and wandering around gazing at the glittering lights.

Second, there are the people. I have to admit, that for French people, the people of Toulon are pretty nice. Unlike Parisians, they are rarely in a hurry, and so they are delighted to stop and chat with a sputtering foreigner, and they're absolutely tickled pink to discover an "americaine" in their midst! Sure, there are also the winos who spend their days and nights sleeping on the corner in puddles of their own piss, drinking the cheapest wine sold in plastic bottles. Yet, even they seem strangely content and are much more interested in protecting their own wino territory and coddling their only slightly smellier pooches they keep as pets (yes, everyone in France has a dog, and I am really jealous!) than they are interested in bothering anyone else. But then, there's also the nice young women who tend the counters at the local grocery store, who smile when they hear my accent and wink if they remember me when I walk through the door, and there's the two adorable young men who work at the sandwhich shop just down the street, Benji and Benoit, who will deliver your sandwhich right to your door if you want so long as it's after 4pm. And, there are all the other language assistants who live, as I now do, in Toulon. Unfortunately, because I had been so isolated in Bandol, I only know a few of them, but I'm hoping to be able to catch up on my social life soon. In fact, tonight, my friend Mieko, another English assistant from Berkely, CA is inviting everyone over to her apartment to celebrate the first night of Hannukah. According to Mieko, she makes a mean latke, and I can't wait! Of course, I suspect most of us are really gentiles, but who doesn't love a good latke? Also, I was recently invited over to the home of one of the teachers that I work with at the college (junior high to us), and she wants me to tutor her son in English. And, you will never guess where she studied English... in Moorhead, MN!!! Yes, as a young woman she was sent to Concordia College as a foreign exchange student, the poor thing! And, to think that's where I went to debate camp in high school! Small world indeed...

And, finally, there is the benefit that comes with living in any decent sized city, and that is having everything you desire right at your fingertips! I have just had my phone, wireless internet, and digital cable TV installed in my apartment! And so, the world of technology re-opens its doors to me, and it feels like a breath of sweet, fresh air! And, the city offers many other conveniences too, such as pizza delivery, shopping malls, and even McDonalds (I've only gone once, I swear!). There's even an Ikea! I went yesterday to get a few more things for my apartment, and I'm telling you, it feels like the lap of luxury! Of course, my poverty still keeps me on a short leash, but at the moment it feels absolutely hedonistic to just sleep past 10am!

Le Mistral est arrivé!

The hard, cold, driving wind known as the Mistral has finally made its presence known here in the south of France. Here, the wind is infamous. It is said that the Mistral causes law-abiding men to commit murder, makes animals go insane, and drives happy people to suicide. Not that the french ever exaggerate. Ok, it is windy, I'll give 'em that. But, it'll be all over in a few days, and we'll be back to sunny, peaceful weather in no time.

Then again, I have seen a few strange things today. This morning, on my way to work, I stopped into a Casino (it's like a gas station shop without the gas -- don't worry, I'm not gambling yet!) to get a bottle of water. As I left the store, a man came into the shop and left his dog outside, chained to a metal sign advertising fesh bread in front of the entrance. The dog was large, with the body of a greyhound, but pure white. As he walked by me, I heard him say to the animal, "Bouge pas! Sage!" Or, don't move. Be good. Moments later, I heard a terrible noise coming from behind me. As I turned around to see what it was, I saw this white dog careening down the street with the metal sign still chained to his kneck, clanging and scraping behind him! the dog ran down the street and right through the center of the busy market place. Scores of people dropped what they were doing to look at, or get out of the way of, the wild dog! And, chasing after him, though lagging rather far behind, was his owner, bright red with embarassment!

Later in the day, I saw perhaps the most bizarre police chase in my life! There was a police van full of cops that was trying to get around a "rond point" (or "roundabout"), but was blocked by a crazy man in an electric wheelchair! The man in the wheelchair was yelling at the police and shaking his fist at them, while the police were yelling back and trying to get the man to move his "vehicle" off the street. Ok, it was so much a chase as just an annoying traffic problem, but still, it was strange, and silly that the french police couldn't even manage to find away to get around a man in a wheelchair! But, as I find myself saying more and more these days, that's just life in France!

Ahoy Sailor!

First, I must warn you, my dear readers, that I'm a little bit tipsy. Yes, it is only 1:30 in the afternoon, but today we celebrate the release of the New Beaujolais, and all of France simply must have a taste! The salles des profs, the teachers lounge, is now full of slightly sodden teaching staff. Best of luck to those with afternoon classes!

That said, you will all be glad to know that I have finally met a sailor. We met entirely "par hasard" on the train on Friday afternoon when I was on my way home from school and he was heading to Rouen, his hometown, where he spends his weekends. We started chatting, and exchanged numbers, and after a several tricky phone conversations we managed to arrange a date for last night. We met in Toulon, walked around a bit along the marina, and then went to see a movie. It was fun to have the chance to really talk with and get to know an "authentic" French person, and I was glad to know that we felt about the same about the people in Toulon. According to my sailor friend, a non-native of the south of France, the people here are "superficiel". Toute à fait. But, I regret to inform my readership that I was not easily wooed by his french charms. As an American girl raised to believe that real men are meant to be sensible, strong, and only affectionate in a subtly reserved sort of way, I was a bit put-off by my french sailor's advances. I can understand, for example, that holding hands while walking along a pier is in theory romantic, but in practice holding hands is only something I do with my mom. I love my mom, but not like that. And, at other times, the sailor's moves just seemed a bit cliché. At a particularly tense moment during our film, I shuddered, and the sailor quickly made a grab for my shoulder, saying, "you are not too scared?" Seriously, I'm a big girl, I don't need to be protected from violent images in films. And, I absolutely had to draw the line when he asked if he could rest his head on my shoulder during the movie. I like my personal space, and I don't need to share it with someone I only just met. But, at least he asked. So, in the end, I told my sweet french sailor that I had a boyfriend in the United States. If anyone asks, he is six foot two, a cattle rancher and rodeo king, and must eat at McDonalds twice a day just to sustain his strength. I think I shall call him "Steve". I look forward to seeing my Steve in the spring. He'll be the only man in a ten gallon hat in all of France!

God Bless America, and all her sons!

The Times They Are A Changin'!

The whole world is turned upside down, and for once, this is a good thing! Our little American enclave here in France is all a-flutter with the good news coming out of the States that finally we will have a Democrat majority in the House, and maybe even in the Senate too! Oh yeah, and buh-bye Rummy! Could this be the beginning of a new era of peace and prosperity? Well, if so, it's about time!

But, that's not all the good news! Oh, I can barely type, I am nearly shaking with joy! Yesterday, the lawyers came to resolve the land dispute with our evil neighbor, Pascal. It was quite a stressful ordeal for all of us, but I would like to think it was worse for me since I was stuck in the house watching Gus, and had to wait anxiously for the results, all the while catching snippets of angry french bickering and wild gesticulations through the windows. But, when it was all over, we came out on top! Of course, we were right all along -- Pascal had built several buildings without a permit and illegally narrowed the right-of-way, not to mention the septic system he had installed in the neighborhood well -- but the result of all the hemming and hawing was the best outcome we could have imagined. Pascal and his lawyers offered to trade land! Instead of having a small triangle of land that can only be reached by walking through Pascal's backyard (and his illegal swimming pool!), we could have a contiguous piece of land surrounding the house that we would immediately fence off and have complete privacy PLUS more gardens and grapevines!

Of course, this also means that all the time I spent working to clear the land last week may have been for naught, but hopefully it will only be a matter of months before we are able to secure a land swap, and I can start planning new and better garden plots. And, who knows, perhaps soon I'll be learning how to make organic wine!

Only one "mauvaise nouvelle", as we say in France. France Telecom cut off our phone line again yesterday! Incroyable! I spent an hour on the phone last night (for 35 cents a minute!) complaining in my most stern French to a bunch of incompetent corporate peons, and it was so frustrating that I don't even want to recount any more details. I will only say that I understand why the French aren't allowed to have guns, and why they smoke like chimneys!

Au Revoir Vacance!

Well, vacation, or "vacance" is over today. I can't believe it went by so fast. I had two friends come to visit, which was pretty exciting and a bit unexpected! My friend from high school, and college, Charles Ryan stayed with us for about a week while he was traveling from Germany to meet his brother in Spain. He helped out a lot around the place, clearing land for future garden plots, and doing a little babysitting of little Gus-meister. Charles also knows reiki, which he shared with us. It was cool, but I think I still don't quite "get" it. It's a sort of "laying on of hands" technique involving auras and positive thinking. Sadly, I didn't have any profound visions or moments of euphoria, although I did imagine growing beautiful vegetables during one session, but I think at that point I had accidentally fallen asleep! Oh well! Charles is on to Barcelona now, so hopefully he'll find more receptive clients among the Spaniards.

Zoe, my old roomie from college, and a fellow assistant in Digne, just north of Bandol, descended from the mountains by bus and train to spend a few days with me on the beach over vacation. Zoe is teaching elementary school, which is much more difficult than teaching junior high and high school, at least as I understand it. Unlike my students, hers know virtually no english at all, so she has to give them directions, and discipline them, in french. Zoe and I met in Aix-en-Provence and spent the evening there, just walking around, doing a little shopping, and noshing on tapas and drinking sangria. Then, we took the train back to Bandol, and Zoe spent a couple days with the whole gang -- Charles, Gus, Penny, and yours truly! It was a full house, but we had fun! Zoe got a great deal on a cashmere sweater in Toulon, and I finally had someone to share some gelato with! And, Gus was happy to have lots of people to play with and to lavish attention on him.

Now the house is quiet, and a bit chilly. November sort of sneaked up on me, it seems. All of October still felt like the height of summer in Minnesota here in the South of France, but suddenly there's a crispness in the air. The grape leaves in the vineyards have mostly turned from deep green to vibrant shades of orange and red. The other evening, when I was walking home from town, I could even see the white puffs of my exhalations. Soon, it will be time to harvest the olives, and take them to the community mill to be turned into olive oil.

Thanks to all of you who have sent me emails and instant messages! I'm online much more often now that I have wireless internet access at home. I apologize if I don't always respond right away, but I will do my best to be more prompt.
Bisous!

P.S. The photo is of Penny and Gus hiking up to the church at the top of old Le Beausset

American Paragon: The New Home of the Bandol Beat

Greetings friends! I am so excited to return to the world of Blogger.com and my American Paragon persona! Why? Well, because the whole thing was so creatively virile to begin with, so richly inspired, that I could never fully abandon the site without compromising my integrity as a blogger... and then there were the technical problems that came with the move to France which drove me back to a comprehensive web-based blog. For as much as I love my iWeb program, lets face it, traveling is wearisome enough without all the electrical gadgetry. Experience has shown me that the easiest way to blog on the go is to do it from any internet-connected computer and to carry my data on the slick little usb drive that my mom sent me. And now, keeping my admirers up to date will be even easier since the internet finally works at the house in Bandol! Yes, after three months, hundreds of letters, and hours on the phone with customer service (at 35 cents a minute!), we now have working access to the international web of life! I feel like I have been invited back into the 21st century, and let me tell you, it feels great to be here! Also, I've supplied links to my old Mac site as well as my web-based photo album in the column at the right, should you be so inclined.

Life here is good. The weather is perfect all the time, which really does wonders for a girl's mood. And, maybe I'm not such a bad teacher. Or, a bad babysitter, for that matter. More soon! (I swear, really.)

My Ulcer, My Self

Yogis and granola-eaters the world over have long touted the mind/body connection as the key to health and happiness. I tend to agree with them (I eat a lot of granola myself), but even as I talk the talk, I rarely walk the walk. I take pretty good care of myself physically. I eat a well-balanced diet with lots of organic fruits and vegetables, and I make a point to get regular exercise and adequate sleep. Recently, I even quit smoking and drinking caffeinated beverages. Yet, though my body may be fit as a fiddle, my mind is, metaphorically speaking, sacked out on a moth-eaten sofa, glued to the "glass teat"*, throttling the remote control and eating Krispy Kremes hand over fist, fattening itself on the fruits of stress, anxiety, and workaholism. I don't deny that I am a perfectionist, I take pride in my work, but in recent weeks my anal retention (or "analyzing" as my friend Zoe likes to call it) has driven me to new lows. At the ripe age of 22, I have given myself an ulcer.

Yes, healthy as I am, imagine my surprise when I woke up in the middle of the night a couple weeks ago to a horrific case of heart-burn, on that subsequently did not abate for forty-eight hours. When my doctor told me it was probably caused by stress, I simply could not believe her. "Ulcers are not caused by stress," I whined. And, for the most part, of course, I was right. Doctors now concur that ulcers are caused by bacterial infections in the stomach and esophagus -- but stress helps, nonetheless. Antibiotics are over-prescribed as it is, so if doctors can treat an ulcer by lowering their patients' production of stomach acid and get them to take a chill pill, they will. My doctor gave me a prescription-only antacid and said, "take care of yourself."

Living with an ulcer isn't easy, but it has started to teach me a few things about myself. The human imagination has long equated the digestive tract with personality quirks, ever since the ancients located the spleen as the source of bilious "bad humours." My own life-long inability to belch, a rather genteel handicap which prevents me from expressing my own biliousness may find its parallel in my tendency to suppress my emotions. Springing from this combination of everyday tensions and congenital indigestion, perhaps my ulcer is now pointing the way to a fuller and less stressful existence. I am learning to take things more slowly and to accept moderation, since I am only able to eat several small meals throughout the day. I am also learning to stop depriving myself of the things that I need in order to increase my productivity, since an empty stomach caused my skipping meals is now intensely painful. Drinking, smoking, caffeine, and fatty foods are now absolutely out of the question because all of these aggravate my ulcer, so I'm locked into clean living. And, any and all stress is to be avoided at all cost, which means I'll probably be reading the news less, and doddling more. Expect to expect less of me in the next few weeks as I recharge my batteries, and I will do the same. In the meantime, learn to love your flaws. They love you.

Da Vinci vs. Superman

Warning: The following contains a Jungian analysis of two summer blockbuster films, "The Da Vinci Code" and "Superman Returns," during which the author is required to reveal the films' endings. If surprises are how you get your rocks off, see the movies first before you read this blog post.

I have this half-baked theory I feel compelled to share with my paltry readership, voracious though they may be for more of my witty witticisms. The theory is probably far-fetched, and most definitely heretical if you come from the same stock as most members of Congress, that is, evangelical Christian. But, I urge you, one and all, especially you members of Congress, to stop your money laundering for a moment, set aside that juicy shank of pork-barrel, and hear me out.

The concept hit me like a silver bullet, like a bird dropping, like airplane landing gears hitting pavement, like a wad of gum spat from the luscious lips of Brandon Routh. I had just seen Superman Returns, and though it was possibly the highlight of my movie-going career, the film left me with a strange sense of déjà vu. (And, not because I've seen all four original Superman movies dozens, plus most of the episodes of the old TV series, the "Lois and Clark" series, and a handful of "Smallville" episodes. I also had Superman Under-roos, and I never could forgive my grandmother for ruining my Superman t-shirt in the wash. To say that I'm a fan would be an understatement.) As my readers surely recall, the last film I saw in theaters was The Da Vinci Code, and the more I thought about these two films, the more I realized that I had struck a metaphorical gold mine. My friends, I am here to testify that Superman Returns and The Da Vinci Code are in fact the same movie! No, no, don't go running to the box office demanding a refund. We haven't been snookered, we just got what we asked for. Before I go any further, let's examine the evidence.

Both plots are about "saviors" sent to Earth to redeem mankind with congenital super-powers. The Da Vinci Code swipes its superhero from the pages of the greatest story ever told, giving us Jesus Christ, a man of the people who could, among other things, cure leprocy and walk on water. In Superman Returns, the man of steel describes himself as a savior responding to the cries of the people. Despite their remarkable powers, neither are strictly invincible, whether it be death by crucifixion or kryptonite.

Both saviors are embroiled in sexual scandal. Jesus is suspected of having had an illegitimate child with side-kick Mary Magdalen in The Da Vinci Code, while in Superman Returns Lois Lane bears a child out of wedlock, and through an extraordinary set of circumstances we learn that Superman is the father.

The illegitimate offspring of these superheros are billed as the keys to unlock a brighter future for mankind, continuing the inheritance of superpowers that their savior fathers inherited from their own distant super-fathers. Superman receives his powers from his alien father (played once again by Marlon Brando peering out of a crystal), and it appears that he has passed at least some of his powers onto his son. Jesus gets his abilities from God the Father, and according to the film, passes his royal blood through a secret lineage. On it's face, the creation of a super-race of humans through careful breeding smacks of eugenics, but I think it's probably meant to be a metaphor for the emboldening of the human spirit. I hope.

Without going into all the messianic imagery in both films, I think we've pretty well established the comparison. But, if you're a member of Congress, and even if you're not, you might be thinking to yourself that all this amounts to is worth less than a hill of beans. Then again, if you tend to think like a congressman, you should expect to be wrong. The reason the similarities between these films matter is because it points to the emergence of a new archetypal story, or rather a very old story that is just now attaining prominence in contemporary culture. I like to think of it as a small step for man, and a giant leap for womankind. That's because this new story is really the story of what Dan Brown terms in The Da Vinci Code "the sacred feminine." Notice that the role of women and matrilineage is brought to prominence in the two films. Mary Magdalen is redeemed from her status as whore and elevated to holy grail. Lois Lane is no longer the scrappy muckraker of yore, but is the mother of Superman's progeny, humanity's next great hope, and a Pulitzer Prize-winner to boot. Gone are the distant father-figures peering down from the heavens or staring out at us from alien crystals, the new heros are sensitive family men who prefer to stay close to home. Well, that's the bright-side, anyway. On the other hand, the end of Superman Returns leaves us with the image of Superman flying off into space to go be a hero or sulk in his Fortress of Solitude, leaving his son to be raised by his mother and a surrogate father who can only fly by means of an airplane. Gee, I wonder who that kid will resent more, his impotent step-father his mother never really loved, or his biological father who abandoned him with powers he cannot begin to comprehend. What if this Superboy, filled with anger and resentment toward his father, goes bad, Darth Vader-style? Well, at least the macho men are beginning to admit to their roles as parents, even if they're not actually going to perform them.

Hunger Strikes and Other Corporate Pitfalls

Greetings from the office! Yes, it's true, yours truly has succumbed to the need for a stable cash flow and has since stumbled into the corporate realm. But, fear not, for I am helping the work world shirk its over amplified productivity by lounging on my blog! (You will all thank me later, no doubt.) As a receptionist at a psychiatric clinic (I am resisting the temptation to self-medicated, though it is oh-so feasible) I make a lot of faxes, garner a lot more paper cuts, and allow my brain waves to be sloshed around in the magnetic fields of a myriad of electronic office do-dads and gee-gaws. (The only really great thing about electronics is that they all have a universal repair button-- the "power" switch.) What does the white collar (gasp! Am I in a pink collar job? Oy! My gendered ghetto...) worker do to make the work-a-day world fly by? Dream of the one hour lunch break! (The Man took away our dreams of endless lackadaisical smoke breaks since invented the "100 Yards from a Building" rule and giving us the masochist's and denouncing "smoker's station" which consists of little more than a goose-knecked plastic trough in which to poke our extinguished butts, oy and oy!) True, the sack lunch at first glance seems regressive, and for me at least, calls up repressed memories of cafeteria bullies and the shames of sitting along or worse, sitting at the "nerd table," or worse yet, finding nothing but falafel in your lunch bag for weeks on end (why, mom, why?!)... Childhood traumas aside, it is time to reinvent the boxed lunch and reclaim it for mature adulthood. An insurmountable task, you gape, but nay, the quest is already begun. Behold: www.veganlunchbox.blogspot.com ! The website traces the trials and tribulations of an eastern Washington homemaker and animal rights activist as she tries to feed her young son, our little schmoo, a cruelty free and well-balanced school lunch. Ok, so we're not talking adult food per se, but nonetheless, schmoo's tastes are quite cosmopolitan. Check out schmoo's favorite lunch, "Chinese New Year", which features crispy sweet tofu chunks, sticky rice, chile green beans, kiwi fruit, and a scrumptious-looking dumpling. Some of the recipes, like the dumplings, are a little on the tricky side, and the site is definitely for the adventurous eater with an epicurean edge, but the site also offers many simple lunch ideas that I had never thought of, like spicing up raw veggies with a little jicama, (pronounced HEE-comma) a potato-like spud that tastes sugary sweet. Of course, it's a great resource for vegans and vegetarians, but I have no doubt that many of the recipes could be modified for the omnivorous among you (at your own moral peril, and the risk of food poisoning from unrefridgerated or uncooked e-coli!). I await anxiously the forthcoming vegan lunchbox cookbook which is slated to arrive in the fall, and meanwhile I pine for my own brown-bagged delights. Today's menu: Peanut Butter and Banana Sandwhich on Hemp Bread, Plums, and Organic Granola Bar. Yum Yum!

Movie Review: The Da Vinci Code

In his editorial in the June issue of The Rake, Tom Bartel (Carleton '73, I feel this entitles me to rag on him a little, yes?) comments on what he considered the uncanny likenesses between the central conflict and characters in The Da Vinci Code and the politics and personae of contemporary left/right, Democrat/Republican debates. According to Bartel, it all boils down to religious faith, or in particular, a conflict between dogmatic "believers" and a more "true" and compassionate secular humanism. I'm not sure if he was referring to the book exactly or to Ron Howard's filmic interpretation, but if the book does not emphasize this political conflict (and personally, having read it, I don't believe it does), Howard's film certainly does. To me, the film was a cross between Indiana Jones and Dogma, preserving the suspense of the former, the liberal politics of the latter (even similarities in the mythology in which a non-believing woman turns out to be the last descendant of Christ), but the DVC loses the humor of both. Fortunately, the film ejects the book's daddy-love romance between the young ingenue and the older professor, and instead spends more time on the mystery, literally illustrating (illuminating?) its points with visually lush historical flashbacks. But, by foregrounding the mystery, the film wades deeper into the tidepool of so-called heresy and tests the limits of the public's tolerance. The clues to the mystery are so compelling, and the ending so emotionally provocative, I couldn't help but feel persuaded to think that perhaps the bloodline of Christ might still survive, though maybe it's just getting harder for me to believe in a thirty-year-old virgin, whatever his parentage. The grail-quest in the DVC is portrayed as a quest for liberation and enlightenment, a freeing of the masses from the tyranny of a corrupt Vatican. I can't help but think that American audiences watching the creepy relationship between an elder Bishop Aringarosa and the self-flagellating younger monk must certainly be reminded of the recent scandals in the American Catholic church over molestation and pedophilia. According to Ron Howard, the history of the Catholic church is a bloody tale of despotism and corrupt patriarchy. In other words, if the church is not up in arms over this film, then they're either not paying attention or they have something sneaky up their papal sleeves.
I liked the film, if only as a beautifully shot and well-orchestrated puzzle. Any shortcomings, in my opinion, derive themselves from Dan Brown's novel. The story flirts with deeper questions like the nature of humanity and faith, yet ultimately these are reduced to the same dichotomies found through the symbology of the puzzles -- man/woman, good/evil, etc. The characters' motivations are pathologized as bland early childhood traumas, while faith and the ultimate good are left up to individual choice. On the other hand, the film invites us to answer the question that is left open at the end of the film. Do we put our faith in a belief system that divides us, pits us against one another, against certain "lifestyle choices," or even the pursuit of science? Or, do we place our faith in the resilience and creativity of humanity? As Robert Langdon (Tom Hanks) remarks at the conclusion of the film, we do not have proof that Jesus was married and had a daughter, nor do we have proof that he was the son of God and died celibate. If our beliefs no longer serve us, if they no longer describe or explain the world in which we live, do we cling automatically to outmoded ideas, or do we reach for new ideologies?

The Da Vinci Hype

(This is an article that I submitted for publication in the May issue of The Rake. It was rejected, but lucky for us that means I can print it here!)

Since the release of Dan Brown’s mega-hit bestseller The Da Vinci Code, pop culture hucksters have been scrambling to meet the demand of the novel’s millions of fans, numerous critics, and legions of fuming Christian fundamentalists. Hoping to stem the tide (and make a buck), Sony Pictures has assembled an all-star cast to adapt the novel to the silver screen, a hardly daunting task for talents such as director Ron Howard given Brown’s reliance on cinematographic diction such as the author’s description of protagonist Robert Langdon as “Harrison Ford in Harris Tweed.” Though it is Tom Hanks and not Ford playing the paradoxically sexy and distinguished religious symbology professor, the filmmakers are making up the difference by casting an authentic ingénue, Audrey Tautou (Amelie), to play Sophie Neveu. Sadly, no actual albino could be found to play Silas the spooky monk, though doubtless any controversy among the albino community will be drowned out by plenty of hell-raising on the part of Catholic and Evangelical Christians. Rather than placate the uppity religious right, the filmmakers have chosen to fully portray the central controversy of Brown’s novel, the once obscure theory that Jesus had actually married and beget a son with Biblical bad-girl Mary Magdalene. Though bible-banging ditto-heads could take comfort in some evidence that Jesus wasn’t gay, most feel that Brown’s novelistic rendering of this heresy marks a pointed attack aimed at the figurehead of the faith. Fortunately for publishers and booksellers, Christians are issuing their fatwa American-style – they are voraciously consuming Da Vinci Code spin-off books and anti-“code” screeds.

Hopping on The Da Vinci Code gravy train, authors have published over twenty-odd books claiming to explain the code, debunk the code, or best of all, unlock the secrets of the code to achieve personal fulfillment and self-actualization. For example, Fodor’s Guide to the Da Vinci Code: On the Trail of the Bestselling Novel by Jennifer Paull (Fodor’s 2006) is a straight-forward guide for the savvy traveler which provides details on the central locations as well as tips crowd-maneuvering at the Paris Louvre and where to stop for a snack while code-cracking near Rosslyn Chapel in Scotland. Fans might also wish to consult Da Vinci Code Decoded: The Truth Behind the New York Times #1 Bestseller (The Disinformation Company, 2004) written by Martin Lunn, a history scholar and Master of the Dragon Society.

For DVC fans having trouble distinguishing theology from campy plot devices, there are numerous titles now in print that help distill the Biblical “facts” from the cockamamie fiction. There is the popular Breaking the Da Vinci Code: Answers to the Questions Everyone’s Asking by Darrell L. Bock (Nelson Books, 2004), the sensational The Da Vinci Deception by Erwin W. Lutzer (Tyndale House Publishers, 2004), the authoritative Truth and Fiction in the Da Vinci Code: A Historian Reveals What We Really Know about Jesus, Mary Magdalene, and Constantine by Bart D. Ehrman (Oxford University Press, 2004), and the definitive The Real History Behind the Da Vinci Code by Sharan Newman (Berkley Trade, 2005), just to name a few. The truly faithful should check out Richard Abanes, a luminary in the confusing debate between bible-thumping believers and anti-Christian conspirators, with such books as The Truth Behind the Da Vinci Code: A Challenging Response to the Bestselling Novel (Harvest House, 2004), Harry Potter and the Bible: The Menace Behind the Magick (Horizon Books, 2001), and most recently Harry Potter, Narnia, and The Lord of the Rings: What You Need to Know About Fantasy Books and Movies (Harvest House, 2005).

Finally, for readers wondering what The Da Vinci Code can do for them, there are several self-help books modeled after the genius of the Renaissance man himself, including Michael Gelb’s visionary series How to Think Like Leonardo Da Vinci originally published by Dell in 2000 and repackaged as Da Vinci Decoded (Delacorte, 2004), as well as Garrett LoPorto’s The Da Vinci Method (Media For Your Mind, 2005), a guide to coping with ADD/ADHD. And, for the truly voracious reader looking to shed a few pounds, there’s even The Da Vinci Fitness Code by Joseph Mullen (Fitness Therapy Publishing, 2005) and The Diet Code: Revolutionary Weight Loss Secrets from Da Vinci and the Golden Ratio by Stephen Lanzalotta (Warner, 2006). Thankfully, Lanzalotta, the owner of an east-coast bakery, has apparently cracked the Atkins code as well. So, no need to feel guilty chowing down on a large popcorn as you watch The Da Vinci Code when it opens in theatres on May 19. Whether we love the hype or loathe it, I think we can all agree we’re glad carbs are back on the menu.

Long Time No Blog

There's really no point in apologizing, since I'm sure I'm more disappointed in myself than any of my readers would be in me, but it is nonetheless an unavoidable fact that I have been regrettably delinquent in my postings. I hope to turn this trend around, just as I turn my frown upside down after all the hullabaloo surrounding my graduation from college. Yes, I now have a B.A., which mostly means I am a bachelor of b. s. (Isn't it wonderful to think I could some day be a "master"?) It also means that I am unemployed, homeless, and buried beneath a mountain of debt. What a way to kick off adult life! Despite this rude awakening, I find myself finally in a state of intellectual liberty, and as such my unfettered mind shall unfurl itself here in these virtual pages. So, a toast to the bacchanalian gluttony that is liberal arts education as I cinch in my belt for the years to come!

Start Spreadin' The News!

That's right, folks! Tomorrow afternoon, this little blogger gets on a plane heading for NYC! I've been preparing by indulging in as much New York themed art and culture as I can get my hands on. Fortunately, there's no shortage of options! Mark Kurlansky's latest book The Big Oyster is already climbing the best-seller's list. Kurlansky is an amazing writer, whose background as a history scholar and food writer has endowed him with the power to make a rather peculiar argument, that an understanding of the oyster is central to our understanding of the whole concept of Manhattan, a compelling and enjoyable tale. It's a great read, though I still haven't made it out of the 1600's yet!

Colson Whitehead's opus, however, was a much quicker read. In fact, I devoured it in one sitting (kind of like eating an oyster, really, I sucked it down whole, alive and screaming!). The Colossus of New York is a gorgeous ode to the city that never sleeps, addressing the joys as well as the omnipresent malaise with insatiable zeal. Whitehead's technique, which is intended to recall the freeform style of jazz music, is unique and complex, while remaining thoroughly readable. Highly recommended!

I've also managed to pull my eyes away from the page, and set my sights on a few films. Woody Allen was a must, but since I've already seen quite of few of his films, I went with New York Stories, a trio of three shorter films, one of which is written and directed by Allen, but the other two are directed by Martin Scorsese and Francis Coppola. I enjoyed all three films, though I was particularly stunned by Nick Nolte's performance as an aging painter grappling with issues of self-doubt and desire in Scorsese's film. And, I just finished watching New York, New York, a film which I checked out from the public library, mostly for the sheer novelty of it. Robert DeNiro in a smash-hit musical??? Fortunately, he only sings once. And, fortunately, Liza Minelli sings a whole lot! Man, what a set of pipes! Again, Scorsese does an amazing job of portraying a vastly complicated relationship between two headstrong and richly talented individuals. It was striking to see a film that was both entertaining as a musical, but also gave space to develop each of the central characters into compelling portraits of real humanity. Of course, it took nearly three hours for Scorsese to accomplish this, but what the heck, the vibrant jazz music keeps everything flowing, and I was riveted to the edge of my couch.

So, I haven't left yet, and I'm already sure I've forgotten something. Oh well. If they don't have it in New York City, I probably don't need it!

Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Ambien

Ads for popular sleeping pills such as Lunesta, Sonata, and America's favorite, Ambien, suggest that these drugs provide the experience of deep, soothing sleep, the ideal remedy for the occassional insomniac and the stresses of daily living. My favorite commercial, I believe for the drug Lunesta, depicts a slender woman, prone on purple satin sheets, drifting off to sleep as an animated glowing butterfuly swoops over her. Emerging data about these drugs, however, suggests that perhaps the twinkling butterfuly is in fact a nefarious halluciation induced by these supposedly innocuous sleeping pills. In fact, if glowing insects are all you see, count yourself among the lucky ones.

A recent op-ed piece in the New York Times highlights several reports of bizarre behavior in users of zolpidem, also known as Ambien, the most prescribed sleeping pill. The editorial cites concerns about repeated occurances of "sleep-driving" as well as acts of violence commited by otherwise mild-mannered individuals while under the influence of Ambien. Yet another article in the New York Times discusses the rising association of sleep-eating disorders in Ambien users, in which insomniacs endanger their families by turning on stoves and gas ranges in the middle of the night and endanger their wastelines by cooking and consuming food by the thousands of calories in one sitting, only to wake up and recall nothing. Sanofi-Aventis, the French makers of Ambien, claim that these behaviors are either not related to Ambien use or are caused by mis-use of the drug, but repeated and outrageous testimonies by Ambien users tell a different story. (Besides, call me cynical, but since the makers of Paxil admitted to covering up studies linking Paxil-use with suicides, I'm not inclined to cut Sanofi-Aventis any slack.)

Though cases of traffic accidents caused by Ambien are perhaps the most troublesome, I find myself fascinated most by the sleep eaters. According to the NYT article, sleeping and eating are connected in "primitive" ways in the brain. Something in the drug itself seems capable of unlocking these animalistic desires, allowing insomniacs to get some shut-eye, while at the same time evoking other passions. One woman who needed to take sleeping pills in order to sleep during the day so she could work a night shift described this bizarre experience: "One day," she said, "I got up — my husband describes this in great detail — I got a package of hamburger buns and I just tore it open like a grizzly bear and just stood there and ate the whole package."

Of course, eating and sleeping are not our only primitive passions. The NYT doesn't discuss it, but a columnist for Salon.com writes that in addition to allowing him to sleep, Ambien made her boyfriend a more sensitive lover. Tessa Blake writes that by day her bourgeous boyfriend was a high-powered Type-A pain in the ass, but by night, and with the help of a couple Ambien, Dr. Dick became Mr. Wonderful. Sadly, Blake realizes the affair will never work after he awakens one morning and cannot recall that the night before he had proposed marriage. He claimed it was the Ambien talking.

The popularity of Ambien (and now the strange behavior spawned by its use and abuse) is attributable to a $130 million ad-campaign paid for by its manufacturer in 2005. As a result, 26 million prescriptions were written for the drug last year, making Ambien worth $2.2 billion annually. According to the NYT, use of the drug has more than doubled since 2001. Have cases of insomnia also doubled? Doubtful. Like anti-depressants and mind-altering drugs such as ritalin, Ambien is just the newest fad in the quick-fix "I'm Ok, You're Ok" world of modern medicine. After spending a summer working in the office of a medical clinic, I understand all too well the influence pharmaceutical companies have on the prescriptions doctors write for patients, and the affect that advertizing has on consumers who, more than ever, are liable to walk into a doctor's office and ask for a specific drug expressly. And, why not? It's a win-win for doctors and drug companies, since doctors make more off of more patients hooked on the drugs they hawk, and drug companies make a mint off the patents.

But, what I love about Ambien is that it seems to be working to prove a sort of Murphy's Law of human nature. Take a drug that promises tranquility, and you go postal, waking up in a pile of candy bar wrappers and other refuse or, in one case, walking out of your house in your nightgown, peeing in public, and then assaulting a police officer! Kudos to human nature for undoing all our inscrupulous attempts to avoid our primieval selves by dwelling in the oblivion of drugs and docile consumerism. How poetic that a drug like Ambien should cause us to sleep-walk, when it seems that we're sleep-walking through all of our days as it is.

Reading Emma in Northfield

Throughout this academic term I had been slowly slogging through the pages of Jane Austen's Emma, and now that the term has come to a close, so has the book. Finally. Don't get me wrong, I adore Austen for her subtle wit and attention to detail, but in the hustle and bustle of this reader's modern life, it is difficult to get a mental foothold in the lackadaisical world of the British bourgeoisie circa 1815. It would take some time, particularly those passages where the perniciously loquacious Mrs. Bates would ramble on for several pages, until I could to settle into the narrative and awaken to its ascerbic wit. Oh, Mrs. Bates, how you do ramble!

MTV generation beware! (Also, addicts of cult pomo fiction, who have become accustomed to brash shout-outs beginning in medias res such as, "My body was hurdling through the pitch black of metallica tunnel hell and all I could think was Julie and the way the nape of her kneck reminded me that we're all just robots encased in hideous sacks of flesh," and the like. Austen is many circles in hell above a sentence such as this.) Austen's fiction is driven by diction, not plot; so, in order to cope with the utter absence of plot devices to engage my imagination, I recalled a narrative form that was more familiar to me: Soap-Opera. I doubt I'm the first to recognize similiarities between Jane Austen and programs like Days of Our Lives in their parallel accounts of spiraling romantic attachments, family drama, and highly politicized female relationships. A friend of mine who was conducting research on audience responses to the popular HBO drama Sex and the City familiarized me with the work of Tania Modleski, who argues in an article on the soap opera genre that certain narrative devices such as unresolved conflict and an emphasis on relationships within families and between women make the form uniquely "feminine." Because they are expressly "feminine," these narratives empower women even as they reinforce feminine stereotypes. One of the ways this liberation takes place is by assembling real or imagined communities of women around the idolized work of fiction.



Hence, Karen Joy Fowler's enormously famous Jane Austen Bookclub, which may now be purchased in one of two highly fashionable paperback covers, either blue or red (to match your outfit, I suppose). Fowler imagines a group of women, and one male (lucky or desperate?), who gather to read and discuss the works of Jane Austen. Their first book? Emma, of course. A mise en abyme, so to speak, of the role of feminine literature in the lives of women, since readers of Fowler's book are invited to imagine themselves as part of a community of readers of Austen as well as the community of readers of Fowler. Leave it to contemporary women to make reading Jane Austen a thoroughly ironic act -- Anyone want to start a Jane Austen Book Club Book Club???

As distant as we are from the gentrified countryside of Austen's novels, it is fascinating the ease with which readers identify with her characters. I myself discovered, or perhaps fabricated, parallels between the characters in Emma and the people and events in my own life. I have to admit that my romantic life became a bit more interesting around the time that Emma discovered her true feelings for Mr. Knightly, but I'll leave it at that.

For as much as I enjoy these similarities and my associations with fellow readers of Jane Austen, particularly as the act of reading Austen's highly stylized depictions of ideal femine sexuality and romantic relationships seems almost rebellious on a college campus where relationships are more often characterized by libertinism than restraint, what I really love about Jane Austen is how difficult she is for modern readers, like myself, to read. Austen's books cannot be brashly skimmed or picked up and set down between bites of fast food take-out. To read her without feeling the urge to pull your hair out, you have to become absorbed by her delicate prose. Not only does your mindset have to adapt to her pace, but you must physically adapt to the experience of reading Jane Austen. I feel my breathing slow down as I follow her languid sentences, waiting for the pause of a long-awaited period. Descending into Hartford, the modern world finally slips away, and you enter a world without high speed internet, six-second sound bites, and the mass annoyances of mass media. I wound't trade places with Austen or any of her characters even if it afforded me that measure of peace, but I take comfort in having found a space for peace and orderliness in this chaotic world that is often as stressful as it is terrifically exciting. I would go crazy if I had to write like Jane Austen, sitting in a Victorian drawing room and covering up my work with my embroidery anytime someone would enter the room, but I'm glad she did it.