Following a recent trend among friends of different circles, and following a recent trend of procrastination of necessary work in my life, I may have decided to turn this into a regular blog. We'll see. I've never been the type to, you know, easily and readily share things. But it could be a space for thoughts needed to be articulated, funny things, my photographs, hermetic musings on my next pretentious obsession, anecdotes on the rain, silly names to have baristas call out at high traffic café hours, etc.
I haven't yet decided whether or not this blog thing is on the whole entirely too dorky and indiscriminately extroverted for me to handle. Plus, that whole the-more-you-put-yourself-out-there-on-the-internet-the-more-everyone-can-see-slash-end-of-privacy thing kind of disturbs me. Even letting other people know of its existence leads to potential problems linked to the nature of the medium itself--how to tell my friends and relations about this thing without carelessly announcing its existence to all and everyone I know, including that one girl I went to middle school with and whose facebook friendship request I accepted only after much deliberation surrounding the question, "Who the fuck is this person?" For now, that title up there will still be about France.
Stay tuned, omnipresent Internet/government officials now reading this.
Anna Karina's eyes,
Adam
Friday, November 5, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
Vagabondage Pt. 2
It's convenient when the notes you take for class can easily be used to tell your friends what's happening.
La Grotte de Lombrives 17/05/2010
The quote that I believe the Grotte de Lombrives tour guide recited to me:
Là dans les flanc creusés d'un rocher qui sur plombe,
s'ouvre une gortte obscure, un nid où la colombe
Aime à gémir d'amour
-Alphonse de LAMARTINE
Or maybe that wasn't it. Or maybe I can't read it as powerfully as a frenchman in a 60 million year old cave can speak it.
I had a personal hour & a half tour of la Grotte de Lombrives today. After walking about 3km to get there I'm glad the guy decided to do the tour anyway when no one else showed up. Turns out the guy likes 19th century French literature, too--pretty knowledgeable too. his eyes lit up in excited agreement when he affirmed that a lot of 19th century writers had cave, gulf, abîme imagery. And, he told me, it was the 19th century when all the shit in the cave was named.
The room they call The Cathedral and which has as much volume as the Notre Dame de Paris is massive! It was just me and the tour guide in this giant room. Before we entered he asked if I was afraid of the dark before turning off all the lights for about 10 seconds, them illuminating the whole room. It was just me and him after having climbed to about halfway to the summit and he said something along the lines of make any noise you want since the echo was so magnificent. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't disrespect the silence. There are violin concerts in the cave a few times a year, which I imagine are amazing, but I couldn't disrespect the silence of this giant room. On the return trip we both stood at the gate that closes off the Cathedral and listened in silence to la chant de la grotte. "C'est râre," he said, "d'avoir ce moment." During the summer there are groups of up to 60.
In the end he gave me a free ride down the mountain on the trolley. Good day.
La Grotte de la Vache 18/05/2010
[Translated from the French]
I had wanted to rent a bike to go to the caves (la Grotte de la Vache and la Grotte de Niaux) but today and tomorrow are the only two days that the store is closed. So, I walked very quickly in the sun with my hiking boots, suspenders and white t-shirt--feeling like a mountain man-traveler type, if not for lack of beard--but nevertheless I was late. When I got there it was only the woman who was the guide and second in charge. I explained to her my situation and she gave me a short but extraordinary private visit of la Grotte de la Vache and then she drive me down the mountain and up the 1km road to the Grotta de Niaux just facing us for the visit at 4:15. She was really cool. And when I was walking back to the hotel later that evening, she saw me while driving in the other direction and stopped to say hi again. A bit later, I stuck out the ol' thumb and an old man in a BMW SUV (weird for France) picked me up and drove me back to town.
I'll spare you my notes from the cave visit.
La Grotte de Niaux 18/05/2010
«Tout homme crée sans le savoir comme il respire. Mais l'artiste se sent créer, son acte engage tout son être. » --Paul Valéry (on an information sign before the entrance of the cave).
On the 1.5km long road which leads down from the Grotte de Niaux, overlooking the valley where lies the village of Niaux and just next to it, Alliat:
I've rarely felt more alone in my life. Not necessarily lonely, but maybe. It wasn't exactly a bad feeling, just lonely. I felt so small like never before, or rather so insignificant, en face de tout ce que j'ai vu aujourd'hui, tout ce que j'ai appris des hommes magdéleneans, et ces montagnes, ces grandes montagnes.
La Grotte de Lombrives 17/05/2010
The quote that I believe the Grotte de Lombrives tour guide recited to me:
Là dans les flanc creusés d'un rocher qui sur plombe,
s'ouvre une gortte obscure, un nid où la colombe
Aime à gémir d'amour
-Alphonse de LAMARTINE
Or maybe that wasn't it. Or maybe I can't read it as powerfully as a frenchman in a 60 million year old cave can speak it.
I had a personal hour & a half tour of la Grotte de Lombrives today. After walking about 3km to get there I'm glad the guy decided to do the tour anyway when no one else showed up. Turns out the guy likes 19th century French literature, too--pretty knowledgeable too. his eyes lit up in excited agreement when he affirmed that a lot of 19th century writers had cave, gulf, abîme imagery. And, he told me, it was the 19th century when all the shit in the cave was named.
The room they call The Cathedral and which has as much volume as the Notre Dame de Paris is massive! It was just me and the tour guide in this giant room. Before we entered he asked if I was afraid of the dark before turning off all the lights for about 10 seconds, them illuminating the whole room. It was just me and him after having climbed to about halfway to the summit and he said something along the lines of make any noise you want since the echo was so magnificent. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't disrespect the silence. There are violin concerts in the cave a few times a year, which I imagine are amazing, but I couldn't disrespect the silence of this giant room. On the return trip we both stood at the gate that closes off the Cathedral and listened in silence to la chant de la grotte. "C'est râre," he said, "d'avoir ce moment." During the summer there are groups of up to 60.
In the end he gave me a free ride down the mountain on the trolley. Good day.
La Grotte de la Vache 18/05/2010
[Translated from the French]
I had wanted to rent a bike to go to the caves (la Grotte de la Vache and la Grotte de Niaux) but today and tomorrow are the only two days that the store is closed. So, I walked very quickly in the sun with my hiking boots, suspenders and white t-shirt--feeling like a mountain man-traveler type, if not for lack of beard--but nevertheless I was late. When I got there it was only the woman who was the guide and second in charge. I explained to her my situation and she gave me a short but extraordinary private visit of la Grotte de la Vache and then she drive me down the mountain and up the 1km road to the Grotta de Niaux just facing us for the visit at 4:15. She was really cool. And when I was walking back to the hotel later that evening, she saw me while driving in the other direction and stopped to say hi again. A bit later, I stuck out the ol' thumb and an old man in a BMW SUV (weird for France) picked me up and drove me back to town.
I'll spare you my notes from the cave visit.
La Grotte de Niaux 18/05/2010
«Tout homme crée sans le savoir comme il respire. Mais l'artiste se sent créer, son acte engage tout son être. » --Paul Valéry (on an information sign before the entrance of the cave).
On the 1.5km long road which leads down from the Grotte de Niaux, overlooking the valley where lies the village of Niaux and just next to it, Alliat:
I've rarely felt more alone in my life. Not necessarily lonely, but maybe. It wasn't exactly a bad feeling, just lonely. I felt so small like never before, or rather so insignificant, en face de tout ce que j'ai vu aujourd'hui, tout ce que j'ai appris des hommes magdéleneans, et ces montagnes, ces grandes montagnes.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
I've not really kept this up/Snapshots: Paris and Vagabondage Pt. 1
So it's been more than a month since I've updated this thing. Oops.
It was really hard to write in Paris. During my Vagabondage, it was easier. But then I lost my notebook.
Here are some random snapshots of what I've been up to:
On the Panthéon 19/04/2010
In 2000 years human beings or aliens will find the autel républican in the ruins of the Panthéon in an abandoned Paris, and will have forgotten the French language. A woman will uncover the Rosetta stone of what will become a resurgence in interest for old European languages and these beings of the future will read the block letters engraved on the autel, VIVRE LIBRE OU MOURIR. They will look into the decomposed and cracked and blank eyes of Marianne and they will see the unyielding gaze of a goddess holding a broad sword, a powerfully serious visage in the midst of ruins and they will ask themselves in reverence who the people were who worshiped at this alter of stone, and freedom.
Reflections on Paris 19/05/2010 (Afterthought)
Even though I think I was in Rennes for a longer period of time, Paris felt longer. We just did so much. Each day was filled with so many thorough and worthy things. Sometimes, it was two museums a day, and nearly all of it related to our class. I felt like there was never time to write, let alone space in that tiny apartment. Everyday from at least 10 to 5 was two museums, a park and a museum, a museum and class at the FIAP. It was just so much that when I got home at the end of the day there was nothing I could do but try to relax--not to mention that all the roommates were always home after our shit was done for the day and on most days someone from the class would show up at our apartment, because of its awesome central location, bird-calling up to our large open window, or others having come there so often that they knew the building code. I mean hell, I went running one time. Running shoes took up valuable suitcase space and I only went running ONCE. It also didn't help that we didn't have hot water for most of the time in the apartment, so the thought of coming home from a run to a freezing shower wasn't very appealing.
First day of my Vagabondage outside of Paris 15/05/2010
So this was the most interesting day in France so far! First of all I couldn't take my original train to Padirac at 8:55am this morning because I didn't have a seat reservation--for some reason I was thinking that it's not that far and I wouldn't need one for such a small train BUTTT what I didn't think of was that, duh, where I was getting off is not the terminus of the train and it was going all the way to Toulouse, i.e. it's a high speed train. So, after a moment of panic I just put up 60 euros to buy a regular ticket for the 2pm train that also had no more Rail Europe seat reservations. So, okay, I had to wait around in Paris for another 3 hours and buck up 8 euro for internet and another 7 to store my bags in a locker, but whatever, I chilled at the Jardin des Plantes for a few hours. About half way thru my train ride I get a call from the guy at the hotel in Padirac (whom I had called earlier to make later my arrival) saying he's made an error with my reservation and asking if it's cool if I stay somewhere else at a friend's place, just as nice blah blah. Cool. All is good, I make my transfer in Brive and end up missing my stop to get off at Padirac becuase the train stopped there for approximately 20 seconds and before I could get my bags together it left again. But whatever, I didn't have to show my rail pass, so now I have an extra day on it. So, I get off at the next station which is luckily like 10 minutes later and have no idea how to get to the hotel. I make a sort of ass of myself calling and asking the hotel if they knew of a taxi service, cause my now the desk at the "train station" (small building near some train tracks) is closed.
Monday 17 May (transcribed from old notebook)
Today, I lost my notebook. Or rather, last night, I think, at sometime between 11:50pm and 12:10am, I lost my notebook. It must have fallen out of my pocket when I was getting off the SNCF bus at the Tarascon-Sur-Ariège train station (I had it in my pocket for sure when I was putting on my coat) or when I was wandering the streets of this small Pyrénéean village, toting all my (too much) baggage--stunningly oblivious to the steep, rocky mountain peaks looming in the darkness on all sides of me--looking for my hotel. C'est pas complètement grave because it's only 2 weeks old--I can remember fairly well most of the important things: the cryptes of Notre Dame, the Munch exhibit (this will be harder, I wrote some complicated shit on it), not to mention my notes from the day before at le Gouffre de Padirac.
I spent most of my morning and early afternoon here practicing my best French phone call skills, talking to the woman who owns the hotel, the people at the SNCF station (twice), the SNCF lost and found office, what I think is the bus depot and the town mayor's office; as well as my best observational skills while retracing my steps from the night before and looking under every parked car and in every garbage can along the way!
The ironic part is that I held the thing so close yesterday, all day. It had my train itinerary for the day, my ramblings about the Gouffre--hell, it traveled with me into the earth on an underground river.
Wish me luck, someone.
It was really hard to write in Paris. During my Vagabondage, it was easier. But then I lost my notebook.
Here are some random snapshots of what I've been up to:
On the Panthéon 19/04/2010
In 2000 years human beings or aliens will find the autel républican in the ruins of the Panthéon in an abandoned Paris, and will have forgotten the French language. A woman will uncover the Rosetta stone of what will become a resurgence in interest for old European languages and these beings of the future will read the block letters engraved on the autel, VIVRE LIBRE OU MOURIR. They will look into the decomposed and cracked and blank eyes of Marianne and they will see the unyielding gaze of a goddess holding a broad sword, a powerfully serious visage in the midst of ruins and they will ask themselves in reverence who the people were who worshiped at this alter of stone, and freedom.
Reflections on Paris 19/05/2010 (Afterthought)
Even though I think I was in Rennes for a longer period of time, Paris felt longer. We just did so much. Each day was filled with so many thorough and worthy things. Sometimes, it was two museums a day, and nearly all of it related to our class. I felt like there was never time to write, let alone space in that tiny apartment. Everyday from at least 10 to 5 was two museums, a park and a museum, a museum and class at the FIAP. It was just so much that when I got home at the end of the day there was nothing I could do but try to relax--not to mention that all the roommates were always home after our shit was done for the day and on most days someone from the class would show up at our apartment, because of its awesome central location, bird-calling up to our large open window, or others having come there so often that they knew the building code. I mean hell, I went running one time. Running shoes took up valuable suitcase space and I only went running ONCE. It also didn't help that we didn't have hot water for most of the time in the apartment, so the thought of coming home from a run to a freezing shower wasn't very appealing.
First day of my Vagabondage outside of Paris 15/05/2010
So this was the most interesting day in France so far! First of all I couldn't take my original train to Padirac at 8:55am this morning because I didn't have a seat reservation--for some reason I was thinking that it's not that far and I wouldn't need one for such a small train BUTTT what I didn't think of was that, duh, where I was getting off is not the terminus of the train and it was going all the way to Toulouse, i.e. it's a high speed train. So, after a moment of panic I just put up 60 euros to buy a regular ticket for the 2pm train that also had no more Rail Europe seat reservations. So, okay, I had to wait around in Paris for another 3 hours and buck up 8 euro for internet and another 7 to store my bags in a locker, but whatever, I chilled at the Jardin des Plantes for a few hours. About half way thru my train ride I get a call from the guy at the hotel in Padirac (whom I had called earlier to make later my arrival) saying he's made an error with my reservation and asking if it's cool if I stay somewhere else at a friend's place, just as nice blah blah. Cool. All is good, I make my transfer in Brive and end up missing my stop to get off at Padirac becuase the train stopped there for approximately 20 seconds and before I could get my bags together it left again. But whatever, I didn't have to show my rail pass, so now I have an extra day on it. So, I get off at the next station which is luckily like 10 minutes later and have no idea how to get to the hotel. I make a sort of ass of myself calling and asking the hotel if they knew of a taxi service, cause my now the desk at the "train station" (small building near some train tracks) is closed.
Monday 17 May (transcribed from old notebook)
Today, I lost my notebook. Or rather, last night, I think, at sometime between 11:50pm and 12:10am, I lost my notebook. It must have fallen out of my pocket when I was getting off the SNCF bus at the Tarascon-Sur-Ariège train station (I had it in my pocket for sure when I was putting on my coat) or when I was wandering the streets of this small Pyrénéean village, toting all my (too much) baggage--stunningly oblivious to the steep, rocky mountain peaks looming in the darkness on all sides of me--looking for my hotel. C'est pas complètement grave because it's only 2 weeks old--I can remember fairly well most of the important things: the cryptes of Notre Dame, the Munch exhibit (this will be harder, I wrote some complicated shit on it), not to mention my notes from the day before at le Gouffre de Padirac.
I spent most of my morning and early afternoon here practicing my best French phone call skills, talking to the woman who owns the hotel, the people at the SNCF station (twice), the SNCF lost and found office, what I think is the bus depot and the town mayor's office; as well as my best observational skills while retracing my steps from the night before and looking under every parked car and in every garbage can along the way!
The ironic part is that I held the thing so close yesterday, all day. It had my train itinerary for the day, my ramblings about the Gouffre--hell, it traveled with me into the earth on an underground river.
Wish me luck, someone.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Rennes update
Sorry about not updating so much. It's been busy here. For me, why this "intensive language program" actually is intensive is because we have class from like 9-4 everyday, and outings on Saturdays, so there's not much time for rest. Especially when after school you have obligations with the family, too.
(Like a house made from spider webs and the clouds rolling in
I bet this mighty river's both my savior and my sin)
The past two weeks, though busy, have been cool. The language school has not been the hardest thing I've ever done, but it is tiring because it's language classes, in French, for three hour blocks. We've been doing lots of listening comprehension through listening to radio titles (imagine someone reading the headlines before each news radio emission, that's what they do here), as well as creating our own to work on oral stuff, rhythm, pronunciation, accent, etc. We've also been learning some of the history of Brittany in preparation for some of the visits, etc.
I'm in the top of the advanced class so I almost shat myself in exasperation (yes) when last Tuesday or Wednesday we started doing passé composé/imparfait stuff--though this time it was short, I think this is the 4th or 5th official time I've had to learn this stuff. I was really looking forward to the school, new exciting challenges, but I guess it goes without saying that after 7 (fucking) years of studying this language in school, there are obviously going to be others in the class who have not learned all the things I have. I hope this doesn't sound condescending or brag-ish, but I have been all up in this shit for one third of my lifetime, so whatevs French language. I just need to talktalktalktalk more to improve my talking.
(strong ferns beat the wind black)
For almost a week starting midway through the first week (it's now the beginning of the third) I was really sore in the cheeks, right about on the cheek bones. French is obviously more nasal, but it's also more resonant through the head and pronunciation comes from tighter and higher up on the face muscles. It was weird, my accent was shitty too. But I think a combination of high protein, all-meat diet (sike!) and the fact that no one in the fucking class wants to speak French outside of class has led my cheek muscles to recover and hence so has my accent.
A week from yesterday we went on a trip to Mont St. Michel and St. Malo (The most extreme thing I've seen in months: http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc3/hs509.snc3/26745_409730728139_636188139_5055252_6626850_n.jpg). Pretty badass. I don't remember much from the first time I was in France 11 years ago, but one of the most poignant things in my head from then is Mont St. Michel. So it was cool to revisit. Also, we got to see this tiny island off the coast at St. Malo where Romantic poet René de Chateaubriand is buried, called Grand Bé, so that he could continue his communication with the sea (I know, rightttt). Appropriate Dark Romantics moment: pouring rain and 40mph wind just as we reached the part of the St. Malo ramparts when you can see Grand Bé. Way to go universe.
(Vingt ans avant sa mort l'écrivain a manifesté son désir d'être enterré sur ce morceau de terre, face au large, pour poursuivre sa conversation avec la mer.)
Last Monday was Easter Monday so we didn't have class. About a dozen of us went to Dinan and environs with the homestay coordinator lady. Kind of weird, but fun enough. we stopped in many places including this impressive little church with a cemetery in a town called ICan'tRememberSomethingNamedAfterATreeOrAPlant. Then on Wednesday we went to Combourg to see Chateaubriand's castle itself and to run around like sully Americans on a huge flat lawn.
(so many skeletons beneath our feet bein shaken by the hymns)
For the past 5 days or so there's been this theater/music/performance festival going on in Rennes. On Friday I went to this concert by a woman named Hindi Zahra. It was really good. The program description described her as la fille spirituelle de Billie Holiday et Django Reinhardt though live she was much more crazyyyy. She's from Morocco, moved to France when she was young and also speaks perfect English; her show is her singing with a full band behind her. She sang some songs in some Berber language, and most of her stuff was acoustic, soul/jazz sing songy stuff: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VbdnjQCPXq8 BUT what was really fucking awesome about the show (besides super high energyness) was when they got all funky and rocky and trancy. I can't find any equivalents on YouTube, but it got all psychedelic-Led Zeppelin-with-soulful/rock-Billie Holiday-on-vocals. Pretty sweet.
Finalement, yesterday we went to the island of Gavrinis where we saw a giant cairn i.e. a dolemin with a pile of rocks on it i.e. imagine a giant stonehenge with dry stones on top to form a hill. Needless to say, the anthropology dork that I am, I was stoked. It was pretty fucking awesome. On the inside of the tomb (which it is) are these awesome carvings. Which have been there for 7000 years. Humans. Just like us. With bad breath and itchy chins. Built this thing, so fucking long ago. I can't conceptualize 650 years, let alone 7000. I also learned that dolemin and menhir are Breton words. It was incredible. No photographs inside for the public, but this is what the stones look like: http://www.jorgetutor.com/francia/bretagne/bretagne1/bretagne2.jpg. I can't exactly describe what I felt inside it but something of those people, and the people that were buried there, the stones that have survived for this long as a symbol of the intransiency of our death, all that connected me to something bigger. Dunno about god or any omnipotent being or anything but that those stones and all they represent have remained for so long in that spot in order to mark the death of human beings amongst countless life cycles only regenerates my belief in some resilient power on this earth that I'm part of and so are the rocks and the trees and the mountains and the soil. Fuck.
(they engraved the stones with quartz pebbles, one centimeter per day)
I'm sick of cheese sandwiches for lunch. I wish I spoke French more. Today, I solved the murder; it was the the second-hand goods dealer who killed the museum director. Mom would've loved it.
There's a crow moon comin in,
France
(Like a house made from spider webs and the clouds rolling in
I bet this mighty river's both my savior and my sin)
The past two weeks, though busy, have been cool. The language school has not been the hardest thing I've ever done, but it is tiring because it's language classes, in French, for three hour blocks. We've been doing lots of listening comprehension through listening to radio titles (imagine someone reading the headlines before each news radio emission, that's what they do here), as well as creating our own to work on oral stuff, rhythm, pronunciation, accent, etc. We've also been learning some of the history of Brittany in preparation for some of the visits, etc.
I'm in the top of the advanced class so I almost shat myself in exasperation (yes) when last Tuesday or Wednesday we started doing passé composé/imparfait stuff--though this time it was short, I think this is the 4th or 5th official time I've had to learn this stuff. I was really looking forward to the school, new exciting challenges, but I guess it goes without saying that after 7 (fucking) years of studying this language in school, there are obviously going to be others in the class who have not learned all the things I have. I hope this doesn't sound condescending or brag-ish, but I have been all up in this shit for one third of my lifetime, so whatevs French language. I just need to talktalktalktalk more to improve my talking.
(strong ferns beat the wind black)
For almost a week starting midway through the first week (it's now the beginning of the third) I was really sore in the cheeks, right about on the cheek bones. French is obviously more nasal, but it's also more resonant through the head and pronunciation comes from tighter and higher up on the face muscles. It was weird, my accent was shitty too. But I think a combination of high protein, all-meat diet (sike!) and the fact that no one in the fucking class wants to speak French outside of class has led my cheek muscles to recover and hence so has my accent.
A week from yesterday we went on a trip to Mont St. Michel and St. Malo (The most extreme thing I've seen in months: http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc3/hs509.snc3/26745_409730728139_636188139_5055252_6626850_n.jpg). Pretty badass. I don't remember much from the first time I was in France 11 years ago, but one of the most poignant things in my head from then is Mont St. Michel. So it was cool to revisit. Also, we got to see this tiny island off the coast at St. Malo where Romantic poet René de Chateaubriand is buried, called Grand Bé, so that he could continue his communication with the sea (I know, rightttt). Appropriate Dark Romantics moment: pouring rain and 40mph wind just as we reached the part of the St. Malo ramparts when you can see Grand Bé. Way to go universe.
(Vingt ans avant sa mort l'écrivain a manifesté son désir d'être enterré sur ce morceau de terre, face au large, pour poursuivre sa conversation avec la mer.)
Last Monday was Easter Monday so we didn't have class. About a dozen of us went to Dinan and environs with the homestay coordinator lady. Kind of weird, but fun enough. we stopped in many places including this impressive little church with a cemetery in a town called ICan'tRememberSomethingNamedAfterATreeOrAPlant. Then on Wednesday we went to Combourg to see Chateaubriand's castle itself and to run around like sully Americans on a huge flat lawn.
(so many skeletons beneath our feet bein shaken by the hymns)
For the past 5 days or so there's been this theater/music/performance festival going on in Rennes. On Friday I went to this concert by a woman named Hindi Zahra. It was really good. The program description described her as la fille spirituelle de Billie Holiday et Django Reinhardt though live she was much more crazyyyy. She's from Morocco, moved to France when she was young and also speaks perfect English; her show is her singing with a full band behind her. She sang some songs in some Berber language, and most of her stuff was acoustic, soul/jazz sing songy stuff: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VbdnjQCPXq8 BUT what was really fucking awesome about the show (besides super high energyness) was when they got all funky and rocky and trancy. I can't find any equivalents on YouTube, but it got all psychedelic-Led Zeppelin-with-soulful/rock-Billie Holiday-on-vocals. Pretty sweet.
Finalement, yesterday we went to the island of Gavrinis where we saw a giant cairn i.e. a dolemin with a pile of rocks on it i.e. imagine a giant stonehenge with dry stones on top to form a hill. Needless to say, the anthropology dork that I am, I was stoked. It was pretty fucking awesome. On the inside of the tomb (which it is) are these awesome carvings. Which have been there for 7000 years. Humans. Just like us. With bad breath and itchy chins. Built this thing, so fucking long ago. I can't conceptualize 650 years, let alone 7000. I also learned that dolemin and menhir are Breton words. It was incredible. No photographs inside for the public, but this is what the stones look like: http://www.jorgetutor.com/francia/bretagne/bretagne1/bretagne2.jpg. I can't exactly describe what I felt inside it but something of those people, and the people that were buried there, the stones that have survived for this long as a symbol of the intransiency of our death, all that connected me to something bigger. Dunno about god or any omnipotent being or anything but that those stones and all they represent have remained for so long in that spot in order to mark the death of human beings amongst countless life cycles only regenerates my belief in some resilient power on this earth that I'm part of and so are the rocks and the trees and the mountains and the soil. Fuck.
(they engraved the stones with quartz pebbles, one centimeter per day)
I'm sick of cheese sandwiches for lunch. I wish I spoke French more. Today, I solved the murder; it was the the second-hand goods dealer who killed the museum director. Mom would've loved it.
There's a crow moon comin in,
France
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Je suis arrivé
I'm gonna go ahead and preface this whole blog thing with a few important points. First, my brain has decided to speak in French. It's a bit difficult to spit out complex sentences in English at the moment, so excuse the forced writing and/or interspersed French shit. Also, dunno if I can keep this up. And I don't really feel like the whole world should see this. Lastly, no, this will not be as writerly or journalistic as Yell's.
Okay, I left for Paris Wednesday night. Was on the same flight (randomly) as Matt, Darcy (both with whom I'll live in Paris for a month) and Zosia. It took us 30 minutes to figure out how to buy the train ticket from the airport to Paris. Winners. Five minutes before landing, my shoes received a nice splashing of residual puke from the teenage girl across the aisle who found it necessary to immoderately disgorge the breakfastpastrybrick she had just eaten into the aisle way. Note: this is the second time this pair of shoes have been puked on, and not by me, on mass transit. Une jolie petite histoire pour commencer.
Ah, but first. In Philly before we left, we were sitting around waiting for our flight when this woman rolls up lookin' very French--dressed in black, a leather jacket with a red scarf, dark and petite, a guitar on her back and a carton of Marlboro reds plus a bottle of Jack hanging from her right hand in a bag from the duty-free shop--sold yet? Long story short, her name is Sabrina and she was in LA for the past three months making art--a short film about the EcoPark, impermanent sculptures, photography, etc. We talked for a good bit and exchanged contact info while she shared her whiskey. The next night in Paris, I get a call at about 6:30 (in the middle of a nap) and she wants to get a beer somewhere. We meet up at around 8 and start trying to find a random bar. After I get over the suspicion that she does in fact know Paris, and is a crazywoman, and that she's going to take me down some dark alley and a present a gun to my face, we find a random ass and pleasant little bar a couple blocks from the Place d'Italie just as the sun is setting.
RECAP: It's my first night, my first day, my first 9 hours in Paris and I'm having a beer with a French woman at a bar that she doesn't know either and we're talking about art. And I want to read her book. She tells me she's written a book. And someone wants her to write another. Her first book has an obligatory long title which is something like «Est-t-il pervers de couper le papier avec des mots comme...» (Is it perverse to cut paper into words...blah something about paper flowers). In it she tries to find le mot juste, like, the truly correct word for things; and she creates new words out of verbs, no adjectives or nouns, like German words. From here we got to talking about Nietzsche's "Truth and Lies," language, as well as Mallarmé, symbolist poets, etc. Pretty awesome how much what she was trying to do artistically related to my studies this year. I still need to get her book somehow.
Thursday, Friday and Saturday were cool being in Paris without much pressure to be a tourist and see a bunch of shit. We did a lot of walking and just experiencing. Randomly met up with Rachel at the hostel I stayed at the first night. After Thursday, Matt & I couch surfed at this dude François' (of course) place. He was awesome. Super nice, with an Australian accent when he spoke English. A bit dorky, but a real dude. Rillll. Vraiment. Couldn't have asked for a better sleeping accommodation in Paris--which included getting to go out to the bars at night with un vrai français (regard, il bouge!). Ha.
It's only the thrid night here in Rennes, but I can give my first impressions of the host family. Michèle is a plump, happy looking woman who mumbles a bit (or is that an accent?) and hums to herself when she's content. Loïc is a normal dude, very nice and just genuine. He's 23, currently doing stage at some marketing firm--he wants to do biology management, something like a mix between biology and marketing. Joël, the English dude who's doing a teaching assistantship here, and staying with Michèle et Loïc seems very English. A bit frail looking, glasses, very white haha. I haven't interacted with him much because he's not been at dinner these past three nights and we both have school today during the day. Junior is a little kind of rat terrier looking thing, with short brown hair and a twisted head like my aunt's dog once had. He's probably 2/3 the size of my mom's dog Zooey and he's 15 years old.
The language school has been legit, have only had two mornings of class so far. Rennes is legit, too. I was happy to see that punks actually do exist in France.
That's about it. This'll probably be the longest one of these I do. Jesus.
Okay, I left for Paris Wednesday night. Was on the same flight (randomly) as Matt, Darcy (both with whom I'll live in Paris for a month) and Zosia. It took us 30 minutes to figure out how to buy the train ticket from the airport to Paris. Winners. Five minutes before landing, my shoes received a nice splashing of residual puke from the teenage girl across the aisle who found it necessary to immoderately disgorge the breakfastpastrybrick she had just eaten into the aisle way. Note: this is the second time this pair of shoes have been puked on, and not by me, on mass transit. Une jolie petite histoire pour commencer.
Ah, but first. In Philly before we left, we were sitting around waiting for our flight when this woman rolls up lookin' very French--dressed in black, a leather jacket with a red scarf, dark and petite, a guitar on her back and a carton of Marlboro reds plus a bottle of Jack hanging from her right hand in a bag from the duty-free shop--sold yet? Long story short, her name is Sabrina and she was in LA for the past three months making art--a short film about the EcoPark, impermanent sculptures, photography, etc. We talked for a good bit and exchanged contact info while she shared her whiskey. The next night in Paris, I get a call at about 6:30 (in the middle of a nap) and she wants to get a beer somewhere. We meet up at around 8 and start trying to find a random bar. After I get over the suspicion that she does in fact know Paris, and is a crazywoman, and that she's going to take me down some dark alley and a present a gun to my face, we find a random ass and pleasant little bar a couple blocks from the Place d'Italie just as the sun is setting.
RECAP: It's my first night, my first day, my first 9 hours in Paris and I'm having a beer with a French woman at a bar that she doesn't know either and we're talking about art. And I want to read her book. She tells me she's written a book. And someone wants her to write another. Her first book has an obligatory long title which is something like «Est-t-il pervers de couper le papier avec des mots comme...» (Is it perverse to cut paper into words...blah something about paper flowers). In it she tries to find le mot juste, like, the truly correct word for things; and she creates new words out of verbs, no adjectives or nouns, like German words. From here we got to talking about Nietzsche's "Truth and Lies," language, as well as Mallarmé, symbolist poets, etc. Pretty awesome how much what she was trying to do artistically related to my studies this year. I still need to get her book somehow.
Thursday, Friday and Saturday were cool being in Paris without much pressure to be a tourist and see a bunch of shit. We did a lot of walking and just experiencing. Randomly met up with Rachel at the hostel I stayed at the first night. After Thursday, Matt & I couch surfed at this dude François' (of course) place. He was awesome. Super nice, with an Australian accent when he spoke English. A bit dorky, but a real dude. Rillll. Vraiment. Couldn't have asked for a better sleeping accommodation in Paris--which included getting to go out to the bars at night with un vrai français (regard, il bouge!). Ha.
It's only the thrid night here in Rennes, but I can give my first impressions of the host family. Michèle is a plump, happy looking woman who mumbles a bit (or is that an accent?) and hums to herself when she's content. Loïc is a normal dude, very nice and just genuine. He's 23, currently doing stage at some marketing firm--he wants to do biology management, something like a mix between biology and marketing. Joël, the English dude who's doing a teaching assistantship here, and staying with Michèle et Loïc seems very English. A bit frail looking, glasses, very white haha. I haven't interacted with him much because he's not been at dinner these past three nights and we both have school today during the day. Junior is a little kind of rat terrier looking thing, with short brown hair and a twisted head like my aunt's dog once had. He's probably 2/3 the size of my mom's dog Zooey and he's 15 years old.
The language school has been legit, have only had two mornings of class so far. Rennes is legit, too. I was happy to see that punks actually do exist in France.
That's about it. This'll probably be the longest one of these I do. Jesus.
Monday, March 29, 2010
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