You Had to Be There!

So many times I find myself without my camera at an opportune moment for taking an unforgettable photo. Of course, every day in Toulon presents itself as the perfect inspiration for a Walker Evans wannabe. (This afternoon, I counted three passed-out drunks on one street corner – that’s a muckraker’s mother lode!) I’ve also been dying to snap a few shots of all the middle-aged women with Bozo the Clown hair-dos; yep, hair dyed bright red and sculpted into a nicely rounded poof, really brings out the jowls. But, today was really the crème de la crème!

I show up for my class of post-Bac students, they’re basically in a junior college type program to become profession business people, and they keep going on and on about one student who is late. Generally, the students are always late, but that’s usually because they’re loitering outside the school gates smoking cigarettes. This time, however, the buzz in the classroom was that one of the students was supposed to appear dressed as an Indian. Now, what that had to do with his tardiness, I couldn’t tell. Ten minutes later, though, the Chieftain arrived! To say that he was dressed as an Indian (which I now fully understood to mean Native American, and not Indian of the Origin of the Asian Subcontinent), is to drastically understate his case. The 22-year-old was dressed in nothing but a headdress, loincloth, and slippers, and at his waist he had a plastic toy hatchet and bow and arrow. I had to hand it to him, I did not see that coming! (Nor, did I expect him to have had quite so many tattoos; and, if I had known that he had them, I certainly did not expect to be in a position to see them.) And then, there we all were, one English teacher, one American, a handful of French youths dressed for what one could only guess would be a funeral from all the black they always wear, and one errant member of the Village People. Just when I thought the situation couldn’t become more ridiculous, they all turned to me as if I fully understood what the Indian thing was all about because I am from North America. Of course, the only thoughts running through my head was how incredibly un-PC this all was and how this would never ever happen in an American school and how it is most certainly inappropriate to even refer to someone as an Indian when they are in fact Native Americans and it is more inappropriate still to dress like one and parade around as such; that, mixed with uncontrollable blushing because here was a half-naked man in my classroom, and prudish American that I am, I am unaccustomed to such vulgarity. (Actually, I was starting to wonder how strippers collect tips. I mean, the smallest paper currency is 5 euros, and that’s like $6.50. Do European strippers wear little coin purses on their g-strings? Or, do they actually make more money? The cost of living is certainly greater here…) At any rate, I feigned ignorance, which was easy to do, because I really had no idea what was going on. When I inquired as to why this individual was dressed as an “Indian”, the only response I got was that it was for the North American Carnival, which, unless I’ve been kept in the dark about this all these years, and that every year at this time all of North America has been throwing a big party behind my back, I seriously doubt the existence of said carnival. But, man, you really had to be there!

Show Me Your Boutis!

Ok, I will! Due to my ineptitude as a photographer, the above photo does not do justice to my recently commenced chef d'oeuvre in boutis (pronounced "booty", if you couldn't guess by my off-color pun). So, here is another, more masterfully realized photo of someone else's (more masterfully realized) boutis:



And, whence my boutis? Mieko and I signed up for an all-day boutis workshop in the small village of Calvisson, maybe 20 km or so from Nimes. I discovered the town, its Maison de Boutis (translation: boutis house), and its workshops while searching on the internet for the source of the provencal placemats my Mom and I had been eyeing while shopping for souvenirs in Nice. My interest in these simple quilted placemats sent me on a wild google chase through the ins and outs of French regional handicrafts. I discovered that most of what goes by the name of boutis is in fact "pique de Marseille," a simplified version of boutis that more closely resembles what we in America call quilting. Boutis is a much more elaborate and fascinating craft. It's made by sandwiching two pieces of white cotton fabric together, then embroidering a design over top so that small pockets are created in the layers of fabric. These pockets are then filled with cotton yarn by carefully attaching the yarn to a piece of thread and a needle and gently tugging the yarn through the underside of the design. The result is a quilt design with incredibly high relief in the areas filled-in with cotton, and a lovely tranparency in the spaces left empty. Traditionally, boutis was reserved for only the most precious garments or linens, like wedding gowns or baptismal bonnets, whereas the more common "pique de Marseille" was used throughout the home, and is probably why people associate it more with Provence and confuse it with the highfalutin boutis. For me, this workshop was an opportunity to experience more of the local culture, and learn a skill I could bring home with me.

The boutis workshop in Calvisson turned out to be a great experience. Unfortunately, the weather was crappy, so I wasn't inspired to take more photos, but in retrospect it struck me as a textbook French medieval village. On Saturday it was utterly dead, except for the die-hard drinkers, smokers, and gamblers loitering in the town's two cafes, yet, the narrow, winding streets and houses fronted with ancient and cock-eyed looking doorways were indeed charming. The country-side butted right up against the sleepy village so that under certain archways you could spot idle tractors and grazing poultry. At the workshop, we were joined by a handful of mostly middle-aged and older women, most of whom traveled no farther than Nimes to get there (Mieko and I might not have had the nicest boutis, but we won the distance contest hands-down). The other women were curious about us young Americans, but if they were suspicious of our intentions, they never let on. In fact, they seemed eager to learn more about fibre arts in the United States. Most of their vocabulary on this subject appeared to have been imported from the States as they talked about doing "le patch" (patchwork quilting) or things they want to "quilter" (verb: to quilt). They also talked about buying quilting thread from America and Canada over the internet, since evidently selection in France is limited, and not surprisingly, prices are too high. Even the thread we used in our workshop was Coats & Clark, made in the good ol' USofA. (As protectionist as the French are, it strikes me as funny that they are making their traditional handicrafts with imported materials.) We spent the whole day working on our boutis projects, with one break for lunch when we all went to the charming local creperie. At the end of the day we were given free admission to the town's boutis museum where we got a taste for what our newly minted skill could yield. The most impressive pieces were the largest ones, whole gowns or bedspreads covered in boutis. It boggled the mind imagining how long it must have taken to complete these when after 7 hours I had only completed one measly flower less than the size of my palm. The museum also displayed several exquisite examples of pique de Marseille using the traditional provencal cotton prints as well as others in silk.

So, good news: I did learn a new skill. Bad news: Mom, those placemats aren't going to be ready any time soon!

Our Story Takes an Explosive Turn...

Car explosion at 174 bd. Robespierre. Sure didn't see that one coming.

I was on my way home for a spot of lunch and some coffee, when I began to notice an unusually foul smell in the air. Toulon is almost always smelly, and because they often burn their garbage, the smell of smoke isn't all that uncommon. Yet, this smell was so acrid that I couldn't help but think it out of the ordinary. A few blocks from my apartment I began to see clouds of smoke rising in the distance, and in jest I asked myself, what if my apartment building were on fire? Did I leave the burner on? The heater? No, definitely not. What if my good-for-nothing neighbor set the place ablaze, maybe exploding a speaker while listening to Dido at full blast, as he is often wont. And, if my building were on fire, would I run in and try to save any of my belongings. I had to admit, I don't have a lot of valuable stuff. Nothing worth risking my neck on. Well, maybe my computer, my external hard-drive with all my music on it. When I turned the corner up my street and saw the firetrucks parked directly in front of my building, I felt like I was going to faint or puke or both. Just by imagining it (I imagined), I had made it true! Agast, I continued up the boulevard, and with great relief, I realized that my apartment was not on fire, but that a car parked directly in front of my building was. As you can see from the photos, the little sedan had been so engulfed by the flames that all that was left was a charred skeleton. Fortunately, no one was hurt, and word on the street was that the car "a pris feu" spontaneously. Ever wonder why you don't see French cars for sale in the U.S.? Not anymore, eh?

New Feature -- Music Sidebar

Thanks to my good pal Dana, I've just been turned on to the world of music "scrobbling." I find this a most onerous term, like most of the recent crop of technolingo like googling, podcasting, ripping, digging, burning, blogging, etc., but this really is quite an ingenious service. Go to Last.fm to check it out. Once you download the software, it keeps track of what you listen to and shares it with your friends. You can find other people who are into the same stuff you're into, and it makes it really easy to find new music you might be interested. Also, it has all these radio stations that it tailors directly to your interests. Perfect for someone feeling a bit detached from popular culture by, say, the span of the Atlantic Ocean. So, if you want to digg what I'm into (yo), check out the sidebar. (I'm only mildly embarassed by the noticeable preponderance of tracks by NPR.)

The French Say the Darndest Things

On the occasion of this lazy Sunday, I thought I would take advantage of one of my very rare moments of repose (as if I never pass an entire day in my pajamas ever) to catch you all up on the highlights of recent events in my irresistibly fascinating life in Toulon. To begin with, you should know that around these parts, the French have a familiar saying that they use to demarcate something they find especially foolish. The phrase is : n’importe quoi. Here’s how they might use it: Avec Segolene Royal, c’est vraiment n’importe quoi. Literally translated, that means, “with Segolene Royal, it is truly anything.” Figuratively, however, it means that the speaker thinks Segolene Royal is so crazy and stupid that she is totally unpredictable and will do anything no matter how ridiculous it seems (which is actually how most southerners of France feel about the leftist presidential candidate). Last night, a friend and I went out to a bar to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, a holiday that in fact few French people (if any) celebrate at all, but feeling staunchly true to our red American blood, we felt obliged to carry on the tradition even in hostile territory. Arriving at the bar dressed in ridiculous green garb, we immediately attracted attention as conspicuous Americans. After a short time, we fell in with a group of young people, some of whom we had met previously on another night. Even though we already knew some of these people, I felt like I was having a difficult time interacting with them in anything other than a very awkward way. We exchanged a few pleasantries amongst those of us packed tightly around one rectangular table, but after barely opening my mouth one young man felt obligated to tell me that his English was much better than my French, which had the double effect of both insulting me and convincing me to keep my mouth shut (he said this, of course, in barely intelligible English). I finally found what I thought to be a suitable “in” to a conversation going on next to me when a couple who had moments before been necking furiously joked that they were, in fact, brother and sister (oh, the sparkling French wit, always so charming and sophisticated!), to which I responded (I thought cleverly), that with the French it is truly “n’importe quoi.” Everyone laughed, which I took initially to mean that I had both effectively used a common phrase and made a good joke, but it didn’t take me long to realize that they were not laughing with me, but at me. For the rest of the evening, I was the simple American girl who said that “avec les français, c’est vraiment n’importe quoi.” The joke was repeated for everyone who passed by the table and even for distant friends who were eagerly lured over to hear what foolish thing the American girl said. And, after a while, it wasn’t so much what I said that seemed to matter, but that I had said anything. I was a novelty to them, and American who spoke not only French, but their own patois. I was no more interesting than a talking parrot, and there was really no convincing them otherwise since when I spoke they were so astonished by the words coming out of my mouth they couldn’t even pause to hear the content of what I was saying.

Incidents like these are particularly frustrating given the amount of time I spend at my job patiently trying to decipher pitiful attempts on the part of French young people to communicate to me in English, and overlooking the ridiculous things that they say. Just the other day, in fact, I had a real doozie. The topic of my lesson was what the students did during their most recent vacation. I had just asked if anyone in the class had a funny story about something that happened on vacation, when everyone pointed to one young man, we’ll call him Jean, saying that Jean had a funny story. Jean squirmed a little in his seat, reluctant to be in the spotlight, but finally he confessed that over the vacation he had eaten a bus. Yes, that’s right, he ate a bus. Here’s roughly the dialogue that ensued:

Me: I’m sorry, I didn’t understand you. You ate a bus?
Jean: Yes, yes. I ate a bus.
Me: But, you couldn’t possibly have eaten a bus. (I made the hand-to-mouth motion to indicate the meaning of “eaten.”)
Jean: Yes! I ate a bus! (He mirrors my miming motions.)
Me: Please explain.
Jean: I was on my cycle, and I ate a bus.
Me: Oh, you mean you HIT a bus. Or, rather, a bus hit you?
Jean: No, not HIT, ATE. I ate a bus. (I now think one of us is crazy. Jean continues.) It is… how do you say? A figure of speech. You say, ate a bus.

The discovery of this strange idiomatic phrase leaves me speechless. It is just too weird. I’m also not sure that Jean is a reliable source, although his classmates confirmed that it is a figure of speech that the French use to describe a collision. The reason I don’t trust Jean is that, first, Jean appeared to me to be unharmed. Had he hit a bus, I would expect to see at least a moderate amount of physical damage to his person. Second, it would seem more logical too me if it was the other way around, that the bus ATE him, not that he ATE the bus. But, then again, the French have all kinds of these ridiculous idioms. For example, to say that you’ve stood someone up, in French you say, literally, you left a rabbit. Or, if you have a hangover, you say you have a face made of wood. (There’s a great book on this, by the way, called “Ciel! Blake!”)

And, one more thing. There is a talking parrot in my neighborhood. He lives on the balcony of an apartment overlooking the main street, and most of the time he’s too preoccupied to say much of anything (it is a busy life, isn’t it, that of the talking parrot), but when he is feeling a bit loquacious, he says “merci” (thank you) and “ta gueule” (shut up) alternately and at random. Kind of has the effect of making the poor bird appear a bit unstable. And, have a bird shouting down at me from two stories above my head while I’m walking down the street has the effect of making me feel a bit unstable as well. So, I’m sticking to my guns on this one. With the French, it is truly “n’importe quoi.”

Heroes Are Eating My Brains!

Ahhhh! I'm addicted to Heroes! Seriously, is anyone else watching this show? Its popularity is spreading among the expat crowd like the plague around these parts. My intention was to write a nice update blogpost, recapping my two week vacation, etc., but all I can think about is this NBC network program that I have in fact only ever seen in grainy pirated versions scrounged off the internet! I've already blown through the first eleven episodes in the last four days. The show is just that good... Or, it makes for a great escape, which is what I think all the assistants and I are really hungry for right about now. Vacation was fun, nay, really really fun, but coming back to Toulon is like a bucket of cold water in the face, a truly cruel awakening. I can't instantly teleport back to Barcelona or Paris, but Hiro (a character in the show) sure could! (He could also stop time so that I could watch every episode back to back and not feel guilty about wasting time!)

All mental diarrhea aside, vacation was great! The new photos should be up, and I hope to have more photos soon from my fellow travelers as well. Spent the first week in Barcelona, staying in a really cool youth hostel called Gothic Point. Did some sightseeing during the daytime and saw a lot of really cool architecture by Gaudi and strolled along the 5 km shopping route, and then in the evenings we partied almost until sunrise! Seriously, half the clubs in Barcelona don't even open until 3am! I wasn't crazy about the tapas, the traditional Spanish food, but I was all over the falafel! That's right, Barcelona has a fantastic falafel chain called Maoz that features freshly made falafel and an all-you-can-eat salad bar including the really yummy (and artery clogging) deep-fried cauliflower, all for super cheap. As a vegetarian, I felt like I had died and gone to heaven! We left Barcelona just as it was starting to heat up, and got to spend at least one solid afternoon laying on the beach, where people actually walk around selling beers and offering back massages to the beach bums. Then, I flew to Paris where I met up with Zoe and her mom. We ate a Maoz there too, except for some reason (if you've been reading my blog for a while now, I'm sure you will share my utter lack of suprise) the Maoz in Paris was totally lame! They didn't have the deep-fried cauliflower or any of the really tasty sauces they had in Barcelona, it was twice as expensive and the portions were half the size. (Leitmotif = everything in France sucks more than anywhere else. Period.) But, the really cool part about Paris was I actually spent the first two nights there by myself. Readers may recall my initial hesitation about traveling alone, but I decided to go for it as it was only two days, and it was a city that I'm very familiar with at this point. You're never alone in Paris, anyhow (even if you want to be!). It turned out to be a very serendipitous choice. When I first arrived in Paris, I checked into my hotel, and then decided to take a stroll to grab a bite to eat and maybe check to see if there was a movie theatre nearby or some other way to wile away the evening alone. Not three blocks from my hotel, I stumbled upon a theatre advertising a concert being held that night featuring Lily Allen (if you don't know who she is, you need to listen to her album, its fantastic!). I inquired about tickets, and sure enough, the concert wasn't sold out yet. I went back to my room to freshen up, then stood in line for tickets with a couple of die-hard Lily fans from Limoges who graciously let me cut in line with them. It was a long wait, but totally worth it. The show was fantastic, and it was probably the best venue for the cheapest price I would ever have the chance to pay to see her since she's not too famous in France (she's English, afterall, a major cultural and linguistic stumbling block for the French). Being packed into a tiny theatre in and amongst a multicultural crowd of hipsters felt so... homey. Where were the slicked back black-dyed mullets and the lace-up pointy toed pirate boots? Nowhere, that's where. In Toulon, where they should stay. These were my people. This was the Europe I was hoping to find, one in which language barriers dissolve when met by an overarching global culture based upon a philosophy of really great music, art, fashion, and enlightened principles. Such a relief to know it may actually still exist outside the realm of my inner fantasies... And then, Zoe's mom came and went, and then it was just Zoe and me in Paris. She made me spend too much money as always (not my fault, I swear). Finally, we spent last weekend in Digne, staying up too late with the Digne assistants and doing a little hiking, and then POOF, I was back in Toulon like I'd never left.

So, there's my vacation in a nutshell. I left a few things out, of course, but maybe I'll get to those details at a later date. You never know, it could happen. I could squish up my face in this really cute way that makes me bend space and time. Watch Heroes. You'll get it.

Vacation Roundup

The pictures from my Milan trip one week ago are finally on the web (and by this I am insinuating that you should see them, especially since I took great pains to write descriptive captions for each and everyone one). Since I've been back, I've done nothing besides work and pine for my next opportunity to escape the "Ville de Merde" (or the locals' nickname for Toulon). Fortunately for me, my next vacation starts this weekend! Starting Saturday, I have a full two weeks of paid vacation ahead of me. I am currently in travel guides up to my eye-balls (aparently all that time I spend brooding and pining was not, actually, productive). Two weeks may seem like a long time for you stationary, non-migratory types, but for the world traveler with a wad of euros burning a whole in her pocket (euros do so ressemble play money, don't they?), time is not on my side. At the moment, I have committed to a full week in Barcelona, traveling with four other language assistants, and then it's on to Paris to meet up with Zoe and then head... who knows? Only problem is, I've got a gap of about three or four days in between Barcelona and Paris. I am (understandably, I think) loathe to return to Toulon. The city will be even more miserable since everyone (and I mean literally everyone since anyone who works get's time off at the same time as everyone else. That's what the french call "equality." It doesn't literally mean, in the democratic sense of the word, that we are all endowed with the same inalienable rights. No, it means we all go on vacation at the same time, probably to go skiing in the Alps, where we will all wear the exact same thing, and try not to become confused about who is who exactly, because we are all so very "equal." But, I digress...). Yes, it would just be me, and people who don't get off work, probably because they don't HAVE work, i.e. the homeless. But, my only other alternative, it would seem, would be to travel... alone. [Cue dramatic music.] I avoided the soul-searching question -- am I constitutionally capable of being in a foreign city all by myself? -- by doing some research. Google "women traveling alone" and there are lots of helpful advice columns and message boards (bordering on support groups) for women venturing abroad solo. Their suggestions include what to pack, ways to occupy your companion-free hours, and of course, staying safe. I read their advice, and now I'm back to the soul-searching question, only now it's a bit more fleshed out. Am I constitutionally capable of packing light enough to always have at least one hand free -- just in case? Ok. What about staying in a hotel room alone -- always make sure the person who knocks on your door is actually hotel personnel! Alright. How would you feel if someone propositioned you for sex -- it's not unusual to expect that a woman alone is a prostitute. Well, it wouldn't be the first time, I guess. But, usually I at least have a companion to laugh off the incident with me. Am I prepared to act as though I am the next victim of every person I meet, whether it be theft, rape, murder, or all three? How do I know the consierge at the hotel isn't really the mastermind behind a ring of internal organ thieves? What's to stop the man from driving the taxing from taking me to an out-of-the-way location and having his way with me? No! Not alright! Fear is the number one reason that keeps women from traveling -- it's certainly mine. Coming on the heels of V-day, and I don't mean Valentine's day, I mean the "V" that brought each and every one of us into this world, a day that passed sadly into history without celebration or acknowledgement on the part of the French, chauvinist bastards as they (mostly) are, I want to stand up and grab my suitcase and liberties in hand, and go wherever my heart desires and show my male oppressors that they cannot hold me down! But, then, I am forced to confront reality... Even if all the horrible things that could happen NEVER happen, could I even enjoy myself knowing all the while that they might, and they have (to other women). I don't know, dear readers. Are my fears irrational? Or, would I be a real Pollyanna to venture out alone?

I'll await the advice of my readership, of course. but as it stands, I'll probably still have to spend one miserable weekend in Toulon, deadbolt and chain securely fastened. And, that's why God created books, and anxious, introverted women who love them!

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.