Black Friday :: 11:20 AM :: easyjetsetter

I've been somewhat occupied these last couple of days, so I apologise for the lack of posts. I then had a little crisis yesterday with my bank, which was ironic because only on thursday petite anglaise had been writing about bank trouble, and I had commented that my financial situation was almost amusingly bad and could not get any worse, and then my bank managed to top that.

It all started with my accounts not displaying in my online banking, but since I've had problems with this before I thought nothing of it. So when I go to withdraw my rent from the atm nearest me and it doesn't come out, I begin to think someone is playing an april fools' joke on me. So I try another bank. And another. Nothing. Now, I know it's in credit, cause my rent is in there. My card hasn't expired. I should be ok. But I'm not. So I freak out.

Hysterical phone calls to the parents later, it turns out that the bank had sent me a letter, to the same address they've been sending them for years, and, I might add, the same address my entire family has resided at for ten years, but it was, however, returned. The bank, despite knowing all of this, blocked my account, without contacting me.

Now, because my Mum is from a different generation she knows the first names of everyone in our branch, and they all know her because she insists on chatting to them every time she comes in, like they used to do in the 40's. So she is understandably fuming that they would do something so unutterably stupid.

She was an absolute trooper, she called them up and bitched them out and threatened to move her mortgage and everyone else's accounts. She was brilliant. They asked her why I didn't have a chequebook and she was like "because you wouldn't give her one you nignogs, what are you going to do about that?" They're going to do their utmost when i get back to reverse the ridiculous situation I am in (see the comment linked above.)

The block was removed, but it takes a while to process, so my landlord has to receive his rent on monday. When I called him to tell him this, he was like "but why don't you have a french bank account?" and I said as politely as I could muster "because you wouldn't give me any official proof of address." "Oh right" he said, understandably a bit shamed.

Anyway, today is saturday, the sun is shining. Joni Mitchell is playing free man in paris, and I am about to go and buy some bread products from the bakery, where the girl and I will have a little chat, because I am a regular, and then I will come back to my sunshiney little flat, and eat pain au chocolate, muesli, coffee and yoghurt while I read the papers. Life is good. Banks can't ruin that.

Waiting for the White Smoke :: 04:40 PM :: easyjetsetter

Stalin once asked "how many divisions has the pope?" I would say lots. And they are here, and here (scroll down to related and click "tears..." etc.) and here and here (click "In pictures: the world mourns") and here.

I was staying the night with a quite devout Catholic acquaintance of mine last night and took the opportunity to go to mass with her this morning. I like going to all kinds of religious services, and it doesn't disturb my faith to be in one which I am not part of. I was glad I went. You forget how strong the Church is.

My favourite picture of the whole day, however, has to be this one of the pope wearing Bono's sunglasses.

An Open Letter to M. Bertrand Delanoë :: 06:42 PM :: easyjetsetter

Hexagon M. le Maire,

I would like to congratulate you on your marvellous city. In comparison with certain other capitals I could name, who are also competing for the Olympics in 2012, I believe you have created a haven of cleanliness, cost-effectiveness, and pleasantness.

However, there remains room for improvement. Here are several pointers/suggestions for you and your staff to mull over:

1) Consider making construction workers subject to the 35 hour working week limit. The building site across the street that wakes me up every morning at 7 am on the dot seems to be staffed by the only punctual French people in existence. Please amend.

2) The dog shit really has to go. I consider the Proprété de Paris the pride of Europe, but obviously their vigilance and the frequency of their ablutions have only contributed to a misplaced conviction on the part of Parisian dog owners: that their animal may crap wherever it pleases. Consider taxing them for their precious pooches, like in Germany. While you’re at it, declare open season on the pigeons to fix that particular defecatory problem. I have an excellent recipe if anyone is interested.

3) Consider building a separate mass transportation system for the tourists, such as a monorail, so that they cease to impede my entrance to my metro stop. Having the stairway entirely blocked by an utter bloater from Twickenham or Des Moines or Wiesbaden while she looks at her oversized map (ask for the little one woman! It’s the size of a lighter! Oh wait, I forgot, you don’t speak French, silly me) may be dangerous for her health as one day I will lose it and push her down the stairs.

4) Please, no more rappers on the metro. At the very least, ban those awful boomboxes on little-old-lady hardcarts, because they only seem capable of producing one song (you know the one I mean, the dabadahee, dabadaha one) and it is devilishly hard to get out of one’s head once one has heard it.

5) Do something about the radio stations.

6) And the TV programmes. Particularly "Hit Machine."

7) Ban strikes. Actually, no, that’s anti-democratic. Take a leaf out of your own book and make it equally difficult and bureaucratic to obtain permission to stage a demonstration/be on strike as it is to, say, get a carte de séjour. Yes, I know I don't need one, (that's how I get away without paying taxes) but I've heard stories from those who do. This way, the grévistes will be rendered mad, like Astérix and Obélix in “The 12 Tasks of Astérix” when they have to get that form from that building. That way they won’t shoot themselves in the foot when IOC members visit. And I won’t get felt up by creepy people when the metro is overcrowded due to aforementioned strikes.

8) Speaking of the bid, I’d like to convey to you the results of an informal poll about your recent decorating spree among my French friends. 100% of respondents agree that those colours just don’t say “Paris.” While I am sure the IOC, who don’t have to live here and see it every day, appreciate the sentiment, it would be much more pleasing to the eye if you were to replace it with nice, tasteful white ones, rendering once more “French” the National Assembly, the Eiffel Tower, the Senate, the Hotel de Ville, and the Seine, instead of leaving them looking like Dolly Parton/Pop Larkin’s Christmas Tree.

9) Spot fines for drageurs. Now, I don’t get anything crass, often I am just trop belle/charmante/classe but I nevertheless feel quite justified in objecting to being followed home. Or subjected to cheesy lines such as “I am a musician you know.”

10) Finally, I think your city would be a much nicer place if you wiped out the included 15% service charge and made tips entirely discretionary, at which point every serveur and serveuse would be obliged to be pleasant.

I understand that as a tax-evading freelancer I have little authority or clout with which to urge you to take these steps, but I believe the majority of people would agree that these are the principal challenges in the city of lights. I would also like to invite you to discuss these points over a two-for-one on Moosehead beer at the Moose on 16, rue des Quatres Vents, where I shall be from 3:00 AM until the metro starts in order to watch the Tar Heels win the NCAA tournament title.

Veuillez agréer, Monsieur le Maire, l’expression de mes sentiments les meilleurs.

Laissez-nous vous amuser... :: 11:05 PM :: easyjetsetter

Hexagon I just finished watching my favourite trashy French TV programme, on a echange nos mamans. This is a remake of the BBC show "wife swap," which French TV, obviously to ward off any prurient speculation, has chosen to translate as "we've exchanged our mothers."

I should qualify the statement "favourite" with the caveat that this is only because Star Academy is not on air at the moment. Of course I would never be caught dead watching British reality TV shows, like "big brother" or "pop idol," but there's a good reason for watching these shows' equivalents in France: they're in French.

Oh sure, you say, that's why you watch. You could watch the evening news for that, you scoff. But I find the evening news pretty easy. It's clear, formal, enunciated French that the anchors speak. If you judged me on the news, my French would be considered perfect. As it is, the minute there's background noise, my French nosedives off the Eiffel Tower. In real life, especially across the street from a building site, and with my crappy phone that drops calls, there's always background noise.

Don't even get me started on argot(slang). I add quoi(what) to the end of all my sentences like a good parisienne in an odd inversion of Uderzo and Goscinny's parody of British speakers in "Asterix goes to Britain." I use the words boulot(job) and bosser(to work) instead of emploi(job) and travailler(to work) but beyond that I'm foutu.(fucked)

Star Ac, as it is affectionately called by those of us who love it, is full of people using slang and talking over one another, while on a echange nos mamans has people from all over France speaking with their honking accents, and a great deal of whispered crying into the camera when it all becomes too much. It's awful, but also awfully good for my French.

Star Ac I should point out, is a kind of mix between "big brother" and "pop idol," where you not only see a clutch of anorexics compete live once a week to see who'll be voted off, but watch them daily in their chateau at their dancing, singing, acting and sports lessons. It's made by Endemol, the same production company.

Of course, since there are six terrestrial channels for which to make crap TV, Endemol have also made an equivalent of "pop idol" (american idol to our transatlantic cousins) called Nouvelle star. I do not watch this.

It does, however, raise the question of translation. It is not always clear why the French entertainment industry feels the need to change some names, and others not at all. Thus, "Star Academy," instead of academie des vedettes, but on a echange nos mamans instead of "wife swap." "Nip/Tuck," "Sex and the City" and "Friends" all remain untranslated, even though these are more easily translateable into French than, say, "The Avengers" or "Bewitched" which have been rendered ma sorciere bien aimee(lit: my witch, whom I like well-enough) and l'homme au chapeau melon (lit: the man with the melon hat, although it really means a bowler hat) respectively.

Then there's films. Fair enough, "About Schmidt" became Monsieur Schmidt and "the Royal Tenenbaums" became La Famille Tenenbaum. But "Million Dollar Baby," an eminentaly translateable title (although maybe a little excessive at current exchange rates) has remained the same, while "Mean Girls," a less mobile title, has been changed completely to Lolita malgre moi literally meaning "Lolita, despite myself." Or rather, in a more idiomatic sense, "Hey, I just can't help being a Lolita!" Which really has nothing to do with the film, does it?

Sometimes you really have to wonder about the French entertainment industy's on again/off again love affair with English. Novel solutions to guilty francophone consciences abound. A recent fashion in radio advertising seems to be having someone read your ad in ludicrously bad French in an EXTREMELY English/American accent. French people think this is the funniest thing.

And there aren't enough proper, fruity swear words in French to make a movie like Trainspotting or Pulp Fiction any fun. I have a friend in subtitling who agrees it can get rather boring constantly subbing in putain and merde endlessly. Speaking of Pulp Fiction, how do you suppose they translated the "royale with cheese" scene?

I watched "the wizard of oz" in VO the other day (that's in the original language with subtitles in French) and was amazed a) at how amusing some of the translations were (Curses!: maledictions!, Haunted Castle, 1 mile: 1.5km) and b) how, every now and then, especially when more than one person was singing, or there was a lot of background noise, the subtitler would just give up. I see now that my French is good enough for subtitling.

To infinity, and beyond! :: 11:57 PM :: easyjetsetter

Social Circle You know, I work in marketing. I find good adverts beautiful. I consider clever ploys that suck the consumer in canny, not manipulative. Except, that is, when I am promised Joseph Fiennes near enough to possibly touch him (and perhaps, snip off a scrap of the material of his pants?) and he is not delivered. Then I'm just pissed.

Let me back up a bit. In fact, a whole lot. 104 years ago, France created the loi de 1901, allowing anyone to set up an association, and granting certain privileges to such an association (don't ask me what, there's an article about it here if you're genuinesly interested.) Four years later, Jules Verne died.

Now, fast forward through the 20th century. Forget the two world wars, they weren't a lot of fun. Let's skip the 60's and the 70's, this is a family blog. Also the 80's, because I don't want to remember what my hair looked like then. OK...now...STOP.

It's 1992. It was the year I went to boarding school. It was the last time the Tories won an election, and it was the year the phrase on everyone's lips was "It's the economy, stupid."

It was also the year that Jean Christophe set up the Jules Verne Festival. This is annual screening of films that celebrate the spirit of adventure and science fiction that Jules Verne epitomised, culminating in an awards ceremony for the best documentary, comic book, and film. It started out screening at the Oceanographic Institute, in a very Steve Zissou way, and is now, in its thirteenth year, hosted by the Rex cinema, a 1932 art deco movie house which seats 3,300 people.

I know that figure because the ville de paris helpfully posted an iron sign around the corner from the building, so that sad twats like me standing in the rain could occupy themselves while waiting in line. Why was I there you ask?

Back when it was still a little toddler of an event, and my friend Sabrina was still in high school, she was asked to be on the "youth jury," a kind of secondary jury charged with keeping the spirit of youthful imagination alive in the festival. She got to do training exercises on the French battleship the Jules Verne, she got to sky dive (although she chickened out) and she got to arrive at all the films in SUVs embossed with the festival logo and swan into the theater on a red carpet.

She now gets invited back every year for free. This is how, a couple of weeks ago, I was shown a piece of paper advertising the opening ceremony of the Jules Verne Festival, with a screening of "Man to Man." There was a still from the film on the right. On the left it said, in descending order "a screening of 'Man to Man'"(new paragraph) "attended by the director and the actors"(new paragraph)"joseph fiennes, kristen scott thomas."

So, all excited, and scissors at the ready, I stand in line in the rain with Sabrina. We crowd our way upstairs. We endure the interminable speeches by Jean Christophe. We even sit through Omar Sharif, who, while a geuinely wonderful person, was there for NO DISCERNIBLE REASON and rabbited on for ages. We wanted Joe. Or, as Sabrina says he prefers that she calls him in private, "Joey."

So finally, they're like, ok, we're going to call the actors up on stage. So up trips Kristen Scott Thomas, looking ravishing in black, but they don't let her speak, even though she's married to a Frenchman, and speaks beautiful French, and they let Omar Sharif talk. Then up comes the guy who plays the pygmy in the film. No Joe. He is not there.

We check the flyer. We realise instead of les acteurs it says des acteurs. This can be translated as either "the actors" or "some of the actors." Clever marketing. Shitty deal.

Now, the film itself was wonderful, and I highly recommend you go and see it. It's set in scotland, although you won't like THIS scotland. Jules Vernes is a big deal in France. You know how Star Wars people are in the States? French people are like that about Jules Verne. There's this cult called les verniens who are HUGELY popular. Well, this year is the centenary of his death, and so this year's festival is a BIG, big deal. His great-great grandson is president of the jury, Jean Jules Verne.

I also encourage you to see other films in the Jules Verne festival. There are some awesome-looking documentaries. And Sunday night we are returning to see the awards ceremony (presented by TONY CURTIS!), a concert of the music of John Scott, and a screening of the film voted the best sci-fi adventure film of the last 100 years (Star Wars of course.) I am excited. I've never seen Star Wars in a movie theatre, and in a cinema like this it will be stupendous.

Sabrina, however, has never seen Star Wars AT ALL. None of them. Not the real ones anyway. Nor has she seen the Godfather. She's seen III, but not I or II. She has not seen Lawrence of Arabia, or Dr. Zhivago. Nor has she seen Barry Lyndon, Spartacus or Space Odyssey 2001. She has, at least, seen the Lion King. Sabrina, I know you're reading this, and I warn you now, we have some work to do.

Oh, and my favourite part of the evening? That would have to be when they announced the results of the "best sci-fi adventure film of the past 100 years." Someone from Lucasarts and someone from 20th Century Fox got up onstage to say thank you and remind us to go and see episode III. Then they had a montage from Star Wars to the nice uplifting music, and not one, not two, BUT FOUR startroopers came out onstage. While the strobe lights mimicked their lasers. BLISS.

The bleeding edge of vanity publishing :: 12:26 AM :: easyjetsetter

The title I am using today was nicked from another blog. I write in my spare time, and I recently got into writing satire/comedy. Obviously, one has to write a hundred unfunny jokes before one hits on a genuinely funny one, but I have to try.

I tend to pick topical/political things, and in fact it was the publication of an article that led to the decision to write a more public, but more anonymous blog, after someone received my article on a google keyword news feed, and missed the fact that it was satirical, and set an entire bulletin board after me.

But I keep writing under my own name, I just keep my name away from this blog. However, I submitted something to McSweeney's, an excellent publishing house/website/quarterly concern. It was turned down, but since I have a platform for self-publishing right here, I am going to post it.

I would also like to add how impressed I was with McSweeney's for replying to me personally within 24 hours and giving a good reason (other than it being crap) for turning down my submission. The editor, apparently, had "pope fatigue" so if you're sick of it all, stop reading now.

************************************************************
Minutes of the Meeting of the Sacred College of Cardinals as recorded by Sandy Berger, Former Clinton White House Aide.

Page 1 of 3:

Welcome to all 117 members of the Sacred College of Cardinals. Of course, our deliberations are entirely secret and so may I ask that our secretary take whatever steps he deems necessary to guard the overall clandestine nature of the more sensitive parts of the proceedings.

First, I would like to welcome His Eminence Dan Brown, Archbishop of Kirkcaldy. This is a temporary appointment while he researches his next book. Let us hope that as a consequence of the spirit of openness we hope to foster by making this special exception, he will find himself rather more kindly disposed towards emphasizing "the cuddlier side of Christendom."

Second, I should like to emphasize the need to not get carried away by recent events. I know this is a very emotional time for you all. We are aware that the Tar Heels won the NCAA championship, but Roy Williams if a Methodist. His nomination would seriously undermine the rhetorical power of that age-old statement, masquerading as a question"Is the Pope a Catholic?"

A word on reimbursement. You will all receive 50% of costs for your flights to Rome, with the exception of those who flew Ryanair, who will be reimbured 100%, as a reward for adhering so closely to the vows of poverty by booking such low-cost flights. You MUST, however, submit your receipts before Candlemass, along with a properly formatted excel spreadsheet detailing costs and payments.

If no one has any other miscellaneous agenda items, we'll get down to the business at hand. Please make your opening statements and remember to keep your remarks to a limit of 60 seconds. When you have 10 seconds to go, the digital countdown will flash. If you talk over this, the orchestra will play over you. If you talk over the orchestra, we WILL go to commercial.

Now, to begin the secret part of the deliberations, I would like to ask if one of the...

Page 2 of 3:




















Page 3 of 3:
...will be the new Pope. And that, gentlemen, concludes our proceedings.

Without much further ado, let us take this 125th set of 117 ballot papers, and, in an act of wanton disregard for the environment, set fire to them too. We HAD hoped to have the touch-screen voting ready, but the consultant from Florida says that God has not willed it so. Maybe next time.

Approach the holy fire. Please, no smores.

Why I am fat :: 07:55 PM :: easyjetsetter

Hexagon I think the greatest blessing and, simultaneously, the greatest curse, my parents bestowed upon me during my upbringing is my palate. They were, like French parents, into letting me try anything I wanted. Wine, foie gras, seafood, whatever the grown-ups were having. They took me to restaurants they liked, and taught me it was impolite not to finish what was on my plate.

This would be ok if I were out on the hockey field every day, but as it is my idea of sport is getting up to change the telly (remember those days? Now I don't even do that) and my bottom grew and grew. My ass would kick J-Lo's butt in a fight any day.

At the same time, I would like to point out that, simply in terms of the quality of the food that went into creating it, it is a very expensive bottom, and it would be a frightful waste of money to get rid of it.

I also like the relationship I have with food. It almost makes up for the lack of any other kind of relationship. I think once people start dieting and obsessing about whether they should eat something it ruins their appreciation for good food over time.

My major childhood memories are based around excellent meals. Going shooting with my father and our ADHD labrador conjures up images of big steaming bowls of soup, mince and tatties in plastic bowls, and roast pheasant for dinner several days later.

Holidays in France are epitomised in piles of seafood, messy fingers and tasting mum's nasty "toenail juice" as I used to call wine (my how times have changed...)

School makes me think of slicing bananas into custard, or the lorne sausage in big floury buns, plus what me and my friends (I only had one or two) called "tea slammers" when the chapel bell tolled and we had to hurry.

What I miss about the States, apart from my friends (I made one or two more) and all my beautiful stuff which is waiting for the creek to flood in my wife's basement, is the food. I miss Pepper's Pizza spinach and ricotta calzone, I miss Cosmic Cantina's roasted veggie burrito, and I miss Elmo's cheese fries and milkshakes. I miss North Carolina Barbecue, the good shredded pork kind with the vinegar sauce, and the cornbread and the coleslaw and the okra and the shrimp and grits.

I do not, however, miss the portion sizes. In the four years I was there I put on two dress sizes. Forget freshman fifteen, it was the freshman 40. I look at pictures of myself in high school, when I believed myself fat, and then pictures of myself in college, when I actually WAS fat but didn't worry about it, and wonder what I was smoking.

I have since lost a dress size again, thanks to my fifth floor walk-up apartment and the astonishing weight of the guides I spend a large part of my week delivering and the fact that the Paris metro hates disabled people and is entirely composed of stairs.

However, I have a sneaking suspicion that it is also because I have reverted to my old eating habits. Now that I am no longer in the land of free soda refills, if I am not drinking alcohol, I drink water. And I drink a lot of it. I don't eat chips. Or fries. I've cut down my meat intake, because I don't have an oven or a grill and only steaks are any good done in a pan. I am on my own and so only eat when I am hungry.

I always preferred a big tasty fresh salad to boxed mac and cheese, but I fell into bad company in the States, where convenience food was easy. In France fresh produce is not the exception, it is the norm. Unlike in the States where it was easier to eat the pasta in the cupboard than crossing the busy highway to get to the grocery store for some lettuce. Making the effort for better food is the cornerstone of French culture. For example, if you look at any French blogring, at least half will be gastronomic.

Today is Friday, which means that the open air market two hundred metres away from my building has been going on since one pm. I stocked up on fruit and vegetables for the week, bought a raisin bread loaf, some flowers for the flat, and a roast chicken to eat over the weekend. On the way home I popped into the grocery store to restock on dried goods and dairy products. I got a braquette of spanish strawberries. I'm going to have some of my chicken with a head of batavia and my grandmother's dressing. Then I will eat the berries, with cream but not sugar. I will drink water. This is how I believe it is best to eat. Not stinting myself, but not stuffing myself either.

And carrying all that crap up the stairs didn't hurt either.

Should I stay or should I go? :: 11:04 AM :: easyjetsetter

I had a little trouble sleeping last night. Partly the impending horror of my DALF exam on wednesday, and partly the impending horror of leaving paris. Like a fine dusting of snow, it is beginning to hit me that in 7 weeks, I will not be here.

Here's the dilemma. My current CDD (contrat de duree determinee) expires in May. I like my job, but that doesn't really justify staying in Paris. The reason I came to Paris will be over (the exam) and the plan all along was to do something political before the applications are due for the LSE/Sciences Po programme I want to do in February.

As I have pointed out before, this means something in London or Brussels. I should also point out that this also means something unpaid. Few of the 30 + jobs I have applied for in this round have come with anything more than a travel card and lunch, and some with even less.

I already have two offers, both from public affairs companies. One in London one in a northern town. Which is ok. But not ideal. The job I really want doesn't even close applications until the end of April (mine's already in) and won't start until september 2005, so I can't know if I am going to get it. Another job I am interested in starts once parliament gets back from the election, which will be the fall. Plus, in September, all those bright shiny new MPs (cause you'd better believe Labour are losing their overall majority) will need bright shiny new research assistants.

So, here's what I am thinking: staying in Paris for the summer. New leave date of August 31st. Tell my landlord that I'm staying. Negotiate a new contract for the summer. Inform the long-suffering parents that they'll need to come and collect me in august instead of May (I am waaay over the baggage limit for a plane.) What do you all think?

I just don't know if I should take a series of 6 week unpaid internships while continuing to look for the right job, or if I should stay here while continuing to look for the right job. That's what it comes down to. Because september to february is long enough to do something that will make an impression on my application. Because I love my area and my flat, although I cannot stand my landlord. I need some feedback. From friends as much as from strangers.

The problem is, I need to decide before I get my results from my exam in mid-May. I need to decide by the end of April. If I pass, well and good, but if I fail any of the four unites I need to resit them in Glasgow in June. Can I do that from paris?

Last summer, I went through a similar dilemma, where I could either leave NC ten days after graduation, or I could pay for summer school in economics (also with an eye to this masters) and carry on working at the planetarium (INS says you can only work if you're a student) and live with the wife. I chose the second option, and spent a nice summer learning how to say goodbye, and packing properly, and swimming and marvelling at the magic I could work on boys with that little phrase "well, I'm leaving the country in three months."

It was worth it. Will it be this time? More is at stake. I should go home and finish learning to drive and take the stupid test. I should go home and stop throwing my private income down the rent drain. I should go home and concentrate on career development rather than lifestyle. I should. But I don't want to. Help me dear readers. You're my only hope, as I am incapable of making a rational decision about myself.

As my wife says, I've really got to stop falling in love with the places I move to temporarily.

Run, run, run, run. Whatever makes you happy. Whatever you want. :: 07:47 PM :: easyjetsetter

Social Circle An envelope arrived today. It had four stamps. 37 cent ones with bunches of roses (camelias? clematis? I am not to be trusted with such herbacious identification) on them. The address label is one of those "mail merger" ones. It's a little misaligned. I would never let such a badly formatted label onto an envelope if this were my mailing. The postmark says Charlotte, NC and it is dated april 4th. The flap on the back is held down with a silver sticker that has two entwined silver hearts.

The "save the date" card for my best male friend's wedding is a bit of a surprise. We had decided when I left the States to exchange handwritten letters, rather than to email. Our correspondance has therefore been, and I admit I was more than partly culpable, patchy. The last I heard from him was a fifteen page letter in December telling me about his new girlfriend. I tried to write a reply four times, but I would never get around to posting it until the news was all out of date, which necessitated a new one. So this is the first I have heard of a wedding.

I don't think a call or an email telling me he was engaged would be a lot to ask. But then, I just have not been there, offering my advice and my support (or disapproval) at every turn. I have not even met the girl, so I can't begin to make an informed judgment. I am therefore reduced to platitudes. All I can say is how happy I am for them to have found each other. Because I don't know any better. I am no longer a player in his life. I am on the benches.

It has finally hit what it means to be a continent away from my friends. I was already feeling isolated and scared by the combination of DALF and leaving Paris before really making friends. Then a sequence of three events occurred that have culminated in this one that has me petrified and reaching for the above-quoted Radiohead.

First, my wife has a boyfriend. Now, obviously, for the uninitiated, I am not married to a woman, as I am one, and straight. This "wife" I speak of, is, however, the most real and most deep relationship I have. The way we support and trust and behave with each other is like a little old married couple. So that offhand joke actually serves as my own way of declaring that I've found the love of my life.

But, we knew that we would live apart most of our lives, and that one day, one or both of us would fall in love, and even, eventually, eek, get married. It seemed a long way off. Now my wife is in love with a wonderful man who loves her too. I believe in their relationship and love hearing about it.

I also believe that if they do go further, then their relationship should come first. That's what a successful marriage/partnership IS, when you stop just caring about yourself.

So I am starting to think about what happens should it come to pass that she is someone else's wife. Because she should be his first, not mine. I don't want her to solve this for me, I have to do that myself. But I do feel very small and lost whenever I think about it.

Second, my only married friend called. I have not spoken to her (although we've emailed) since I left the States. She was driving from her home in Tennessee to see a friend in Atlanta, and had just felt a sudden urge to chat to me. So we did. But I couldn't work out whether to prattle on about my day or talk about the bigger things on my mind. I didn't know whether I wanted to know what she had for breakfast or what she was worrying about in her relationship with her husband.

This may sound weird, but my confusion about what level of conversation we should be having after so long not talking made me unable to think of anything to say at all. That and the knowledge that it was costing her 35 cents a minute.

And now this invitation to my best male friend's wedding. So I've just realised that I made a life choice at 17, by moving abroad, whose consequences are only beginning to emerge now. And I've chosen to pursue a career that will perpetuate those consequences.

And now I have cried all over the envelope, and smudged the already-imperfect label. But I can't stop crying because I know now that for the rest of my life, any friends I make, I will eventually let them down, or drift away from them. Because I may not be there.

Educare? Educere? :: 11:50 AM :: easyjetsetter

Hexagon Quick break in the middle of a typically french day: three papers, three different buildings. I just did the hardest paper first, which is the B3 written french in specialist subject. This is the paper I always fall down on for my inability to distinguish between synthesizing the three documents into one well-structured review, and writing what I feel like writing about the subject. Mme. Barbour doesn't understand why I can't just stick to the text, and I don't understand why she can't understand that writing in mes propres mots happens to mean not parroting what the text says. That's cheating.

But it's over. The next is B2, the listening, which is realtively straightforward, and then this afternoon B1, the easier of the two written papers, as it requires general french, rather than french in the domaines des sciences humaines et sociales, and entails reading ONE document and writing a compte rendu which means more of a summary. I can do that.

The oral, B4, is not until next week, giving me a couple more classes before it, and consists also of reading a text and doing what is called an expose of it, which also means summary. Followed by filling up the rest of the hour with chit chat in your domaine.

The great weakness of the DALF, in my humble opinion, is the conformity it imposes on you. You don't actually get a chance but for about a third of the exam to express your own position on anything, and frankly, if they really just want students to know how to ape text, it's perfect! If they actually want students of the french language to learn how to express themselves in french, they've made a pig's ear out of it.

Like all exams, they aren't actually interested in what the right answer is, just what they think it should be. During exercises I would constantly get stuff "wrong" because the vague questions like "what is the most important point made in the text?" or "what does this analogy signify?" would be ambiguous in the text, but the corrections book (and hence our teacher, who must have not been played with as a child, as she has NO imagination beyond the correction book) had only one, entirely arbitrary, "right" answer.

Just like the theory test for my driving exam, just like sarah shields' islamic history class. In fact, the only exam I have ever sat that expressly rewarded originality was A-level English, and I got full marks on two papers.

This is, perversely, why I may therefore fail French. Luckily, the DALF is being sat in Glasgow on the 8th and 10th of June, so if I do, I can resit. I get my results on the 11th of May, so I may be cutting it fine for sign-up. I'll have to call and check it out.

I could, of course, ensure I don't fail by parroting. But I can't. I consider that cheating. I consider one of my major personal qualities by ability to reformulate ideas in my own, frankly better, words. I don't have the ability to parrot. Rabbit, yes, parrot, no.

First drunk post evar! :: 12:18 AM :: easyjetsetter

Social Circle Obviously, I have been drunk before. Obviously, I have posted after coming home from having a drink before. This is, however, the first time I have come home, from being bought lots of different kinds of drinks and felt the urge to sit and let my head stop spinning and drink some water. In the interim, I thought I'd post. Bear with the spelling. The reason for my drunkenness is in fact, going to be the subject of the post.

For those nice people who have made inquiries, yes, the rest of the exam went very well. The listening was way easier than I had anticipated, since I had been trained to expect French talk radio (boy does that suck) and what I got was the evening news. I'm good at the evening news. Then the second writing was the easier one, and I got done in half the time allotted and twiddled my thumbs for a wee while before leaving early to drop in on Printemps' frenetique bresil! display. I got a wristlet handbag.

Now, to business. I have a rose on my bookshelf. This is because one of our party succumbed to one of those smelly little men that come around bars and restaurants with sad specimens of roses. Sabrina had brought me along to her high school friends' birthday bash. Her exact wording was "I'll be in a room full of boys, I need a girl there." How can I say no to a room full of boys?

I got off the metro and went to withdraw some cash for the boozing. I received half a 20 euro note. Not ten euros, half of a 20 euro note. I got there and palmed the offending item off on one of the boys by screwing it up and asking for change for a twenty. It was Sabrina's idea (she's a terrible influence) and the fact that I tricked one of them seemed to make me accepted in the group. So one pint of beer, half a pint of cider, and a glass of champagne later (it was a birthday, but everyone wanted to buy ME something) the birthday boy bought all us girls roses. It was a good night.

But that's not what I wanted to tell you about. When I came home, I remembered I had not had any dinner, so I tottered down to a falafel stand on the blvd de rochechouart. I got nice falafel in pita with aubergines and tzaziki sauce for 3 euros. While he was making it, the guy behind the counter remarked upon my red rose. Here, reproduced verbatim (but in english not french) is the conversation we had.

"I see you have a rose there"

"Bah ouais (oh...yeah)"

"Is it a present from your boyfriend?"

"No no, just a friend."

"I think he wants to be more than friends."

"No no, there were four girls there, he bought us all roses."

"Was he Muslim?"

"Pardon?"

"Was he Muslim? All Muslims are entitled to four women."

"Yes, yes I know, but really, he's just a friend"

"I'm a Muslim"

"Ah bon? (Is that right?) "

"I have the right to four women too. I'm looking for one more."

"Ah. Super. Actually, don't heat up the bread. Thank you. Goodnight."

And with that, I wish you a goodnight also.

Blasphemy and Amorality :: 12:54 AM :: easyjetsetter

Dear Mr. Lucas,

Thank you very much for the lovely films you have made over the years. The revolution you inspired in cinema, rejecting the humdrum self-analysis of the 1970's, made films into MOVIES again, and making my childhood much more entertaining than it would otherwise have been.

You were the midwife for three films that, along with the Sound of Music, defined my childhood. I watched the Star Wars videos so many times at such a tender age that I believe Yoda actually affected my sentence structuring ability. Retard it he did.

You earned your own neologism: "blockbuster." You invented merchandising tie-ins, spawning the apogee of board games: Star Wars Trivial Pursuit. You reinvented the shoot-em-up and the car chase and the syntax of an entire generation. You are the Messiah of Movies.

I considered the cuddly, step-on-his-tail Jabba in the digitally remastered episode IV a moment of weakness. I considered the Phantom Menace a crisis of faith. I even excused the Attack of the Clones on the grounds that We All Make Mistakes. But today, I lost my faith in you, George.

Poor, deprived Sabrina was finally initiated into the world of Star Wars geekery, her interest in worthless onscreen details piqued by random factlets provided by me throughout the viewing of parts V and VI. She now has many questions for the many intarweb forums dedicated to your oeuvres, such as, why do Luke and Leia kiss when they're brother and sister? Are they from Kentucky? How is R2D2 so waterproof that he can be completely submerged? What does he do when he gets to steps? Is Anakin a good name for my first born? And so on.

A few minutes before the Return of the Jedi ended, I warned Sabrina that the best music in the entire film was approaching. After the 6 hours of brass and strings, I was ready for some glockenspiel music written by tree-living-giant-teddy-bears. It's joyous, uplifting, and natural. That final, soaring, choral coda always brings tears to my eyes. It's that good.

Imagine my surprise to discover that just as my music was supposed to start, after the ewoks blow their horns over the forest moon of endor, a whole new scene had been inserted.

This badly animated montage of galaxy-wide rejoicing had its own music. And it wasn't my music. It was some awful metro-busker, five-discs-for-$3.99 world-muzak schlock, which you had obviously bought on QVC, with the melody played on panpipes.

PANPIPES George? What the F**K were you thinking? Gee, that stuff they play in the elevator over at William Morris is real nice, I reckon the ewoks would dig it. And then, sacrilege poured on sacrilege, this music, normally reserved only for Mary Cohr leg-waxing cubicles, continued until the end of the film, over the scenes of tree-top rejoicing, rendering the ending of your six film epic cycle into something resembling the execrable Classic FM TV.

The worst thing about this, as with Prince Harry wearing a Nazi uniform, is that nobody at any point felt comfortable suggesting to you that you were ruining the denouement of your chef d'oeuvre. The state of affairs in Hollywood, as at Holyrood, is that the Master is not to be questioned, no matter how stupid his choice is, and that's frightening. You have become what you set out to destory - you are Lenin, living as a csar. I hope you're happy in your dacha, while the rest of us proles must weep at the pain you have wrought on the motherland.

Please consider me one majorly disappointed fan. I am going to boycott the final installment, and I urge my readers to do likewise. We must remain firm. We have nothing to lose but our chains. The International unites the human race!

Unless, of course, Sabrina drags me to see it. There's no zealot like a convert to the Church of Lucas.

Catch me a catch :: 11:40 PM :: easyjetsetter

Social Circle Dear friends, such a long time it seems since we have communicated. I took my DALF oral on wednesday, which went well. I won't say great, because I felt like my French was not in gear and I was speaking at a level below what I am capable of.

However, the oral is the one part where you're encouraged to use your own knowledge and opinions, knowledge and structure accounting for 15/20 points, and the examiners seemed quite impressed at how much I had reflected on the issue at hand (the family in the 21st century) and pulled statistics on families in Britain and the US and fought logically for same-sex unions and suchlike.

At the end, the examiner and I had a long chat about my genealogy, and it turns out I am French, from an old aristocratic family from around La Rochelle who were chased out by Louis IV. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

In other news, I am trying to negotiate a month-to-month contract at work and with my landlord so I can stay on here in Paris while I job hunt in my field - it is, after all, a better jumping off point for Brussels and London than Glasgow.

Now, the meat of my post: I am, through my work, obliged to be involved in the foreign social scene here in Paris. Of course, I have made a bunch of friends along the way. But sometimes, you forget how small this town is, and naturally, how small that particular social scene is within the city.

When I went over to a female friend's house last weekend, ooh, let's call her "audrey," I was a bit surprised to see how familiar her directions looked. So I double checked an email containing directions for a housewarming party I missed in February (I was in the Loire - visiting chateaux with my medical student chums.)

To make up for missing this housewarming party, I am cooking dinner for this guy (let's call him "Adam") and some of his friends at his new flat. I've told Audrey about this before because they are the only young people I know living in Neuilly (posh western suburb.) She's interested in knowing where he lives, because she's thinking of buying there and wants to hear what the deal is from someone who is a recent first time buyer, like Adam.

So I check the email, and it turns out that they live in the same building. I verify this when I visit, Audrey in 12, Adam in 7, according to the mail boxes. I tell Audrey this when I go over, that my friend I had told her about lives in her building. We brush it off as coincidence.

Last night, I saw Adam at an apero for the first time since he got back from his holidays and tell him that my friend Audrey lives on the top floor of his building. "I live on the top floor of my building!" he says. "Is she cute?" Beautiful, I tell him. "Well, when you come over to check out my kitchen on friday, invite her over and we'll have a bottle of wine. And invite her to our dinner party."

As we walk out of the bar, he points to the poster for "Shall we Dance," the newest jennifer lopez movie, and says, "I've heard that is really good." Now, bear in mind that Audrey has been talking about this movie for a few weeks now, and you can see why I begun to sing that song from "Fiddler on the Roof" to myself.

Finally, this evening, I see Audrey at a seminar we are both at (visit this site - it may save someone's life) and mention that Adam has invited us over for wine, and for dinner, and that he thinks he lives on the top floor too. "Well in that case," says Audrey "unless he's married to an asian and has two kids, we're next door neighbours." Apparently, they literally share a wall. Against which Audrey currently has her stereo. "Is he cute?" she asks me. Very, I tell her.

So, I am to go over there tomorrow evening at 9, to help Audrey pick out what to wear to meet him, and then to leave her, and go to Adam's at 9:30 to check out what he has in his kitchen for the dinner party, before Audrey will join us for wine at 10...

What makes them additionally likely to like each other is that they are both fairly short, but in cute ways, of course. Just watch this space for updates. Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match....

You think you know a guy... :: 12:41 PM :: easyjetsetter

Hexagon My landlord and I have a bit of a hate-hate relationship. Some of you may have been wondering at my status as a"tax-evading foreigner" referred to in previous posts. I am not strictly breaking any laws, but neither am I adhering to the spirit of them. I assure you, it's his fault.

Let me explain. I am a British citizen, and thus hold a european passport. It means I can work anywhere in Europe. In France, this means I do not need a carte de sejour like all those other poor schmucks (americans.) Since I am working from home as a freelancer for a company based on another european country, my salary arrives without social security and suchlike removed.

As it happens, if you spend less than 184 days of the year in France, you don't need to file tax returns, and if you make less than 5000 euros a year, you don't pay anything. 184 days, for those who are counting, is six months. Also, I definitely make less than 5000 euros...

Now, I was fully intending to integrate into French society, get a bank account, a housing contract, a phone contract, an EDF and GDF contract, and put down roots for when I come back in fall of 2006 for my grad degree.

But it was not to be.

My landlord, who happens to be a fairly minor filmmaker, is also coasting under the radar of the tax collectors. He owns two apartments in this building, knocked them together, and shut off one entrance to make a studio. My flat. He rents it out, all utilities (except phone) included, without a contract.

The only evidence I have that I live here is a sheet of handwritten paper saying that he has my deposit, of two months rent "in exchange for the loan of a room in my flat." This is what I must tell the neighbors, the bank, the post office, and so on.

It seemed like a good idea at the time, but without proof of address (as he is unwilling to sign anything to the tune of "this person is staying with me" it means I cannot get a) a calling plan for my phone, I'm on pay as you go b) a bank account in france, I'm using the atm card from my british account c) a whole lot of other stuff, like refunds, and video store membership, or a swipe card for the metro instead of the easily demagnetised carte orange. In short, I am a non-person.

I don't really live here, or have any proof that I do, and I don't really, technically, work here either. My landlord and I have arguments every time I want to do something official and he doesn't want me to. He invariably wins. For exmaple, I get packages returned in the post all the time, as he won't put my name on the mailbox. He won't take my deposit in lieu of the last two months of rent.

The other day when my bank smoked some crack and blocked my account for no good reason, he had the audacity to ask me why I didn't have a French bank account, to which I replied through gritted teeth "because I don't have any proof of address." He was suitably sheepish, and agreed to wait the 24 hours it would take to reactivate my account for the rent.

So imagine my surprise when I called him to ask for a month to month contract and not only did he say "well, I will think about it" but also, when I offerred to make it easier for him to say yes by helping him to find a new tenant when the time comes he said "well, as long as it's someone as good as you."

WHAT??? I nearly choked on my own spittle, so sharp was my intake of breath. Apparently, he thinks I am "calm and responsible" and "nice to have around." So, all this time, he's been screwing me over as a way of saying he likes me? I will never understand the French.

Pudding Thoughts :: 11:19 AM :: easyjetsetter

I've been away for a while, my friends, but not necessarily because I was terribly busy, more that there was nothing in particular that happened that I wanted to write about. Of course, today, I have at least eight things I want to write about, but I am going to stick to one. Or two.

I had a good week: a friend from high school came to visit and we experimented with whether two people can live harmoniously in the lunchbox that is my flat (I had a my little pony lunchbox when I was little - it was pink. I like pink) and proved that yes, but for a maximum of three days. It was lovely having her here, especially because, as an art historian, I could throw her out the door after breakfast with a map to get to that day's museum and she'd come back at six. Allowing me to actually get some work done.

Tonight the great dinner party is to happen: my friends with slightly larger flats and proper kitchens let me come and cook for them. This way, they get to host a dinner party without having to expose their cooking skills to criticism, and I get to be up to my elbows in diced tomatoes. It makes me very happy. We are going veggie shopping at four, and will be serving at about 9. The menu is: gaspacho soup, stuffed peppers with tabouleh, and then panna cotta.

The panna cotta was made last night with much hilarity, because two of the key ingredients are produced in France in entirely different formats. Gelatine comes in sheets, not powder, and vanilla extract in powder, not liquid. So, it is entirely possible that the suspiciously brown-flecked mixture we put into the fridge last night to set is, this morning, rock solid and grainy-textured. Or it could be panna cotta.

I remember a similar experience when I first went to the states. At the time, all I could cook was 1) avocado and bacon pasta and 2) desserts, as befitting a fat chick. It wasn't until I moved off-campus and into Glen Lennox, a nice leafy complex of bungalows with huge kitchens, that I spent time experimenting and learning how to cook lots of different things. I ended up never going out (no bad thing, and I didn't turn 21 until the month before I graduated - breaking the law is bad kids) but inviting people over to eat.

Of course, I would only serve things I had tried before, as there is nothing more embarrassing than a dinner party without any dinner: see Bridget Jones. I was very lucky in that my roommate was an underfed anaemic with no taste buds and who would eat every mistake I made with an expression of rapture on her face. Of course, that was until I came home to find her and her friends snorting a plate of white powder, but that's another story for another time.

Before moving off campus, however, I was particularly well-known for my ability with creme patisserie, and a cinnamon pie crust, filled with blueberries. I decided, with my dorm kitchen, to make this. There was one slight hitch: I had no idea what half the ingredients were called in merkin (american) and so spent a good hour wandering around the supermarket wondering what I was going to do. I ended up buying birds instant custard, on the (with hindsight, mistaken) principle that creme patisserie is really just extra thick, wobbly custard. I also gave up on finding stuff for the pie crust and got one of those ready made graham cracker things.

So, at the time I lived in a big colonial-style building, with a pillared porch that had rocking chairs on it. My dorm room was a little inhospitable, because my roommate from Beulaville, NC, was always in there eating hot pockets in front of the wrestling (I blame her for my linguistic tick of saying "I reckon") so we decided to eat out on the porch. The avocado and bacon pasta went very well, although the microwave on the floor I was boiling the pasta in broke and I had to go to the second floor kitchen to cook the bacon, thus working off dinner before I ate it running up and down stairs.

The girl who I had been on Outward Bound with and was my closest friend at UNC, because there is nothing like trench foot to bring people together (again, another story, another time) lived closeby, since her father was my poetry teacher Dr. K. (No I don't write poetry anymore. I wrote one good poem, I feel that's more about as much of an achievement as I can hope for.) We had decided to have a progressive dinner and make the dessert over at their place.

Dr. K. was an astonishingly wonderful man. He taught freshman poetry in the honours programme, and was a bit like Miss Jean Brodie, (but not a fascist) in that, if he selected you as one of his students, you were his for life. That poetry class, with only one or two exceptions, stayed friends all through college and beyond, and we all worshipped Dr. K. and went to him for advice on everything, or just to talk about books and buffy the vampire slayer.

He was an ardent anglophile, and took a group of students to London every summer, where he would give them assignments like: picnic in Hyde Park. His way of using every angle and theory to look at a text, or a talking heads song, challenged us to become more analytic people. He pushed us all into taking a six semester cycle of political philosophy, made us all read the classics, the romantics, and tolkien, told wicked jokes and cooked like a dream.

He pretty much chose my majors for me, as he understood that my inconsistent, flitty mind, needed a field that allowed me to be interested in lots of different things. There are few people I respect so much that I actually listen to them, but I hang off his every word.

Well, as you may have seen coming, the pudding was an unmitigated disaster. The custard was really runny, and soaked through the pitifully crappy graham cracker crusts, and the blueberries were oversugared as I could not convert grammes into cups as yet, and were therefore the consistency of jam. Nice jam, but still, jam.

I was about ready to bust out into tears at the thought of my Social Failure when Dr. K walked into the kitchen, raised himself up on his toes, clasped his hands behind his back, looked heavenward over his patrician nose and said "You know, it's very difficult to cook in a new country" whereupon he pulled two quarts of ice cream out of the freezer, specially bought for what he had known, when he saw the instant custard, was to be the impending doom of the blueberry tart. He winked at me and said, "we'll put the jam on the top shall we?"

Dr. K. died the February before last. The summer before, he had suggested Michael Sells' "Approaching the Qu'aran" as the freshman summer reading book. It was a poetic translation of the early suras, and Dr. K. loved it for what it showed about the rhythm of poetry and the hypnotic effect of faith: he felt the same way about the catholic latin liturgy.

Of course, the Family Policy Network didn't see it that way. They sued the school for indoctrinating students for the book's "false" concept that Islam was a religion of peace.

As the book's champion, Dr. K. was in various TV programmes, radio shows, newspapers, defending academic freedom and the choice of book. The stress caused by the persecution of the Christian right did not help his weak heart, and he had a pacemaker put in not long afterwards. So when he needed an appendectomy the February before last, his family couldn't know whether he would come back to them.

The day of his funeral, Chapel Hill was hit by the worst snow it had seen in years. The church where it was held had huge windows out onto the tops of the huge fir trees, bowed down with the snow. A light flurry normally brings North Carolina to a complete halt, but the church was full. Always a tall family, we could see my friend and her Mum from the back. As the priest read the liturgy, she laid her head down in her mother's lap, as though it were too heavy under the weight.