senile genius

Too much as happened in the last ten days to provide many details. Instead, I’ve decided to summarize everything through the medium of haiku.

Normandy beachside:
Who knew sea snails were so good?
(I eat twenty-five.)

We’re at Fontainebleau,
Napoleon’s hunting ground,
Playing hide and seek.

Last night on the roof:
A total lunar eclipse
Made better through wine.

Alas, I finally took the plunge and bought my plane tickets for vacation in April. All it took was an entire bottle of wine, two roaches and a contemplative 45-minute ride on the night bus. The plan, as it stands, is to be in Senegal for a week, watching some goats get slaughtered or whatnot, then spend the rest of the second week in Morocco, home of federally protected polygamy. Pas mal, as the French would say.

In other news, it’s been a while since my last post. Sorry to my three readers. I have some things to go over, some things to mock, but this morning I’m going to Fontainebleau, a huge park 40 minutes outside Paris and I have to go put my face on.

Oh Germany. Four days in the Vaterland were great. Freiburg is straight out of a postcard: red roofs, forest all around, Aryans on bikes whizzing by left and right. Everything and everyone in the city was efficient, clean and friendly, except perhaps for the three policeman who gave us a condescending lecture for jaywalking in front of the main train station (“Rot, nicht gehen. Grün, gehen.“) But we went for the hiking, and hike we did. Friday morning we took the train to a wee little town called Bärental (Bear Valley), passing through even quainter villages and unseasonably green pastures.

It was about 50 degrees in Freiburg, so it was surprising to encounter a not insignificant amount of snow. We walked west along a icy trail for about five kilometers until we reached a mountain lake called Feldsee, which was, of course, frozen. It’s in this kind of natural bowl, with sheer cliffs on three sides, one of which is Feldberg, the highest peak in the Black Forest. We sat along the shore in the sun, ate some peanut butter and pretzels, enjoyed the informational signs that portrayed a toothbrush-wielding gnome at work keeping the lake clean for you and me. Continuing along, we hiked a nearly vertical path over the ridge toward Feldberg, ending up at a ski resort full of red-faced Germans and really bad, really loud American music. We left quickly, and, upon our return to Freiburg, ate a huge Italian meal (HALF-PRICE EVERYTHING!!!). Later, at a bar, we bought a boot of beer. Yes, we drank two liters of Germany’s finest out of a huge boot-shaped glass. Not one person found this out of the ordinary.

We didn’t plan/know it, but Thursday was the first day of Fasnet, the southwest German equivalent of Carnival or Mardi Gras. Some of the costumes were crazy: eerie inhuman masks and brightly colored, avian-looking suits à la Big Bird. The face painting, too, was slightly unnerving: on the tram we encountered a family band (mom on bells, daughter on trumpet, son on drums, dad on tuba), each of whom had, inexplicably, a hammer and sickle painted on his or her cheek. There were also strange call-and-response sessions in which someone randomly hanging out of a window or on the Town Hall’s balcony would shout (to my ears) unintelligbly and the entire crowd would shout back “JA VOLL!”. Flashes of 1933…

Leaving the uncomfortable festivities behind, on Saturday (alternately known as “The Longest Hike”) we headed north of the city, climbing to the top of Schlossberg—near the city proper—and then going even farther up to Roßkopf where there was an observation tower with a great view of the surrounding countryside. We walked and walked and walked, enjoying every minute of it and eventually abandoning the path in favor of making the descent to the valley floor along a muddy, overgrown stream. On the way back to town, we walked along the Dreisam river, which, being a German river, was perfectly straight and conscientiously dammed to provide renewable power to the less fortunate.

The hostel was weird but very comfortable and welcoming. The mattresses, for example, were amazing. There was, however, a Japanese guy who never went oustide to enjoy the beautiful German weather but, instead, rode around the common room on a scooter, stopping every so often to play piano on the level of an adult savant or work on this mini-computer thing straight out of Star Trek. On several occasions, another guy broke spontaneously broke into operatic song.

It was nice to live cheaply, if just for a few days. The soreness my entire lower body is experiencing right now is but temporary; memories of 70-cent pints of beer and competitvely priced döner kebabs will stay with me forever.

I read somewhere that talking about one’s dreams in public is a big faux pas. My piping has been rather stuffed up of late, but if I had a shit, I nonetheless wouldn’t give it. In the last three weeks, I’ve had no fewer than six intense, half-nightmarish dreams involving the homeless. In France, they’re referred as sans domicile fixe (SDF, or, in English, without fixed domicile). It’s hella euphemistic and essentially obscures the real problem of homelessness in Paris, but that’s neither here nor there.

My dreams always take place on the Métro, where the SDF tend to loiter and drink Desperados (absolutely disgusting tequila-flavored beer). In this afternoon’s version, I’m on my friend and yours, Line No. 9, minding my own business, when I notice a woman and her young daughter waiting by the doors to get off. The train pulls into the station and the woman pushes her daughter, who at this point is audibly sobbing, onto the platform and says, in French, “Get yourself to an SDF shelter for something to eat.” The doors close and the train continues on its way. Feeling horribe, I approach the mother and give her some change out of my pocket. She looks at me coldly and says, “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?” For some reason, my anger starts building and building until I smack her hand and the change hits her in the face before clattering to the ground. She looks up with complete shock on her face, and I wake up. For all you psychoanalysts out there, tell me what you think. I’d ask my host mom, but I feel she’d judge me and/or put me on suicide watch.

Guess what! I’m going to the Black Forest tomorrow morning, bright and early! We’re staying in Freiburg: Germany’s sunniest, warmest city, home to 40,000 university students and, according to Lonely Planet, a thoroughly “un-German atmosphere.” The weather forecast is for sun and mild temperatures, so hiking and yodeling and whatnot will be a relaxed affair. Beer, pretzels, fresh air, weehoo!

Lyon was a strange, cold place. Half the city is filled with housing blocks à la Vladivostock while the other half is comprised of almost inhumanly quaint cobblestone alleys, small cafés and winding staircases.

Guess where our hostel was located! If you guessed the latter, you’re stupid and worthless. No, we stayed in one of Stalin’s misplaced highrises. Sure, it was clean and modern, but it was in the French equivalent of Detroit, where not even one goddamn épicerie is open after sunset for fear of armed robbery or other felonies.

Nonetheless, the food was in plenty. In Lyon, it’s all about the meat: Saturday was pork (lunch) and chicken (dinner), while Sunday was lambtastic. Oh, and escargot, which, incidentally, are some tasty gastropods.

Saturday afternoon: We drank a lot of beer in the woods and, having quickly reached frostbite levels of coldness, decided that running up a huge mountain was the best way to get warm. At the top, we entered a conveniently placed basilica for shelter and nearly vomited up the previously mentioned pork upon the altar of Our Lord.

Sunday afternoon: We stumbled upon a zoo. There were turtles and deer and, against all meteorological odds, flamingos. Plus the saddest billy-goat ever. It was standing motionless among a bunch of does, eyes shut, clearly hating life and the weather and all the stupid Japanese tourists snapping pictures of its horns.

Sign glued to the sidewalk along Rue Mirabeau, near my apartment:

DANGER!
MERDE FRAÎCHE DE CHIEN PARISIEN

Translation:

DANGER!
FRESH PARISIAN DOG SHIT

Zexie Manatsa & The Green Arrows – “Towering Inferno”
Arcade Fire – “Black Mirror”

I read something interesting yesterday. Here it is:

When did it become cooler to love the British Invasion and Journey than the popular new-ish indie rock band?

I was interested because it’s true. Maybe it’s because I’ve been hanging out with the coolest of the cool, the cream of the crop, but in recent weeks I’ve heard more than one disparaging remark directed towards The Arcade Fire. Cold, haughty jabs asserting their originality was and is an artefact of media hype. These naysayers have apparently forgotten what attracted the media hype in the first place. Yes, the media, she is a fickle beast, pouncing on any small human tragedy and exaggerating it into the realm of bad taste (“Mr. Jones is old, alone, and he can’t open this jar of pickles.”), but I think when it comes to music at least, it tends to latch onto groups and sounds that are authentically NEW, HIP, THE NEXT BIG THING. One can’t just write off an entire band just because the made the cover of Time. So did The Beatles, pal.

If you’re still not convinced, listen to “Black Mirror.” It’s like nothing you’ve ever heard before. Oh, and that other one, “Towering Inferno.” It’s the most fun you can get from a horrible, fatal fire.

I went for a long walk today in the Bois de Boulogne. I think I was expecting perfectly manicured gardens and fountains with micturating marble cherubs à la Versailles, but, as its name implies, it’s just woods. I’d imagine in the summer it’d be a little more striking, as now all the trees are bare and the grass is brownish-gray. There were several relatively large, nice-looking lakes, the larger of which is called Lac Inférieur and the smaller of which is called Lac Supérieur. ILLOGICAL FRENCH PEOPLE.

More imporant to this post were the number of joggers/walkers/strollers. The place was bloody packed, to the point where I almost fell into aforementioned lakes on several occasions while trying to maneuver around old people and children.

Watching the French run is hilarious. To begin with, they don’t just throw on a pair of shorts and whatever old T-shirt is lying around, as any red-blooded American would do. No, they have color-coordinated nylon-spandex outfits that, more often than not, match their shoes. They also get REALLY INTO RUNNING. Imagine grimaces of intense athletic strain, eyes squinting from the vigor of it all, heaving breathing, etc, etc. The only thing is, most of the people I saw looked as if they’d never run before in their lives. Imagine the fat kid in fourth grade, all gangly and waddling. Yeah, that’s them. Though, as an obese American, I give them credit for attempting to work off all the baguette and Camembert, even if they look goofy doing so.

In conclusion, my cultural-anthropological insights are profoundly penetrating.

4. Public displays of affection are rampant. I’m not talking about pecks on the cheek or even quick lip-to-lip business. These people GO AT IT. Gyrating heads, tongue, licking. Suck-fests on the Metro are the worst, as you’re forced to stare straight ahead and are in close quarters to begin with. On the street today, this couple was going at it in front of a glass-fronted McDonald’s, with everyone inside chomping on their burgers and enjoying the show. Freaks. In conclusion, “French kissing” is not a misnomer.

5. The Gap plays Enya, too.

1. Old French ladies appear to have an innate inability to pick up their dogs’ shit. OH GOD IT’S EVERYWHERE. One is forced to oogle the Eiffel Tower while avoiding huge piles of steaming Kibble waste.

2. Parisians think the city is still occupied by the Germans or something. They’re hyperobsessed with conservation. Every time you leave a room, you turn off the light, even if that means stumbling back in the dark and knocking over precious vases and whatnot. Showers are not relaxing affairs but rather horrible exhibitions of contortion in which one is obliged to manipulate one of those unattached shower-head things in such a way that water doesn’t go EVERYWHERE. Also, the supermarkets don’t give you plastic bags. They make you PAY for a “reuseable” one. That’s 90 cents I’m never getting back. Wake up, city. This is the 21st century—we have plenty of natural resources. And, if worse comes to worse, we can always mine the Moon for moon-coal. DUH.

3. American chain stores in Paris play the worst music ever. The kind of thing you’d imagine Saddam played in his rape rooms. Shaun and I were in The Gap yesterday rummaging through piles and piles of unfolded but severely discounted clothes, trying not to scream from the horrors of 98 Degrees (they call them 37 Degrees Celsius here) and bad No Doubt. There were worse things, but I think I’ve subconsciously blocked them out.

I’ve noticed more things, but I gotta poop and get up to Montmartre to say goodbye to Shaun. SUCKAAAAA.