Stacking cheddar and stupid is as stupid don't

Last week, while cruising around Dallas on a trip to meet a friend in Fort Worth, I had a bit of time to kill. I decided I would stop by Whole Foods to, 1) waste time, and 2)buy a bottle of wine for a picnic that some friends and I would be having the next day. As I entered the store and made my way through various sections in order to find my wine aisle, fate precipitated young Greg into a sea of counters covered by blocks of chocolate. Distracted and intrigued, I stopped to peruse the selection when, suddenly, like a midnight sun, a blinding light caught my eye. The source? A stunning beauty just to my right, glistening in the grocery store lights like the hood of a Camaro on a sunny summer day in California. Unable to avert my eyes, I approached with caution. Never having been a believer of the saying that the grocery store is a great place to find the love of your life, you can understand my hesitance. I looked around to make sure the coast was clear, not that any soul could prevent what was to happen next. After all, this was fate. I moved nearer with a few blundering steps, and then, after several nervous glances, it happened...

I picked up the most beautiful 0.53-pound block of white chocolate that the world has ever seen. It was a stunning, awe-inspiring, $8.99/lb conglomeration of sugar, cacao butter, dry whole milk, soy lecithin as an emulsifier, and natural vanilla flavor (listed in order by quantity) that the grocery gods had put together just for me.

When fate brings two things together like it did with this rectangular block of Callebaut white chocolate and me, exigent action is required. We can move toward the target that destiny hath placed in our path and whose existence, most likely, was preordained as a source of pleasure for us, or we can squander the opportunity by tarrying away that ephemeral moment.

Forrest Gump once said "Stupid is as stupid does." While these words of wisdom are extraordinarily applicable to daily life, sometimes they must be manipulated to better reflect our quotidian circumstances. Thus, as a result of my experience, I am now a vehement follower of the words "Stupid is as stupid don't."

Also, I found employment.

Kannst du mir helfen?

As I stew in this warm pool of unemployment under a hot sun in the sagging, droopy diaper that is our sputtering economy, I'm finding that I am becoming increasingly interested in research, graduate school, and generally the development of new technology, particularly in the energy sector. This recently led me to consider the issue of individual vehicle transportation and what I believe to be a major roadblock preventing us from moving closer to widespread use of electrical vehicles- the limited storage and interchangeability of car batteries as well the lack of "gas station-style" infrastructure. As a result of this pondering, I have written a short article to serve as my view of the future for electrical vehicles if we can find a way to solve these problems.

Consider this:

You're driving your car along the highway and see that the battery's charge is getting low. You exit a few miles later and stop at the next service station. There, you show the attendant your "electrical car" driver's license and pay the $10 battery charge fee. The attendant pops your hood, disconnects the battery, takes it inside and replaces it with an identical, fully-charged battery. He reconnects the battery, closes the hood, and you're off again to sail down the highway.

Think about it: What if we had licenses to prove that you were the driver of a fully electrical vehicle. With this permit, and a small fee, you could go to the nearest charge station to replace your depleted battery with a fully-charged one. There is no hassle of finding a place to "plug in" your car (which would be a real headache for people who live in apartments) and no long waiting period while the battery recharges. Additionally, the small fee of replacing your battery is significantly less than you used to pay to refill your car's gas tank. All of this made possible by the development of the standard electrical car battery- interchangeable and identical for all electrical cars (somewhat like the batteries for our current gas vehicles, only capable of holding a significantly larger charge).

Granted, the development of this magical battery is definitely somewhere down the road. Right now, hybrid batteries are incredibly bulky, expensive, and you would never think about exchanging it on your own. Improved battery and electrical storage research is the key to really getting a system of electrical vehicles off the ground, which includes developing an infrastructure for electrical charge stations. Without significant advancements, however, electrical cars will likely remain nothing more than a fraction of all vehicles on the road.

"How funny is it..."

"...that the only skill we have that's worth a damn is that we speak the only language we know?" -Robert Cenzon

Indeed, for those who have excelled academically but struggled with direction and finding satisfaction with available work opportunities, teaching English in a foreign country seems to be a popular solution. Even if it's not an application of our most advanced level of education, we're still capable of doing this simply because we are native speakers, correct?

Well, after having taught English in France for 7 months, I found that the experience was certainly a challenging one- it was not unusual to find myself repeating phrases over and over as well as perusing online grammar sources in order to provide my friends or students with a correct answer. Moreover, as a result of the experience, I've begun to take note of grammar and vocabulary when people write and speak, and what I've discovered upon returning to the US is not pleasant. It is as if many of us have never had a class in grammar, read a book, or even listened to ourselves speak. Grammatical mistakes and misapplications of idiomatic phrases are everywhere. With the overabundance of news programming, there are many anchors who struggle to get the words out without severe hiccups. Watching athletic events can be extremely annoying, as pre-game hosts, broadcasters, coaches, and athletes are among the worst offenders. While I can tolerate the occasional mistake, I do find it frustrating to read a company's website and find multiple errors that can lead to ambiguity or misunderstandings, or hear a speaker on television making terrible gaffes in trying to spit out a simple phrase. This type of fault can damage credibility and, in the case of written publications, significantly reduce the readability of an article.

As a result, I began wondering why we're so poor at using our mother tongue. At first, I thought about myself. I am not perfect with written English, and certainly not in speaking. Perhaps I rely too heavily on spell-check. However, it appears that many people aren't even using that resource, so this is probably not the reason. After all, thinking back on reading the writings of fellow students in my first years of college, some of them were a struggle to understand because of the frequency of mistakes. Now, in reading blogs and posts on social networking sites, I've noticed that this is epidemic. No, I'm not talking about text-talk and condensations for the sake of being efficient, like "4," "u," etc, although these (and the accompanying errors in their use) have often rendered postings on sites like YouTube and Twitter nearly incomprehensible, and they certainly do not reflect well on our common intelligence.

While I am not absolutely sure (and I am open to hearing other suggestions on this subject), I think that the decline in our English is the result of:
1) the free-for-all, unmonitored nature of the internet;
2) the glorification of the "coolness" of speaking in an uneducated manner; and
3) a glaring shortcoming of our education system.

To focus on the topic of education, I noticed while I was in France that students are required to follow difficult grammar lessons, and they are exposed to this over a period of several years. For anyone not familiar with the language, French grammar can be difficult and very convoluted, and it is easily understandable why students need extensive training in the subject. As someone who has learned it for their second language, I am very cognizant of my faults and care a great deal about what is and isn't correct. However, the same could not be said for my English. Furthermore, when foreign friends would ask me for a sophisticated or intelligent manner of saying something in English, I found that I was often able to provide them a phrase in French, but not in English. Great. I speak a language with comparatively elementary conjugation rules and a significantly larger vocabulary base, and I struggle to develop intellectual phrases or even avoid errors. Thus, as I reflect on my education, it sticks out in my mind that we spent a surprisingly small amount of time covering grammar topics, although we did have years of vocabulary practice. I think that many people, with an honest self-evaluation, would be able to say the same regarding their education, and I think that this needs to change if we are going to maintain an intelligent society that is capable of clearly communicating.

As a result of this experience, I've begun to make a concerted effort to clean up my language, and I would like to encourage others to do likewise. I will admit that I have derived a great deal of pleasure over the years in speaking broken English and joking with my friends in that way. However, this type of language does not belong in a written forum, where the original context will likely be lost or misunderstood, and readers will be left to judge us as incoherent and uneducated. The only people laughing then will be the reader who finds it funny that we can't even speak the only language we know, and that's not what we want, is it?

Yes, I will do that...for $7000 more

Hello one and all
What better way to begin
Than with a haiku?

Hola, amigos. It's been a bit of time, but there's been surprisingly little to report of late. I am in Dallas, after all, and that seems to spell B-O-R-I-N-G. However, I did get the urge to post some more drivel today after several memories and ideas compelled me to jot down a few ideas.

To leap into the topic of unemployment, I'll begin with news of the job search and how you, too, can "Laura Miller" your way out of a job.

About a month ago I was simultaneously offered 2 jobs on the same day- the first was a full-time engineering gig, and the second was a part-time job teaching SAT prep. I had applied for the latter with the intention of finding something simple that would permit me to earn some money to keep afloat until I could find a full-time job. Little did I know that the engineering company would move extremely quickly in giving 2 interviews and then an offer. As it happened, I received both offers on the same day...and while I was not totally pumped about the salary offered by the engineering company, I was almost certain that I was going to accept the job after attempting to negotiate the pay. However, SAT prep job was about to start moving very quickly into training, and I thought this would conflict with my first weeks of work at the other company. Thus, I was unfortunately forced to decline the teaching job.

Several days after the initial offer, I returned a call to the engineering company and asked that, rather than the $50k/year offered, they consider my desire of $57k. As anyone who has been through an engineering program will tell you, we have always been informed at our universities to not accept the first offer without attempting to negotiate a higher salary. While this always seemed selfish and arrogant to me, I suddenly saw the need after receiving an offer in the lowest 10% of entry level salaries for mechanical engineers nationwide. I pinpointed $57k as the national average for 2008 graduates with a BS in my field. I didn't even bother to mention that the average from the University of Texas is $62k, or that I graduated at the top of my class and perhaps should be deserving of at least my school's average salary. After all, from hearing the company's initial offer, and considering economic times, I figured maybe they didn't have an appreciable amount of money to throw around. I was working under the assumption that they would maybe go up 2-4k/year, or, in the worst case scenario, they would say they couldn't increase the offer at all. Fine, that would have been A-OK by me. However, they called me back and, without mentioning salary, asked me to come in and talk to another person who works in an unrelated department. I went in thinking it might be negotiation time only to find it was third interview time. "Alright," I thought, "let's get this done and see what they say." Thus, the 20 minute interview passed and was neither terrible nor great, but I left thinking I would receive a call back. Four days later I called back and left a message for the HR person, but have not yet received a response. It has now been about 3-4 weeks.

As a result of this debacle, a man who once had two jobs to choose from now has, you guessed it...none. Now that's a real pute if I've ever seen one. However, aside from describing this with the saying "When it rains, it pours" (which Morton salt and conversational English have endeared to us all), I would like to introduce the phrase of "Laura Miller-ing yourself out of something." Now some of you may remember that Miller, the former mayor of Dallas, prematurely announced the planning of a parade to celebrate the Dallas Mavericks' victory in the 2006 NBA Finals just before they began their historic meltdown to lose the series, 4-2. Similarly, I began fervently brainstorming with my friends and fervidly urinating inane ideas all over my blog about how we would live together and do all sorts of fun things as soon as I had an income. Little did I know that life had other ideas and, just as I was on the cusp of climbing out of this pool of unemployment, fate began its own fervid urination to deepen the puddle and keep me treading water. Now you're probably saying "Greg, urea-lly grossing me out." And I'm saying "Yes, I just included a urea pun on my blog."

Now, other than Laura Miller-ing myself out of work, there's not been too much going on. I've been watching sports when possible, although it is the most terrible time of year for that sort of activity. Surprisingly, however, I found myself intently watching the Mexico vs. US soccer game with my dad today. I wondered at first why this particular match was so much more enthralling than usual, and as I watched the American goalie shove a Mexican player to the ground for a dead ball, it hit me: these teams were angry and playing with spite for one another. Several near-fights broke out, players were angrily pushing after the whistle was blown, and you never knew when a player might take a shot as he dribbled down the field. It was brilliant. It made me realize that a game with as little scoring as soccer struggles to captivate an American audience unless it brings something else to the table. That something is aggression.

Take hockey, for instance. It's very similar to soccer - it's very exciting to watch skilled players build momentum as they maneuver their way through defenders, but spectators are often left disappointed, as scoring is a rarity. As a result, they need something secondary to fill the void between these thrilling moments, and that often comes in the form of violent checking and the occasional fight breaking out. As a result, I propose that soccer would be significantly more marketable here if the rules allowed more leniency for contact and general checking. Furthermore, it would behoove the game to follow hockey's lead in terms of discipline and penalties. Rather than players risking expulsion from a game for two yellow cards received for extremely minor penalties, I think it would be better to penalize them in 2, 4, and 5 minute increments. In this way, the team is temporarily penalized for a player's actions without the severity of an ejection while the viewer is treated to some exciting undermanned play that could lead to increased scoring opportunities. Five minute penalties, as in hockey, would only be assessed if players began physically fighting, and referees would allow a fight to take place until one participant gained a dangerous advantage over the other. While I may be wrong, I think such changes would significantly augment soccer's American fan base.

Finally, on the topic of fighting and sports, the Texas Rangers recently released pitcher Vicente Padilla (he of the swine flu) after he hit yet another batter, resulting in the opposing team retaliating by hitting a Rangers batter. While this type of activity is somewhat commonplace in baseball, I feel it is one of the stupidest retaliation methods in all of sports. It allows a pitcher to be a complete jerk and pose the threat of significant harm to a batter with no consequences for himself. While some people would counter that the batter could charge the mound, the league does not take too kindly to this, as Kevin Youkilis recently found out with his 5 game suspension. Granted, Youkilis attacked a pitcher who seemingly wanted no part of the fight and apparently had no intention of hitting him. However, for habitual offenders like Padilla, I legitimately believe the league should allow pitchers and batters to square off like hockey players - no bat, no helmets, no gloves, and above all, no sissy interference from other infielders or teammates - with no suspension other than perhaps an ejection from the current game. Of course, this is a very discretionary approach and would be judged on a case-by-case basis, but I certainly think it would be a more fair method for players to police themselves than the current one.

I wanted to cover some other topics, but it's getting late and I should probably go to sleep. I guess that leaves open the promise of another entry in the near future, but you never know...I may have just Laura Miller-ed us all out of that.

Finding the wheel that turns, in the form of a triumvirate

Today I would like to focus on two things. The first is a recurring topic of discussion amongst my friends and me, and the second is my general young people "lingo." The latter is like the vernacular of the youth. It's spec-nacular. It's youth-tacular. It's the vernac-youth-lar.

As a job seems, at the moment, just within reach (or just out of, depending on your point of view), our time spent shooting the breeze and "hangin" has often veered toward the what ifs of working as an engineer and actually having "dough." A frequent subject has been the possibility of living with my two other engineer friends here in the Dallas "hood," Scott and Kevin. While Kevin and I want to continue living with our parents for a bit in order to keep that "cheddar," I think the 3 of us really enjoy entertaining the idea of living in the same "'jects." Not only is it more economical than flying solo, but the idea of us "kicking it" in the same "crib" also evokes images of Animal House (without the frat guys or the girls, as I'll never be fraternity, and we're generally incapable of attracting girls). It would be like Batman and Robin and that other guy. Starsky and Hutch and whatshischops. Lucy and Ethel and Ricky. It would be three young bachelors with bachelor's, just "rollin." The only thing I think could top it is if we became Doctor Master Bachelor, but I think that could be achieved with a fourth roommate whose street name could be shortened to Sire DMB.

Moving along from simply rooming together, we've also decided it could be fun to adopt a child. First of all, this appears to be a good strategy for humanitarian purposes, as we could give a child from an unfortunate background a new beginning. "Get out tha hood, drop the 'jects, start doin some good and start buildin' some recs," ya know? Secondly, we would benefit as "baby daddies" because we could find a kid about 8 years old and skip past the difficulties of diapers, learning to walk, etc. Furthermore, what could be "flyer" for a kid than having three dads? Many kids are unfortunately growing up with no father figure, but ours could have THREE. He would easily be the coolest kid in school, learn discipline, and also always have someone available. So maybe Dad's at work and little Sire DMB needs to talk to someone. It's cool, no worries - Daddies are home (Oh, it's also apparently a boy, and we have preemptively named him Sire DMB). As if that weren't enough, the three of us could easily guide a child toward a lifetime of success by using our own experiences, both successes and failures, to help him evaluate decisions. As the son of 3 engineers, nothing but success in the sciences and mathematics would be acceptable. Additionally, we would "ford the river" past the foolish pitfall of parents who think their children need the help of acclaimed coaches to have a chance at becoming professional athletes. This foolishness would be bypassed, with that "Bentley" being "taken to the chop shop" by not having our son try to develop the best jump shot, get stronger, or generally illustrate any innate talent. Rather, we would have him develop a "sick" knuckleball from about age 10. After all, being a knuckleball pitcher in major league baseball could be one of the best ways imaginable to get rich. This would afford the opportunity to teach our son that a bit of hard work will lead to success, even if one isn't physically gifted. Then, when Sire DMB does earn a spot on an MLB team, he would see that earning a living with millions of dollars means working once every five days, and even then he doesn't have to throw his hardest.

As far as I can see, the Triumvirate of the Fatherhood has zero chance of failure and a likelihood of success surpassing the 75% mark. Little Sire would not only have Sire Daddy, Daddy Dude, and Paternal Homie for his caretaking, but he would also be exposed to the jovial, if not fatherly, personalities of "Fun"-cle Flu and Sister Cbass, the latter of whom will be donning a family moniker betraying his true gender for no particular reason. With such manly mannishness, malehood, and masculinity surrounding the young lad, I see no way that he would not grow up to be the most successful culmination of manhood seen to date. Sire DMB, the Man's Man - fluent in American English, manliness, and the vernac-youth-lar. My only uncertainty regarding the entire process is the teaching of the latter, because I must pose the question - is the word "vernacular" in the vernacular of our youth?

An Unupdate

To continue with this blog's recent divergence toward complaining and airing of grievances, topics today will be scattered across a spectrum of things that annoy me. If you have opinions to the contrary, I would like to hear them as long as they are expressed in a manner that is as far as possible from the usual "YouTube comment" level of intelligence.

As has been evident from my youth, and as is occasionally reaffirmed by my experiences, I feel it necessary to declare that doctors are, in large part, completely useless. This is not to say that all of them fit into this category, as there are some who are treating important diseases and actually using their knowledge to do things that those without the equivalent education would not know how to do. However, many times people go into the doctor's office already knowing what's wrong or have something so simple that it could be diagnosed instead by a nurse. At times I have gone to the doctor only to find that the doctor does not know what is wrong, and they do nothing more than prescribe general medications that I, or anybody with half a brain, could have deemed necessary. The only difference is that they have been given the power to write prescriptions and they are grossly overpaid. The unfortunate aspect is that people have to pay either the cost for the visit or their insurance deductible, which brings us to...

Insurance is a disgusting scam. I can't think of another line of business or industry that makes such a killing off of people either being forced to fund it or being scared into thinking that they need it. Then, when people do need it, insurance companies often find loopholes and other ways to weasel out of their obligations, meaning the helpless client has been forking over money for no reason at all. Unfortunately, however, this has become such standard fare that insurance is much more than an afterthought when people make investments in commercial goods.

Recently, my father had some car troubles and had his vehicle towed to the dealership from which he bought it. Since his purchase of the used car, he had paid a small monthly amount to cover any mechanical problems. Upon arrival at the dealership, he began discussing the policy with one of the workers, who informed him that coverage stopped after 100,000 miles. The car being near 130,000 miles, it was no longer eligible and the repair at a dealership was, of course, going to cost an arm and a leg. However, the written and signed policy made no mention of the mileage limit, and this was apparently discussed when my father agreed to purchase the insurance. The problem is that the amounts are not significant enough to merit any sort of legal action.

On a mildly related note, and I must remark that my friend Anthony and I discussed this about a week ago, I have happily found irritation with the evolution of technology in certain fields. In new cars, for example, everything seems to be headed toward automatic, electrically operated, or computer-controlled devices. At first, this seems like an excellent idea, as we're using the latest technology or finding convenience in things we never considered before. However, the problem is that when these things break or stop working, the average user is not only incapable of solving the problem but often finds that the repair will be unnecessarily expensive. Thus, I sometimes feel like people fail to use common sense when buying brand new cars with all sorts of computer systems running every unnecessary gadget you can imagine. After all, haven't most of us noticed significant problems with our computers, cell phones, or some other electronic after only a few years of use? In my opinion, most people are counting on keeping their new cars for more than just a few years and would benefit from sticking to the old, tried-and-true aspects of some more classic vehicles, rather than falling for everything automatic. As Anthony pointed out, can you remember the last time the manual window control in your car stopped functioning?

Radio killed the video star

I was noting today on the Facebook welcome page that the sign-up part has a line that reads: I am: Select Sex. Indeed, Facebook has confirmed that I, as a male, am of the select sex. This has long been a suspicion of mine, but I am glad to finally obtain the confirmation I have awaited from a social networking site. Thank you, Facebook.

I'm just kidding about all that, but now that I've offended and disgusted a good portion of you, let's move on to other topics...

The other day my friend Livan received a notice from our beloved French republic saying he owed 156 euros. He thinks this is an annual fee for people who rent their apartments, but he's a bit unsure. This came about 4 days after he found out he owes 400 euros for a violation he committed last September by running a red light...on a bicycle.

These fees got me thinking about money I've paid since arriving that I either didn't have to, shouldn't have, or only had to pay because of misunderstandings. These grievances will be aired in a poem entitled "Merde France Owes Me."


"Merde France Owes Me"

Merde France owes me,
It's not all black and white
But in these past 6 months,
I've paid for a lot that just ain't right.

Things started going wrong in the month of November
but I was desperate for housing, from what I remember.
Paid 180 euros to live with old geezers
Who extracted 30 more with their stinge-surance tweezers.

Turns out my land lady's a pute, and man I can't stand that
Complainin' about more sh*t than you can shake a sh*t stick at.
Now I don't know what a sh*t stick is, but it likely ain't good
And I guarantee this woman would shake one, if ever she could.

Now let's clean off that stick with some toilet paper
and get back to airing grievances about money, France, and labor.

I decided to up and move, when no more could I bare
But I lost my 150 euros to the pute-prietaire.
It wouldn't have been so bad had the CAF ever took the time to pay me,
The 240 euros I awaited from the useless housing agency.

Then there was that time when I missed a day of work
Got sick, stayed home...did nothin, to be curt.
Paid twenty-two to the doctor, "Oh, you'll be refunded,"
That's some bureaucratic bull-merde that's getting redundant.
Ain't seem a dime, don't expect to, and never will,
Like the 23 from the train company that I can't invest in a grill.

Recently went to the bank, got a list of my transactions
21 euros to what? Another financial infraction?
"Bump that, homie," is my initial reaction
So I get my Super-Soaker ready, double-pump action.

Man, it's an unexpected fee from my phone subscription
I'm feeling sick to my stomach, so I may need a prescription
Then I realize, "Oh wait, I already got some from my socialized doctor"
6 euros for painkillers that could knock out Cory Procter.

You may not need a penguin to tell you you're an idiot
But if you get an account with SG, you deserve an ear full of it.
Bad decision from the start, and I guess I deserved this,
now I can't close my account, losing 80 euros, you get the gist.

Sheisted, heisted, go ask George Stephanopoulos
but you don't need analysts to tell you I'm getting hosed by the French Merde-opolis.
Although I've been treated well with some macaron, kebab, and patisserie,
'The world will little note nor long remember' this, the "Merde France Owes Me."



Postscript: One week before leaving, I found out that the CAF actually paid me, and rather generously at that: about 640 euros. This was finally a relief in stark contrast to the other disappointments and losses that have occurred. I am extremely thankful, but the poem was written well before this. And besides, thankfulness doesn't seem like it would allow me to use the words "pute-prietaire" or "sh*t-stick" in a poem.

Flaming bananas and spitting in my sleep

Tonight, as promised for the past few nights, Livan made us "flaming bananas." Unlike the normal culinary wizardry that he normally pulls off, this was a simple concoction created by pouring rum on bananas and lighting them on fire. Surprisingly, it tasted like a banana lightly soaked with rum, and smelled like it had been set afire. Unfortunately, we all decided that it would have been better if we just ate the bananas, drank the rum, and played with the fire.

Two days ago I had a relatively abnormal experience. I was struggling in a dream to remove cigarette ashes from my mouth (how they got there is beyond me), and so my logical solution in the dream was to just spit until they were all gone. However, I woke up to find myself turned over, head hovering several inches above my bed, as I spat and drooled onto my sheets. I'm not sure why this happened, but my guess is either that the French smoking habit is finally affecting me or that I'm subconsciously compensating for the fact that I'm not riding a spitting camel in Morocco right now.

A petit Kebab-entary

No, the title does not imply any kind of kebab-induced dysentery. Rather, I wanted to make a brief commentary on kebabs- which, I guess, could also be capable of causing gastrointestinal problems.

For those of you who don't know, kebabs are usually a pita sandwich filled with some sort of variant of a lamb-turkey meat mixture. "Salad" is usually included, which is really just a way of saying minuscule amounts lettuce and some tomato. An important decision for the customer when kebab-ing is to choose freedom fries or a sandwich free of fries, but I find it's usually best to choose the former. Unusually for Americans, the fries are included with the meat and salad on the folded pita. Finally, a sauce is either put on top of all the ingredients or is spread on the pita before loading it with all the other elements of deliciousness.

While kebabs are a savory idea that originates from either Turkey or North Africa or somewhere generally in the Mediterranean region and are prevalent throughout Europe, there is a gross dearth of them in the United States. Meanwhile over here, varieties abound. Of these, I've stumbled upon both good and bad, but today we are here to discuss only the most excellent variants.

One of my favorite kebabs is available in Toulouse. What makes this specific sandwich unique is the fact that they cut the pita bread and fill it with cheese. Thus, when biting in to the normally delicious, meaty, saucy sandwich, you are greeted with the warm, gooey cheese that has melted inside. According to Toulousain kebab owners that Robert talked to, this is not available in Paris. Score one for provence.

In Krakow we stumbled upon a kebab place that stuffed the sandwich with the usual ingredients (no cheese) but with the added touch of cabbage and pickles. A ton of sauce was then slathered upon the kebab to provide a mess of utter deliciousness. I must say that pickles were an unexpected yet excellent addition, and I feel this is a local development that caters to Polish tastes (with which I find my own tastes to be in great harmony).

In Greece, the motherland of gyros, the plates/sandwiches are also excellent, simply because of the apparent freshness and overall tastiness of the product. There, the tzaziki sauce is clearly king, putting the tzaziki's available on other kebabs to shame.

As I sat upon a park bench near a local fountain this eve and watched the dog of a homeless person approach me, I began thinking, "What if we could somehow combine the deliciousness of all these kebab varieties?" Indeed, we would have a pita sandwich with cheese, cabbage, pickles, lettuce, and tomatoes packed around fresh lamb/turkey meat, served with French fries, and smothered with tzaziki so fresh that it makes Jay Z realize he's not been checkin' his fresh so much as checkin' his stale all this time. And that's saying something.

To diverge from my kebab-entary, I wanted to point out that my father continues to use the word "matriculation" to refer to admission or acceptance at an educational institution. While this is an acceptable usage, I feel it is grossly outdated, and I was curious to know if anyone else uses this word, or if my 19th-century father is riding this wave alone? I sort of hope no one else uses it, but it does seem like a fun word to use for the sole purpose of speaking in an unusual manner...even if it came from ol' Steve.

Finally, on to something that strikes closer to home for us all. I must point out, however, that by "strikes closer to home," I meant "reverts back to another obsession." And by "us all," I meant me.
Anywho, while somewhere between Zurich, Switzerland, and Paris, France, Jason Bourne once said "[...] at this altitude, I can run flat out for a half mile before my hands start shaking."
Now, normally, I don't put a lot of value in movie dialogue, but this being Jason Bourne, I'm intrigued. Does anyone know at what point they reach this state, or have any curiosity? Recently, I've been running and including some sprinting for the sake of wanting to be more like Jason Bourne/Darren Sproles (of the San Diego Chargers), but I find it's extremely tiring. I am no where near the assumed high altitude that Bourne was at, and I am disappointed to find that I am incredibly winded after about 200-300 yards (~1/7 of a mile). Furthermore, I think I'm slower than Forrest Gump's speech. I mean, maybe it just requires some time and practice, but maybe, God forbid, it's the kebabs?!

Listening to Bon Jovi and cheering for Tiger Woods

So we meet again, Mr. Blog. It's been a while since I've seen you, and as far as I can tell, it's been a while since you've seen me. We both know we don't like each other, but hey, we've seen how K-Fed and Britney..wait, no, Bobby Brown and Whitney Houston..oh, bad example. Maybe Kurt and Courtney? No, more like Sonny and Cher...well, shucks, Mr. Blog, I can't find a good example of people who clearly shouldn't be together making a relationship work. But I think ours will be different, so let's give this a try.

As for life in the past 3 weeks, things have been trudging along slowly but surely. I had an exciting trip to Krakow with Dan, Chris, Robert, and Melinda. It was like a strange St. Pius X/Bishop Lynch reunion of kids who all know each other through different channels and who have, for the most part, changed greatly since first meeting one another. I think we all had an excellent time just from each others company. However, the city of Krakow was rather nice, and we really enjoyed the favorable exchange rate (~4.5 zloty or cazzos, whatever they're called, to 1 euro). Eating occurred in large, sometimes grandiose sessions. Although it was time consuming, this was definitely a trip where the food was worth spending time on. The pierogis, meats, salads, and whatever the heck else we could find were incredibly delicious. Of the 3 pastries I purchased, 1 could be classified as delicious, 1 as decent but not-as-tasty-as-it-appears, and 1 as unidentifiable. In spite of this minor culinary setback, it fails to take away from my overall taste-bud satisfaction with my (1/4) motherland of Poland.

On the Sunday of our long weekend, the group went to the 2 concentration camps collectively referred to as Auschwitz. I found this to be an extremely moving place, with the barrenness of the camps perhaps adding to the overall effect. While I expected the camp to be depressing, I was surprised at the magnitude of the feeling while visiting. The barracks were as bare as imaginable, with boards of wood serving as the bedding for prisoners. Most of the extermination chambers were destroyed as the NAZI's realized defeat was imminent, but one remained at the original camp. In the one remaining building that was used for this purpose, there were several rooms that served as gas chambers and also what appeared to be 2 furnaces. Incredibly enough, the structure was used for other purposes later in the war in an attempt to cover up the atrocities that occurred there. Furthermore, the destroyed remains of the extermination chambers at Auschwitz-Birkenau were left in tact, and the haste with which the NAZI's destroyed and left the buildings was somewhat shocking. If ever any of you get the chance to go to Krakow, I would highly recommend visiting the camp. I think you will find it to be a worthwhile trip where the gravity of the historical events that took place finally come to life and help you realize the seriousness of what happened less than 70 years ago there.

On a more airy note, I've been hanging out in Toulouse during this first week of my 2 week Easter vacation. I also just paused to think about the spelling of the adjective "airy" for what I thought to be the feminine noun "note," but then I realized my mother tongue does not have masculine and feminine nouns like French does. And thusly the corruption of my language becomes evident. While I have not arrived at the point of speaking excellent French, my level has reached a point of being near-acceptable. Unfortunately, this has resulted in the occasional struggle to find English words, or I sometimes find myself saying things that are almost direct translations of what the normal French phrase would be. Some friends and I were noting the other day that, as we switch languages depending on what group of people we are with, we can remember information exchanged during the course of a conversation but we cannot recall whether it occurred in English or French. I think this is probably a good thing. However, it can sometimes be a strange feeling to think that you have friendships that rely on you using a different language from your mother tongue. I know many people who speak more languages than I (and more fluently), but sometimes I wonder what subtleties of personality are lost across language barriers. It's sometimes amusing to consider who you were when you were about 10 years old and ask if you ever imagined that you would be where you are at the present moment, or if your 10 year old self would even recognize the current version of your person.

During the last week before vacation, I was leaving the high school when I spotted a couple of my middle school students. We exchanged the normal personable greetings, and they told me they were off to play tug of war for the middle school's sports day. I asked if I could watch, and they were rather excited that I wanted to cheer them on. Before you know it, however, watching becomes playing. Less than 10 minutes after our encounter, I found myself anchoring an 8-person team of mostly 12 or 13 year olds. Other teachers and school workers were also taking place in the festivities, but my presence at the event was rather unexpected. While several classes asked me to help them, I had pledged my loyalty to my team of what I guess is the 7th grade equivalent here. In our 3 matches together, we owned other teams. I felt this was a very proud moment for me in demonstrating 23 year-old American power over 13 year old Frenchies. We'll cut the frivolous details and niceties and be honest here...the most appropriate word to describe my performance in Tug of War (le tire à la corde) was dominant.

Finally, I've got one week of vacation left before I finish up with 1.5 weeks of work. I'm pretty low on funds, so I've not been traveling. However, fond memories have led me to search for tickets to go either to Geneva or Bordeaux. The problem is that the weather in the entire region is pretty gloomy and is forecasted to continue that way for the next few days. I guess until something changes, I'll keep kicking it in Toulouse. However, I want to wish you all a Happy Easter, and I know that I will see many of you in a month. Until then, my "What Rosebud meant..." and I will continue our tumultuous relationship of domestic blogging and online arguing until the neighbor blogs call the internet police.

Someone who's taking pleasure in breaking down

So I have been mocked by Jenna and Marta for apparently not knowing a lot of places in Toulouse, and at first feeble attempts at denial were hastily put into action. However, I have recently embraced the fact that, no matter how much I try to explore, I will never know all of Toulouse. It is not that big of a city, but nevertheless, I continue to learn things about it and discover new little nooks and crannies. For example, the other day I found this big indoor market right in the middle of downtown, mostly for meat and fish. It was weird, as there were several bars inside as well, with open facades like the meat sellers have. I walked around for a bit eating a pastry, and as I left the market, I saw the dog of a homeless man patiently sitting beside him, wearing sunglasses. Hmm.

My friend Robert visited from Paris last week, and he described Toulouse as the "most random" city he'd ever visited. He was amused by strange displays of street entertainment and various other things that seemed out of place. I brushed up on my history and provided him with more details of the city, but he still said that, as a city, it was very strange. He has asked that when our friends from Texas come later this month, our friend Dan provide him with a "coherent" tour of the city. I'm beginning to feel that, no matter what I do, that cannot happen. I'm thinking now that this isn't so much a product of me as it is of the city.

Recently, I have become somewhat of a regular at this Arab pastry shop right near the main square in Toulouse. In October, I took Jenna and Marta there, and we were all either disgusted or disappointed in the pastries. Well, as we've all been told since our infancy, "Every pastry shop deserves a second and maybe a fifth chance," I figured I would follow these words of wisdom. Since, I have found several items that I like, but each time I enter the store, the clerk sort of eyes me wearily, knowing that I, unlike most of his bulk-buying customers, am going to come in with strongly accented French and order one thing with my exact change before leaving. I like to view this sort of interaction as brief and efficient, short and to the point, no wasted energy, no harm, no foul, don't ask, don't tell. Well, maybe not the latter. At any rate, I think I will continue doing this until the store owner either cracks and expresses his anger in a slew of quick Arab and French cursing, thus signaling that I should probably not return more than one or two times thereafter, or he decides that he likes my style, gives in and one day offers me a second pastry for free. After all, I am bringing in business 1 euro 30 cents at a time, and sometimes more. I took Robert there when he visited and, like Jenna and Marta, he was disappointed with what he bought. You're welcome, Ro-Bear.

This past week, I moved out of my hellhole living situation and I am now living happily with my friends Livan and Remy and a third guy named Adriane. We've all become better friends rather quickly, and it's already been a brilliant experience. This Friday we are hosting our housewarming party, and I've got a clown outfit ready. This should be a most excellent experience.

In leaving my old apartment, things didn't go as well as I'd hoped, as I apparently didn't follow my contract because I misunderstood a small phrase. I went to return my key to my former landlady only to find a raving pot of lunacy. After her husband had been extremely nice about letting me move and saying he understood how I wasn't happy there, he left the matter in his wife's hands, as she was the one who signed the contract. Well, she returned to Toulouse 2 days after I moved out and began blaming me for the fact that she had to return and couldn't be with her sick mother at the hospital. I'm sorry, ma'am, but it's not my fault. I apologized in advance to her husband, but he refused to close out the situation, so she was obliged to come back and felt the need to do it asap. She began demanding my 300 euros for the month's rent and I said no, that I would organize a meeting with the director of the program.
Well, we had our meeting. The prop. again demonstrated hard-headedness, rudeness, and generally unlikeable qualities. The director argued my case and was clearly frustrated, so things finished with the "connasse" landlady saying she would be going to the bank to cash my 150 euro deposit check. Everything else will be dropped, and I guess that, all things considered, things turned out relatively well for me. It could have been worse. My primary regret was not switching to the informal form of "you" at the end of the meeting and demonstrating my extensive vocabulary of French swear words. I was a bit irritated as the prop gave the falsest smile and handshake while saying "good luck" as we left. As TI tells us,
"Haters smile like they like it when they really don't," and this was certainly a good demonstration of the wisdom of everyone's favorite rapper. Unfortunately, I couldn't do anything in front of the director, who was extremely nice and helpful to me during the ordeal.

Livan and I have really enjoyed a game recently in which we play foreigners (that is to say, different kinds of foreigners than we already are) and go around talking to random people or asking for cigarettes (I don't smoke, but it's fun to obtain cigarettes for friends who do). He often pretends to be a native English speaker (Canadian or American), and I usually come from a small town near Helsinki, Finland. Depending on the situation, we speak with some sort of unnatural accent and pretend to struggle with either French or English. It's a fun game that I would recommend if ever you find yourself in public amongst people you don't know or at a party amongst strangers. Robert clearly enjoyed playing a young Japanese during his Toulousain sejour.

Finally, I apologize for the delay since my last post (the date on this post is not correct...it's really the 18th of March). I've been having more fun lately and haven't had much desire to sit in front of the computer. Tomorrow I won't be working because of a large strike in France, so the fun shall continue. Also, my friends Dan and Chris will be coming to Toulouse on Sunday (March 22), so betises and goofy fun could reach a pinnacle very soon :) I will be telling you soon how that goes.

Read this post

Word up, kids. I recently got back from what has been entitled "Winter Vacation," which is a sorrily disguised excuse for a ski vacation for people who had family to visit over Christmas. Sorrily disguised, greatly appreciated.
I spent a week in Paris chez Robert (read: "shay Ro-bear"), which turned out to be an extremely good time. Not that I ever expected otherwise.
It turned out to be an excellent opportunity to hang out and act immature with Ro-bear as well as to see crazy international friends from summer. Fortunately, the groups were able to meet and become friends themselves, which is always a good thing. Also, we got to (briefly) see Meadow, which guarantees fun and amusing conversation. Tourism was sort of an afterthought, but I did manage to go to Fountainebleau, which is a rather interesting castle about 40 minutes outside of Paris. On my final night, we had a party together at my friend Daniele's and Sophia's apartment (sorry, I think I forgot the grammar rules for possessives in the case of multiple persons. Me teach English? That's unpossible!). It was quite the good time, and I had to sprint off to catch my night train to Biarritz/Hendaye.
Early Friday morning, I arrived in Hendaye, France, just at the border with Spain. I slept in the train station and consumed a stupid quantity of bananas before catching a little train to San Sebastian, where Marta and father Javier picked me up. I stayed with them for the weekend and was blown away by the views available in and around San Sebastian. Marta had always talked about how cool the city was, but of course I never took the word of a Fake Spaniard. It turned out she didn't lie, and we had a really good time. It was, as always, awesome to see Marta-quita again. It doesn't matter where we meet up, it's always a joy to hang out with her. I dare say we could have fun in...College Station, Texas. HAHAHA. Me laugh hard.
Also, Marta's mother, as promised, is an awesome cook. Two things I will briefly note: 1)once for dessert we had strawberries floating in this white chocolate pudding type of thing, and 2) we had squid filled with veggies as well as rice covered in a sauce consisting of the ink of the squid. Probably like most Americans, I had no idea you could consume the ink. It's black and rather strange looking, but it tastes delicious! I think I once described cow dung in the same way.

I've been back for a few days since the "vacances" and the "propriétaire" has been turbo nice to me ever since I mentioned that I considered moving. We'll see what happens, and I'll keep you updated on the situation.

Ro-bear is currently on a night train from Paris and is tracking his location with his damn GPS phone as he approaches Toulouse. He'll be here in the morning and will stay here until Tuesday. As is the case when we get together, we will likely have fun doing anything and everything, including (but not limited to) speaking stupid French, watching movies that apparently only we like, and possibly a ghetto camping trip in the Midi-Pyrenees region. If there's no update to this blog in about 10 days, you can either assume that the latter did not end well, or you can consider that winter doesn't truly end until March 20. The French and I may just be on vacation until then.

But not this one

To begin with, lately I've been listening to a Smashing Pumpkins song called "Muzzle" (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GA8th9vUA48 - also, note how disenchanted with life James Iha looks while playing guitar) that I feel echoes my current sentiments regarding my situation and life in general:

"I fear that I'm ordinary, just like everyone [...]
My life has been extraordinary,
Blessed and cursed and won."

For someone who always considered himself to be somewhat intelligent, I feel like the college and post-university experiences are continually proving the contrary. As a child, it seemed I had a formidable memory, able to recall all sorts of statistics from my collection of baseball and football cards as well as my time spent watching sports. I could picture famous sports plays in my head with an almost photographic-like memory. Furthermore, I was a pretty good speller, capable of reading a word once in a book and later talk about the meaning and provide the spelling. At some point, however, it appears this began to go downhill to the point that I feel I am below average, and I feel it was almost certainly in the post-high school era.

In engineering, we were taught that memorization was (almost) never important. All of the information we would ever need was available in books, and it was simply enough to understand the procedure necessary to solve a problem. As a result, I think I quit caring about memorizing anything, and I sometimes would go into tests feeling like I knew nothing and would rely on the ability to solve a problem correctly when I came across it. Apparently, this worked well, but to the detriment (I feel) of memorization skills. Unfortunately, the latter is rather important in learning a language, in learning history, etc. Thus, I often come across new words in French while reading and have to look them up multiple times in the dictionary, even when I write them down. Being a visual learner, it's often worse when speaking to people. They begin to think I'm stupid with the number of times I need a word repeated, unless of course a particularly memorable context eliminates this need. This has been quite frustrating, but perhaps it would have been just the opposite had I studied something else, and I would still find myself complaining.

On the other hand, however, all things considered, my life to this point has been somewhat extraordinary. I've been blessed to have some awesome people around me, and also to experience some incredible things. With my family, friends, and the amount of traveling and things I've seen, I certainly cannot complain. It's been a sweet ride, and hopefully the excitement continues on down the line, although I do fear that getting old and boring is at some point inevitable.

Yes, I wore these underpants yesterday

All this time to make amends. What do you do when all your enemies are....French?

This week, you will be generously provided with a direct translation, courtesy of Babelfish, of my French blog entry. The purpose is to give you an idea of the type of English I hear on a regular basis while also providing a demonstration of the deterioration of my own speaking abilities as I begin to speak more and more in direct translations. I have made some minor changes to render the text legible, as we know online translations are not of the highest quality (and neither is my French). In doing this, we all get an experience of a different type of English, and I keep up the normal blog. Thus, we all benefit magnificently from this experiment, with the only downside being that reading the blog becomes an irritating, borderline painful experience for you, the reader. Good idea, right? Original text available at http://espritailleurs.blogspot.com/

Even if I did not work but 7 hours this week, I stays occupied. My courses had passed rather well, and I made a small observation: I cannot to prevent myself from laughing each time a pupil uses the words " Big Boss" to describe someone very able to do an activity. Where did they learn that? Apparently the Big Boss of humour learned them how in order to make me laugh.

Soon I will have 3 hours of course private per week. Being given the lack of work as assistant to the high school and middle school, I think that this one is a good opportunity. Moreover, I prefer to work with small groups.

I am on holiday now, and Wednesday evening (feb 11) I leave to Paris for one week at Robert's. For Maria, the assistant of Spanish, that will be her first time. For me, it is rather a week to spend time with Robert and other pals at Paris. Then, I will go to Marta's in San Sebastian. Sweet. I impatiently wait to be able to see them.

There are 5 or 6 days ago, I entered the kitchen towards 18:00 to nibble a little bit. There, I find my owner, who has an astonished air to see me. Good evening, Madam. I live here since 3 months, and I call myself Greg. Yes, it goes well, and no, the weather is not too cold for me.
In any event, she asks to me whether I eat already. " No," I say, and in a funny manner I add, "I just to buy gouda (cheese), and now I often want to taste it!"

Oy… She says to me that is not a problem, and I can take my snack, but the gouda is not the best cheese. Hmm, of agreement, but I did not ask you for your opinion, Madam. I try to defuse the situation with a joke and one is in a cheese debate. How this is French! Nevertheless, I think that she do not like my gouda because of the fact that this comes from the Netherlands, and not La Belle France (called LBF hereafter). Pff, I have nothing of that to make.

Since this meeting, I finished my gouda....and there is a reason that this cheese is called gouda. It is more " good" than all others! In short, I was at Lidl (a grocery store) there are 3 days, and I decided to test a new cheese which calls itself "Edam." As you can guess well, it is a cheese of the Netherlands. To make a small revolt against my owner and LBF, I have a half kilo (about a pound) of Dutch cheese in the refrigerator...and each evening, I eat very small little, so that can remain there for a long time.

Today, I stays washing my clothing by hand in the bathroom when I heard a sound in the room just next to my bathroom. Considering that I had used much water, I lowered the volume of my music (Foo Fighters, of course), and moved back towards my room in order to pretend to not have been doing anything. However, there, I heard the voice of my owner in the room right beside mine. Similar to the battle of Dunkirk, I was there, encircled there by the forces of the enemy. I could not what make. Rather than to leap by the window, I remained quiet. After a few moments (in which the heart beat quickly), the attack was inexplicably stopped. Fortunately, I had dodged a confrontation.

I recently wrote an email to the director of this program of housing, and it seems that I will move at the end of February. However, I am supposed to write a letter to the family almost a month in advance by saying that I will not any more live here. I do not know if I must describe my reasons, but they know well that I remain in France until May. Perhaps I can say that my dog died, and it is necessary me to attend the burial, even if this last takes place one month after the event? Fortunately, I am on holiday now, and I will be soon in Paris at Mr. Robert's. On the other hand, it nonetheless means that I must spend one week in this apartment after the holidays. That could be a delicate stay, not? Nevertheless, I do not worry. When I am of return, I will ask cordially "Thank you well for addressing me as vous" (the more formal "you" in French), all the while filling the refrigerator with kilos and kilos of cheeses of Netherlands origins.

**I do not mean to slander my host family in any way. They are nice people, but the fact is that I do not enjoy the circumstances in which we have to coexist. When writing about this, I am merely expressing my discomfort with my living situation. Our relations are in no way hostile, just humorously uncomfortable.**

How to not exist

So when I was told to produce less dirty laundry, I began thinking...what is the source of me having to use clean clothes and take showers? Then I realized, there are 2 reasons or causes. The first is society. People don't like smelly people, and that's sort of like a half fact, but we'll say it's closer to fact than unfact. Fact just lost meaning to me, but I noticed that it has the word "fat" in it, which brings me to my next point: food. If I didn't eat (and excessively, at that), I wouldn't sweat. If this were the case, I would be less smelly as a person (and perhaps more likeable) and never have to take showers. Without showers, I wouldn't have to change into clean clothes, barring a mustard stain or spilling of ice cream onto my pants. But since I'm not eating in this scenario, that wouldn't be a problem.
If I stopped eating, I would probably not have much energy, so it would be best to stay indoors. I wouldn't need internet or a computer or a phone because I would have no desire to interact with the outside world. Cause: lack of energy. Of course, as a totally unsmelly person, the world would want to interact with me, but that's beside the point. I could lie in bed all day and pretty much just sleep. Close the blinds and sleep into non-existence.
Additionally, this would be resource efficient. The rest of the world would have the food available that I didn't eat, the electricity that I didn't consume, the clean water that I didn't use, etc. Furthermore, resources would be through the roof if we all followed this example. In fact, we wouldn't even need resources. We could also throw ambition and desire for anything out the window, which I think is a good idea. We wouldn't have even constructed windows, because, well, we never would have the energy to fabricate that. Thus, ambition and desire and all that could just sort of sublimate and float toward the heavens through the holes in the walls that wouldn't exist, and we could all be happy without having to worry about goals and the future and such.
To illustrate my point- in the time it has taken me to write this, I have begun sweating. However, this probably wouldn't have happened had I not eaten breakfast this morning, right? I'm going to go take a shower.

Taste Update

Sorry to be overbose (overly verbose- it's a new word), but I just had something awesome. Recently I purchased a jar of Marshmallow fluff and discovered that you could put this on one half of a piece of bread, nutella on the other side, fold it over, heat it for about 10 seconds and have a miniature sandwich of delicious. Even better with some whipped cream on top. Tonight, I did the same, but replacing fluff with peanut butter (and sans whipped cream, which could only add to the awesomeness). Upon the first bite, I immediately regretted ever eating these things without their respective complements. Furthermore, I regretted ever eating anything that wasn't this. How delicious.

Keeping you in the dark

And so it all begins. Here's an account of what's happened thus far in zee new yearrhh...
I came back to Toulouse, landlord (hereafter referred to as propriétaire...i.e. lady who lives in this apartment, to whom I pay rent) was pleased enough with how I cleaned my room and shoved everything aside over the Christmas holidays to make it look like I was never there (as she wanted, so she could clean), but apparently I hadn't cleaned the shower enough, so I got to hear her whine about how it took her 2 hours to clean it. Could have saved me the time of hearing this and told me to do it myself. Anywho, spent the most boring birthday yet (which is really saying something) studying french vocabulary in my room. Don't really know what to do when the weather stinks and you can't have people over, but oh well.
Weekend comes, I went to visit Leila and her aunt in Marseille. I'd heard bad things about the city, but it turned out to be pretty cool. It was fun hanging out with her and her aunt and uncle. Her uncle is from Peru and we walked around all day on Saturday while the females worked. Ironic, but maybe we should take a lesson from this experience? Kidding. I think. Anywho, Uncle Ruddy speaks French with a hilarious Peruvian accent, and I speak with a hilarious American accent, so that was a pretty interesting and fun experience, some charades included. We also saw a large protest in favor of Palestine with regards to the mess between Israel-Palestine. I like watching large protests of any kind, and I like Arab quarters of town that sell huge pizzas for 4 euros, so this amused me.
On Sunday the 4 of us took a cool bike trip through the city to the coast and to a skate park. Eventually we all got pretty hungry, returned to the apt to eat and then walked around Marseille before my train left. We said a long goodbye, and I hope to be able to see them again. Leila leaves for ze Bresil on 5 February, but talks of a possible Texas visit either late summer or fall. Master Pasternak, take note, we have to hold her to that.
Next week I think I put in a good 8 hours or so of work because of people being sick and whatnot at the middle school. However, one teacher asked me to give her son English conversation classes once a week. That started last week and thus far it's been good. I tried to watch television one time at my apartment and my propriétaire got mad because she doesn't want me to go into the room where laundry is done. Not even when no one's in there. You don't want to ruin the chi of a laundry room, after all. Things could dry uncomfortably. As a result, I watch TV at the Mediatheque library with the unemployed. One lady saw me watching something about Obama on a French network and asked me something...incomprehensible. "Huh?" After some struggles, she understood that I was American. This should not have been hard, but this was one of those people that you just can't understand. Anywho, she sits down next to me and starts talking about how Bush made the States a Boucherie (a butchery, in French). Hehe, I liked the humor in that, but then she kept talking about it. Eventually we got to the usual, "so what do you do?" and I gave my usual spiel, and then I reciprocate, only to receive "I don't work, I am on permanent vacation." Oh, hmm, okay, well, is that because you just can't find a job in tough economic times? "No." Oh. Voluntary unemployment? Yes we can.
On the 17th, a friend from the engineering days at UT named Colin came through, as he was doing a month-long tour de France. Twas really good to see him and walk around, just chatting. That night we went out with Livan and another friend, saw a Frank Miller movie called The Spirit, which I enjoyed more than I anticipated. We then went and had some post-dinner wine by the river and spun on some merry-go-round type things near the main plaza in Toulouse - a guaranteed good time. The next day, Colin headed out for a nearby castle town.
Last week, schedule change at the high school. I only have 10 hours of work there now, but that could get bumped up to 12. I don't mind either way, but I'm happy that my students in some of the new classes are at higher levels than some of the previous ones.
This weekend, we had 90ish mph winds, which can be pretty sweet when it's not resulting in death. The buses were stopped, but by afternoon on Saturday it was okay to walk around, you just had to avoid tree branches everywhere. However, this has interrupted trains in the region, and I'm supposed to go skiing with Livan and the roommates on Wednesday in the Pyrenees, so we'll see. I think the prospect of a couple guys from Madasgascar and a Texan going to an environment that's completely unnatural for them could be pretty funny. We should probably take swimsuits and nothing else (save maybe large hats) to fit stereotypes.
Last night my propriétaire got mad at me for having too much laundry to do. In 15 years of housing people, she's never had this much to do, even from girls. I think it probably results from all the clothes accumulated over Christmas travels, as well as the fact that my friends brought me some clothes from my parents. As the French say, she makes me "chier," and I'm kind of tired of it here. Kind of is my preferred word selection, by the way. Everywhere I've traveled, people have opened up and said "make yourself at home," even people I met on that day. That's some crazy generosity, and as a result of this, I make an effort to do the same when hosting someone. At home, however, there is no making yourself at home. It's moreso making an effort to not see the people you live with and stay out of their way. Livan's leaving his apartment soon, but I'd have to break my contract, so I don't know what the best option is at the moment. I can, however, find another family, so I might do that. I've been talking alot lately with my Chilean friend, Maria, and we've noted that French women past about 40 years old seem to be crazy and stressed and borderline abrasive. Maybe this is an unfair evaluation, but it's been our experience. My joking proposal to Maria has been that all women are crazy, or at least go crazy at some point. I think the true issue, however, is that young people living with older people often is not that good of an idea. They're less open-minded and accepting, more nagging, and usually set in their ways. This distaste for age difference was humorously expressed when Pete Townshend once said (before later expressing regret) "I hope I die before I get old." Nearly 30 years later, Dave Grohl said "I hope I die before I become Pete Townshend."

...and a Happy New Year!

Monday, December 31:
Woke up, read while my friend Thomas spent a few hours doing some sort of verbal exam for an internship application. After he finished, he wasn't too happy about how he thought it went, and we proceeded to have a good, long talk about standardized tests, the working world, and life in general, which was quite enjoyable. Eventually, we went to the famous Parisian cemetery Père-Lachaise, where we saw the grave of Oscar Wilde (covered, indeed, by lipstick marks), Jean-Baptiste Molière and the adjacent Jean de La Fontaine. It was a pretty cool place to go, and Thomas told me it sort of gave him a new view of his neighborhood, as he was seeing the place for the first time.
Afterwards, Thomas and I headed to the store to buy some champagne for the evenings festivities and went to the apartment of his friend Cecile. I ate foie gras for (I think) the first time, and it was decent, although I'm generally not a fan of the paté texture.
After a bit, more people showed up, and the party was themed Macs et Putes. Few males were dressed as macs, but there were a couple putes (teupus). It was quite fun being amongst that many French people, and I saw a few familiar faces from the last time I was in Paris. When midnight finally hit, the champagne began popping, "Bonne Année" was flying left and right, and everybody was giving the bis. Although I've never cheek kissed that many people in my life, it was a good time.
Eventually, around 4 or 5 we all tired and decided to head out. Metro was open (and free) all night, so we took that back toward Thomas's digs, but it was pretty packed. Recognizing an opportunity when it presents itself, I decided to remind Thomas's roommate, Manu, of our ongoing joke about dancing Tecktonik. So, as we were crammed in the metro at 5am, I turned to the poor girl who happened to be next to me (a stranger, of course) and politely said in my best French, "Excuse me, miss. My friend and I have a bet to see who can dance Tecktonik better, and I would like to know if you could decide for us?" I commenced my best dance in about 1 square foot of space while the girl stared at me as if I'd just gone into a bank and tried to deposit a wad of dirty socks. Manu, too ashamed to Teck' it in publique (as all French people seem to be), immediately gave up and proclaimed me the winner of our bet.
Shortly thereafter, we descended from the train and, of course, paid attention to our step in doing so ("Attention a la marche en descendant du train"). When everyone had left our platform, I stayed back with one of our friends and, noting that the other platform was completely full, decided to display some mad skill. So, there I was, 5 hours into 2009, dancing Tecktonik all by myself across the rails from a ton of strangers in line 9 of the Paris metro (at Voltaire, should you care to recreate this yourself). This left me thinking...sometimes you gotta ask yourself what your life has come to and how you've fallen from such great heights. Sometimes, you gotta sit back and ask yourself "How I get so good, dawg? How I get so good?"

Tuesday, January 1:
I wake up around 11 to my phone ringing. "Oui? Hallo?"
"Oui, yes, Mr. Robert Cenzon? We are waiting for you outside Terminal A Gate 2E."
"En fait, this is his friend. Shall I tell this to Robert?"
"Yes."
Call Bert, no response. Turns out his phone isn't working. Great...I know at this point that Robby's going through the usual hell of arriving in a foreign country with all of your luggage. His phone doesn't work, the shuttle provided by the school can't find him, and he's got enough in his suitcases to live in Paris for 2 years (he's returned to the City of Lights to do a Master's). Eventually, I get another call from the company, they can't find him. Great. I try calling him, texting, whatever, nothing works. I give up, hose the smell of French cigarette smoke off of me from last night's party, and begin the waiting game.
After quite a debacle of having to run across Charles de Gaulle aeroport 2 times, Bert couldn't find his shuttle, gave up and took a taxi. Exhausted. Welcome back to France, my friend.
Thomas and peeps peace out for a lunch chez Cecile, while Bert and I hang around and rest for a bit. Eventually we walked around and ate at a Chinese place with a 5 euro menu. Bert remarked that it was strange to be back, but that it also felt like he'd never left. I can sort of imagine the feeling he had. It'd been a year and a half for him, and 2 years before he'd welcomed me to Paris. The tables had turned, and we went wandering to Buttes Chaumont (a pretty park). To combat the cold, I bought this sweet piece of chocolate cake with chocolate chips (for some reason, a pastry I've rarely seen in France), and it was ankle-spraining delicioso. Bert and I proceeded to have a seat on a park bench and play the role of two longtime friends who have grown to be old men and spend their days talking and playing pétanque in the park. I don't know if it's funny or not, but I almost feel like this could happen later down the line. Robby and I often think about our elementary school days and question how we ended up where we are, and if we ever could have imagined our current experiences at a point in time 5 years before. Often, the answers are 1) not sure and 2) no way.
Eventually we returned, and dinner that night was with Thomas and co. at an Indian restaurant in the 10th arrondissement, near Matt Damon's favorite train station, Gare du Nord.



Happy New Year, from Robert, Thomas, and Greg.

Wednesday, January 2: (prepositions will be misused, determination of meaning is up to the reader)
I wake down early in the morning, and it's time to greet Kevin and Scott as they arrive below Paris except a crazy one day tour since the city. We meet across Gare du Nord, along which the Jason Bourne/Paris tour begins.
We head north against Montmartre and mount the hill between Sacre Coeur. We battle the snow/ice after the ground and enjoy the view underneath the city.
We then go see Moulin Rouge and the dirty establishments before the 18th.
Afterwards, we walk south behind Opera and eventually arrive out of the Louvre/Jardin des Tuileries. We walk above that and meet Bert off Notre Dame. See the church, make a circle like it, get hungry, eat a kebab just south, upon St. Michel area.
Later, we see the Louvre and walk about Tuileries, where we have some good "leisure" time. Behind what I remember, Robby "out-leised" us all. He also offered me 1 million euros to pee in the middle of a fountain and catch a bird into my bare hands. I did not get rich on January 2, 2009.
We met our friend Meadow (fellow language assistant, lives in Paris, also studied with Robby in Paris) down Place Concorde. *This was quite a moment of crazy coincidences, the 3 of us being in Paris together, and it was rather good.*
The 5 Americans in Paris then walked the Champs Elysées, stopping toward McDonald's. I had a cheeseburger and milk shake. Following this, Meadz peaced in, and for us it was Arc de Triomphe time, but no one wanted to cross the Place d'Etoile on top of foot before me, which was disappointing.
We headed south to see Trocadero and Eiffel tower, but line was too long for Eiffel, so Scott and Kevin didn't go beside it. I lost my French phone, but fortunately an honest Frenchman had picked it through, and I was able to use Kevin's phone to find him and retrieve it (about a short bit of confusion).
Eventually, we left, ate dinner, 10th arrondissement, Italian. I had pizza. Kevin and Scott bought wine post-dinner and Bert and I bid them adieu, Gare du Nord. :( Won't see them Jan-May.
Helped Bert move things, chez Meadow. Went sleep.
That was really hard. I hate prepositions.

Million Dollar Bird



La Tour St. Jacques


Thursday, January 3:
I wake up, train it to Firminy (tiny town next to St. Etienne), where Leila's smiling face greets me. We go to her mom's apartment in Firminy and hang out there. I think we talked with her mom for a really long time (I made them taste the deliciousness of Jif brand American peanut butter, which Scott generously brought me), then went to the store and bought some chocolates. Hung out and talked some more, watched a French/Moroccan comedian that I love, Gad Elmaleh, and then started watching a French movie, but I fell asleep on the couch.

Friday, January 4:
Wake up, Leila claims I snore like crazy. I am proud to follow in my father's footsteps.
We hang out and talk, eventually I go with her brother to McDonald's and get lunch. First time I've ever eaten 2 Big-Macs in one sitting, along with fries. Guys, they think we do that regularly. In terms of eating habits, I am a total lardo compared to a lot of Americans, and they're like...you people don't do that all the time? I'm trying to perpetuate (by example) the stereotype that Americans are all grossly obese, but geez, Europeans have damn near impossible expectations for us.
Anywho, we hang out the rest of the day inside b/c it's kinda cold. Evening arrives and Leila takes me to the train station to catch my night train, and we say goodbye for what might be a long time. She encourages me to meet her next weekend in Marseille, where she'll be visiting her aunt. That's for another entry.

Leila's little half brother, Wahil

Leila, always looking chipper

Also, Scott and Kevin came bearing gifts that my parents had sent along for Christmas, which was very kind of them. Thank you, 'rents. I appreciate it.
At the end of the voyage, my parents informed me by email that I had a $995 phone bill. Umm, merde? Seeing as how I hadn't used my American phone in weeks, this was surprising. All of the calls originated from Spain, so apparently I lost it in the Madrid airport, but I don't know how this happened. Regardless, we're in a waiting game, but hoping that we won't have to pay this bill.
In the Rome hostel, someone left some body wash, a long sleeve shirt, and some foot cream. The latter would appear to be a good cure for Kevin and Scott's foot-Celcius. However, all 3 products now belong to me.

In the end, the 18 day voyage was a great experience. I saw a lot of friends (and sort of got homesick for the States for the first time in a long time), saw lots of cool things, learned some things about myself, ate way too much, and spent way too much money. Many, many thanks to all involved (either by making it possible or simply adding to the experience by showing up with a glowing face)...parents, Marta, Scott, Kevin, Thomas, Hélène, Robert, Meadow, and Leila.

Merry Christmas...

Thursday, December 25th:
Merry Christmas. We go and walk down the Spanish steps, head north and eventually had a sweet picnic at Piazza del Popolo. Afterwards, we walked down south and saw the Pantheon, the huge fountain that I never know the name of, and various little things. Eventually, we came back and had a free dinner/wine and champagne party hosted by the strange Indian hostel owner. Dude was crazy, but whatever. It was a good time, followed up by a half hour visit to a nearby bar before retiring early for the next day's flight.



Fun at Piazza del Popolo, Texas style


Pantheon...unfortunately we couldn't go inside

Aforementioned fountain

Friday, December 26th:
Head to Rome Fiumcino airport. I eat some strange ham panini and potato chips in the airport (useful information, I tell you!). Get on the plane, we're all separate. I don't know what to speak to the couple next to me, until I found out the lady is a Californian and the man is from the Parisian suburbs. Huh? Turns out the dude is 6'8", a pro b-baller in Euroland that's just been traded from an Italian team to a team in Athens. He also played back in the day (age 16-18) on the French team with Tony P and Boris Diaw. Sweet.
Anywho, we get there and say goodbye, me and the boys go to our Athens hostel, where we have a room to ourselves. Weather totally stinks, as it's cold and rainy. We go and find some sweet food, where I had some delicious chicken brochette, Kevin hit some gyro, and Scott lamb chopped. Afterwards, we walked back but slid by this pastry shop we'd seen. I got this AMAZING chocolate ball thing that was like several crepes wrapped up and filled with two different forms of chocolate cream inside, and then covered with chocolate sprinkles on the outside. Geezamother, it was awesome. Also, we walked around and Scott got some good nightshots of the Acropolis. Meanwhile, I was dancing Tecktonik and Kevin was busy spotting, as he called it, "The Grail." What this means is that they sold gelato, the love of Kevin's life, and pastries, the love of my life. We went in and did our thang, I ended up with some piece of cake that was pretty good. No chocolate ball, though. Then more Tecktonik.
I think we also went to an internet cafe that night.


Acropolis at night


THE Dessert

Dancing with lights!

Saturday, December 27th:
We wake up to our cold room, eat our "breadfast," as we decided to call our morning meal consisting of little more than sliced baguette, and head out to see the Acropolis. We preceeded this with a frantic search for Scott's debit card, which was apparently left in an ATM, never to be found again. Fortunately, however, no charges had been placed upon it, and he was able to cancel it.
It was a pretty cool walk up the hill to the Acropolis with a nice view of the city. Once we got there, we got tickets to see the Parthenon, Temple of Nike, and some other things that were up there. While the setting itself was really impressive, I think we were all a little disappointed in the significant construction ocurring on the buildings. The damn things last from 400 BC until the 1800s with no renovations, but we're now on our third renovation in the past 200 years. Anyone else get the feeling we might be doing something wrong?
Anywho, we take pictures and "flanons sur la colline" until the cold and rain become unbearable, which means....lunch time! After what was to become our daily struggle to find nourishment (and a stroll by EVERY motorcycle/car shop in Athens), we enter a resto and have another amazing meal...I had a gyro with some sort of sausage, and a double portion of tzaziki sauce, as scott didn't want his. Afterwards, I think we went back to the hostel for a bit and took a siesta to dry off/rest. (I am owning this French keyboard at the library, by the way. The slashes are in retarded places, but I've already overcome and have it mastered.)
We eventually woke up and left, and then found the tourist office closed about 10 mins before we got there. Blast. Thus, we decided to go by the old olympic stadium, which was kinda cool. After that, we walked up to some huge hill (the BFH, as Kevin called it) to get a view of the city. We took a funicular to the top and Scott went wild with pictures, as it provided a pretty incredible view of Athens. Rain got unbearable, so we eventually left and found a grocery store. Dinner for 3 was provided by 2 bags of potato chips, a pack of butter cookies, about 3 bars of chocolate, and 3 bottles of wine (they foolishly chose Greek wines, while I went with my trusty French Beaujolais Nouveau). We went back to the hostel and dined this dinner of homeless kings, then made a return to our favorite internet cafe.

At about 11pm, we leave en route to our hostel, but I spot a pastry shop...with a large selection of goodies. I don't know who buys pastries at 11pm, but I went in and did my normal long look-around at each available product while the girl behind the counter did the normal 'greet and wait until the food-crazed American decides which product is likely to stop his heart first, unless of course his heart stops in the long process of analysis.' I finally spot something that appears to have an absurd amount of chocolate in the form of a log surrounded by powdered sugar. I ask in broken English (so that vendor can understand, of course) what this particular pastry contains. "Honey," she replies. Oh? That doesn't look like honey from here...Being stubborn and perhaps slightly feeling the remaining effects of dinner, I doubt the person selling me the item and buy it anyway, because that's a lot of chocolate. Well, as it turns out, that's not chocolate. That's honey. And that's not powdered sugar. That tastes like flour. WHO puts a log of honey around a few nuts and covers this with flour? In disbelief, I took a few bites before getting disgusted. A few bites later (to really confirm, you know, that this is honey and not chocolate), I get totally disgusted. As one of the most expensive pastries I've ever bought (3 euros), this is also one of the most disappointing. It is now January 14, and said pastry remains in my room in Toulouse, as a reminder that sometimes gold turns out to be fool's gold, and sometimes chocolate turns out to be honey.


Parthenon. Construction.


Delicious lunch gyro

Athens from hill at night

Bad idea

Sunday, December 28th:
We wake up and I'm still mad about biting into a log of honey. To spite the stupid thing, I smear some of it on my morning breadfast.
I think this day began a long wild goose chase trying to find a train station. Eventually, we end up just walking around the city and in this plaza where loud music/speaking is occuring, lots of cops are walking around, and hand-written banners are hanging from buildings. As this seems like a probable location for one of those protests and/or riots we've been reading about, we decide it's best not to be there for too long. We leave and walk through this street with tons of markets, and possibly the largest meat market you've ever seen. Eventually, we arrive back to our area of Athens. The difficult food search ended with us stopping in a little bakery. The boys got sandwiches, and I got some sort of Calzone type thing and I think a cheese-filled thing of some sort. We ate them in a little square outside, which was kinda cool.
Eventually, we take the local tram for 45 minutes for a visit to the coast. I talked for a bit to some Belgian woman who didn't like the Francophones in Brussels. Scott decided he didn't like her because she made some comment that made it sound like she didn't like Texas. Anyhizzle, we arrive to see the Agean Sea and a cool little town and say goodbye to Belgium. As it's Sunday, not much is happening, however. Also, the beach, I believe we decided, was, well, less impressive than Galveston, Texas. Nonetheless, we walked around and enjoyed ourselves. Eventually, we were....HUNGER-STRUCK (cue AC/DC).
We enter the one place we found open and we all get gyros, again lol. Again, delicious. Also, we had some wine with our meal that was surprisingly cheap but tasty. Afterwards, we pass a pastry shop. Having sworn off pastries out of anger, I said I would buy nothing. I think Scott wanted to enter, so, shaking the hand of the devil, I walk in, and guess who ends up buying pastries? Not Scott. Kevin and Greg. The latter 2, however, were blown away by some sort of solid chocolate shell with this thick chocolate mousse/cream inside. Before leaving, I inquired about an interesting-looking closed pastry that appeared to be filled. The answer regarding the filling, however, neither intrigued nor amused me. I think you can guess what it was.
We trammed to the other terminus, where we found the 2004 Olympic stadiums. Those being less than impressive, we headed back to our hostel.






Monday, December 29th:
Day trip to Delphi. Get to bus station by taxi, I buy some baked goody filled with feta cheese, as well as a cucumber and ham sandwich and butter cookies to have as lunch. We had a sweet bus ride through the mountains, although some dude showed up late into it and appeared to not have showered in a while. He stood right next to me and raised his arms to hold onto the bus supports. Kevin and I gasped for unstenched air, he by covering his nose, me by asking him to burp into my face after he ate a few pringles.
Anywho, we arrive in Delphi, which is this tiny little town with a beautiful view of the mountains and a lake down below. We were rather impressed, and the view sort of reminded me of Geneva and Luzerne, Switzerland (the town wasn't really much, though).

We entered some of the ancient ruins and walked around some more for a bit. We also saw some priests having a footrace at the location of the ancient gymnasium. Twas a pretty humorous sight, as they were being cheered on by some seminarians. We talked to them for a few mins, and they were all living in Rome but were retracing the path of St. Paul from the north to the south of Greece, which was pretty cool.

After hanging out there for most of the day, we peaced out in the evening on the bus, which became extremely crowded on the way back. I sat Spaniard style (holler, Marta!)...on the floor. Eventually we got back to our neighborhood, and Kevin happened to find the souvenir bottle of Absinth he was looking for. We went by our favorite pastry shop to find it was closed, so we retired for the evening after Kevin and Scott had a rather girly pillow-fight in our hostel room.








Tuesday, December 30th:
I get up early and go to airport, talking to a pretty cool dude from Lebanon on the way. Find out my flight to Paris is delayed (ice in France), so I goof around on the free internet at the airport for a bit. Flight eventually leaves, although I thought I might be going to Spain, as it seemed like Spanish and Greek were all I heard at the terminal.
I go to my friend Thomas's apartment, but go to meet my friend Hélène (whom I met over summer at Air Liquide) for dinner with her friends. We had some sweet Laotian and Vietnamese food, and then we headed to Hotel de Ville to see the ice-skating rink. Unfortunately, it had just closed, so we met up with her Canadian friend who turned out to be hilarious. We all went to an Irish pub, had a beer and played some billiards. Apparently billiards aren't popular here, so the Canadian and I had a hilarious time watching our French friend hehe. Eventually it got late and we all headed out. Said goodbye to Hélène, as she was leaving Paris the next day to spend some time in Nice.