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.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
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?!
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?!
Sunday, April 12, 2009
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)