Another foodie post :: 03:59 PM :: easyjetsetter

Social Circle Yesterday afternoon, in the 25 degree weather we've been enjoying, I broke out the new printed circle skirt, brown tank top and brown flip flops, plus the prerequisite denim jacket, and my bamboo handled cream canvas bag, and zipped along line one to Neuilly Sur Seine. This is the lovely leafy suburb where my friends "Adam" and "Audrey" live, and where the three of us were hosting a dinner party.

Adam and Audrey kept thanking me for cooking, and I tried to explain to them that I love cooking. It's my hobby, and I don't get to do it very often. And getting to cook a whole three course meal for a big goup of people with all the trimmings in a proper kitchen and dining room is about as close to heaven as I get. Anyone who has seen the size of my bottom knows that I like to eat food, but anyone who has seen me salivate over cookware knows I like to make it more.

I'm not very good at other creative stuff: everything I sew falls apart, I throw down knitting in disgust, I have the drawing skills of Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man, and I can't even cut paper in a straight line with scissors, let alone use a saw to do woodwork. Cooking is an imprecise enough art that I can do it and get to feel like I am really making something. The artistry of it, the feeling of doing something I love well and producing something that gives others pleasure, well, that just makes me feel alive.

We strolled through the sunny western suburb, while Adam made fun of my oversized sunglasses, to the carreau to get a big pile of veggies. On the way back, we got wine, bread, still and sparkling water, and my sunglasses fell off and broke prompting much hilarity from all and sundry.

The panna cotta had turned out beautifully, creamy and yoghurty and not overly sweet. The brown flecks of vanilla powder actually made it look like we had used real vanilla pods, like in ice cream. Audrey and I slid a palette knife around the tupperware, and upended the box onto a big black serving platter. It was beautiful, but we thought for presentation's sake we should trim the round edges and make it rectangular. Of course, this left trimmings that needed to be eaten with our fingers. I put a strawberry and a sprig of mint on the top.

We got back to Adam's beautiful kitchen and promptly dirtied every dish and left the counters high with the organic detritus of cooking. He has these lovely wooden counters that are now all stained with olive oil and tomato juice and balsamic vinegar. I taught Audrey and Adam how to peel tomatoes, how to crush garlic without a garlic press, how to cut and cook fennel, and chop herbs efficiently.

We had started at 4:30, and guests were to arrive at 8. First we made the fennel gaspacho: this requires blanching fennel, peeling tomatoes, frying some coriander seeds and peppercorns with onions and garlic, before adding the tomatoes, lemon juice, balsamic, oregano, olive oil, water and tomato paste to a pan and simmering for half an hour, followed by messy messy blending and hasty chilling (we put ice cubes in at 7:45 and it was still a bit warm after the hors d'oeuvres...)

We followed up the gaspacho mess with the tabouleh mess. I followed the instructions on the couscous box and did equal water and couscous, but that was apparently not enough because the couscous became cake in the bottom of the pan. We chopped up cored tomatoes (with their skins on) and a cucumber, big handful of mint, and one of parsley, some shallots, and dumped them all into a big bowl, added lemon juice, olive oil and balsamic vinegar and finally the somewhat doughy couscous before splattering it all over the counter in a vain attempt to mix it up.

We bunged that in the fridge at 7:00, leaving me an hour to do the main course and the fruit, as well as the sauce for the meatballs we bought as hors d'oeuvres. We all also needed to change and wash, and the kitchen was a big soupy, grainy mess, so I sent Adam and Audrey to collect the extra dishes, chairs and glasses we needed from Audrey's flat, and they spent a good half hour making the table all colour-coordinated and elegant, candles and wine and water and bread and coasters, and napkins, and placemats and plates, and bowls and glasses and cutlery, all red and black and cream and silver. I wish I had taken a picture, I would have posted it.

So I blanched the fennel in salty water and crushed the fresh coriander in with some olive oil, halved the peppers into a baking dish, and fried the aubergines. I stuffed the soft fennel into the peppers, drizzled with the coriander-oil and slammed in the oven on a low, slow heat, to make sure they turned out super sweet. I dumped yoghurt, cucumber and mint into a wee dipping bowl, slammed the meatballs in the microwave, hulled the strawberries and raspberries and heaped them on a big black plate with a wee sprig off mint on top. Did the washing up, sluiced the counters, ran to get changed, and then came back to greet the guests.

Adam opened up the champange, the microwave pinged - and we were off. It was the most glorious evening. Everyone got very full and ver drunk and stayed very late, and we all giggled around the table, people went NUTS for the panna cotta, and polished the lot off, but about a kilo of tabouleh remained at the end of the evening. Once everyone had gone home at about 2 or 3 am, Adam, Audrey and I sat around and listened to CDs finishing off the wine until the sky lightened and Audrey and I retired to her flat to sleep.

This morning we all had breakfast together, eggs, and bread and jam and juice and coffee, emptied the dishwasher and then sat thinking about how tired and hungover we were until it was time to leave and go clean my flat with a box of tabouleh in my bag, and the promise that we'll find another date to recreate the best 24 hours ever.

Everybody loves good neighbours... :: 08:14 PM :: easyjetsetter

Hexagon I've mentioned before that the flat I live in is an annex of two flats knocked together, with my landlord therefore living behind two of my four walls, while the third has two pretty pretty windows and a door leading to the corridor and my mailbox, otherwise known as the doormat.

Filmmaker landlord has cleverly backed his side of the party wall with the old door in it with bookshelves, thereby making an interior dividing wall slightly soundproof. On the bottom shelf of his bookcases is our wireless router, so we routinely work about three meters away from each other. He has a computer I salivate over: the apple G4 powerbook... I have a computer I spit at, and I'm too embarrassed to tell you what it is. I only hear him at his desk when he sneezes though.

The fourth wall is my bathroom door and my kitchen altar. But guess what backs onto that? His downstairs loo. I am worryingly intimate with the digestive peculiarities of my landlord. This is one of the reasons I continue to vousvoyer him, and call him Monsieur rather than using his first name and tutoyer, as he does to me. I just want to pretend there is more distance between us than a cistern.

I really hate talking to him too. As well as saying 'no' to everything I need and hiding my mail, he, as a director, feels entitled to tell me what to do. When I first moved in, he insisted I should not bring bedding with me, as there was a very cheap shop nearby. Fair enough, nice of him to advise. But normal people stop once you say, no no, I would rather bring things. He says au contraire and proceeds to draw me maps for how to get to the place to do the thing he thinks I should do.

During the whole internet connection fiasco (another reason for not moving: it took three months to get broadband working and I am not giving it up that easily) he would routinely tell me "it's a problem with the software" which is exactly what people who know nothing about computers say every time there's a problem. Of course, in the end, it turned out to be a problem with the software, but I wasn't giving him the satisfaction of telling HIM that.

So I avoid him. On the first of each month, I slide my rent in an envelope into his locked mailbox, and if I need to communicate with him at any other time, this is also where I slide the notes, in careful French. He has very clicky shoes (I think he has steel tips - like tap dancers) so every time I leave the flat I listen very carefully for a minute to make sure he is not coming up the stairwell and we don't have to talk. Once I was waiting in line at La Poste and he came in to use the weighing and stamping machine, and I hid behind the only fat French woman, praying he wouldn't see me.

Today, I walked into my grocery store and he came wheeling round the corner. I froze on the spot while he told me what to do, ("Oh, the avocadoes are very good. You should put them in a salad. I recommend Batavia lettuce, but not from here, try this place around the corner. Turn left to get there, go 20 metres" and so on...) and then squeaked out "merci" before scuttling away to skulk in the tampon section where he would not dare approach. Before I went to pay for my tortellini, I peered around the corner of the aisle to make sure he had finished paying for his stuff and was out of the door.

It's not that he scares me, I just don't like him, but have to make him think I'm nice so I get my deposit back. If I don't like people I generally have a hard time hiding the flat look of hatred that comes into my eyes. My boss at the British Embassy in Washington would sometimes stop in the middle of telling me how to do something I had done a hundred times before and say "you hate me don't you?" because I am totally unable to control this look of disdain. And I would say "no no." I'm such a terrible liar.

Plus, filmmaker landlord has a child, who scares the crap out of me because he's a) a child and b) looks like Hayley Joel Osment in the Sixth Sense. He is also SILENT. Unless he's screaming (I assume with laughter at being tickled by his dad) through the ceiling.

I mean, my landlord says he's a film director, but the IMDB (the source of all my knowledge) only has two results for him, 12 years apart, but I just read a review of one of them and it seems the lead actress won a cesar (French Oscars) for it. Which is cool, because I had this really famous actress' audition tape, since filmmaker landlord left it in the VCR when I moved in and didn't ask for it back until recently.

So he must be richer than he dresses, although I bet the tap-dancing shoes must be quite expensive. Which means I want my entire deposit back when I move out or I will threaten to expose details of his bowel movements to the world wide web. You have been warned.

Going native :: 06:08 PM :: easyjetsetter

Hexagon I ran some errands this afternoon. I had bought my train ticket to the Netherlands online and needed to pop down to the Gare du Nord to pick it up and pay for it, I needed a new plug for the bath and I wanted to join my local library (the easiest administrative task I have ever performed in France.) On the way back I got some more devil pudding, aka danette dark chocolate extra noir, so called for the black and red pot it comes in and my inability to stop at just one.

These errands, altogether, took me one hour and fifteen minutes. Considering that when I first got here, between two screwdrivers that didn't fit the screws on the light's cover and the lack of screw-in 60watt bulbs in a 100 meter radius, it took me an hour to change a lightbulb, I feel we have made progress. Of course, the bath plug is too small, and I have to go back to the hardware store and get a wider one (11 euros!!!) but that is not the point.

The key, I feel, is knowing the bonnes addresses for what you need to do. You cannot do this until you have tried several different places that purport to provide the service you are after. There are plenty of places that have signs outside saying that they are keycutters, internet cafes, or hardware stores.

Do not believe them. They are (mostly) lying. Sure, they might sit in their shop all day, but often, they do not do what they claim to. Or, to be more precise, what you need them to do. A street may have a profusion of philatelists, say, but only one or two will be any bloody good. It is not up to them to win your business by doing their job. It is up to you to find the right one.

This is your bonne addresse. Once you become a regular, chat to the proprietor and buy things there they will start giving you discounts, keeping the best things for you and whispering rude things to you about other customers. I have a bunch of these places in my neighborhood now, and on sunny days when people stand in the doors of their shops I get nods and smiles (yes! In Paris!) as I go by. One shopkeeper presses cans of free mango juice in my hands every time I go in.

Finally, the other day I was drinking tea with a French friend, who made an exclamation as I removed the teabag from my cup. I froze, believing I had yet again broken another social taboo.

"Show me how to do that!"

"Do what?"

"THAT with your teabag and the spoon, the way you squeeze the water out. I've always wondered how to get the teabag out of the cup in a more elegant way!"

Yes, dear readers, a French person considers me "elegant." It's official, between the nods and the smiles and the "elegant," I am practically French.

Brown Fingers :: 12:24 AM :: easyjetsetter

I'm a killer. My body count currently stands at three. I've killed Mitch, Lucky, and Vernon. I left Mitch in the dubious care of an equally dubious boyfriend while I lived in California for the summer, left Lucky on the doorstep in an ice storm and Vernon, who I met when I was living in Washington, had bits of him fell off whenever I touched him.

Of course, these are all plants. I thought naming them would make me more caring and solicitous and increase their chances of survival. I was wrong. They all died.

I read somewhere that you know you're ready for a pet when you can keep a plant alive, and you know you're ready for children if you can keep the pet alive. I know that children and dogs have ways of making their needs known that plants don't, but I think it's important that I learn to keep vegetation healthy before I consider motherhood.

So, I imagine that those who know me, especially my mother and my wife, who are SCARILY similar in their ability to fill an entire hour debating exactly what variety of laburnum that bushy green thing is, will be choking with irrepressible laughter on their morning coffee when they read that I did some planting today.

Since I decided to stay on, I have become possessed with a hankering to make the flat prettier. My flat has the dimensions and charm of a train compartment, plus a bathroom that is half the flat again. Surface and storage space are at a premium, due to my worryingly large collection of pointy black shoes, almost identical to the untrained eye, but, in ways discernible only to me, very different. I also am currently housing 1000 brochures in eight 17kg boxes. They were fun to bring up five flights.

So, when there's no space inside, what do you do? Start putting stuff outside, that's what. I have been eyeing my neighbours' window boxes with some envy. I therefore decided that my springtime home improvement will be a pair of nice, black wrought iron dangly planters to hang off my nice, wrought iron barriers that span my nice draughty French windows at hip-height. They are presumably are there to stop me from falling out. Which they would, if I were an ewok.

It was quite a project: I got two baskets, four terracotta pots and some potting soil from a wee bazaar down the street, for 18 euros, and then, convinced that there was a monceau fleurs (cheap flower shop) in my neighborhood, walked down the boulevard de magenta almost until bonne nouvelle metro.

I had an exciting vocabulary expansion session by trying names of various flowers with a frenchified pronunciation (good trick when in doubt) and felt a bit silly when they told me that cyclamen are apparently over for the season, as they bloom in December.

I was not, under any circumstances, buying bloody geraniums, as they are raggedy and ugly and so ubiquitous and therefore unchic. Nor was I buying hydrangeas, which are so pretty, especially pure white ones, but about 8 euros per plant. So when I spotted some neat little clusters of pink flowers in tiny wee pots and discovered that these were 2 euros I didn't think to ask what they actually were. While I was paying it transpired that they were begonias.

The reason I even know how to repot plants is because on the rare occasions when Dad and I decide there are no good films on TV and Mum is ceded control of the remote (called a bleepy in our household) we invariably watch something garden or home improvement related.

I was aware that you have to separate the roots out a bit, and that you should not bury the stems, and that lots of water is required to make the new soil and the old soil coagulate. I made a nice mess on my floor, but my window boxes are now done and are frightfully pretty.

Of course, this being France, there were no instructions attached the plants, but this is why we have the intarweb. It turns out that begonias are into indirect sunlight and can't be doing with temperatures under 55 degrees, so the fact that it is currently 6 degress out at night and that my flat gets sun streaming in from 2 to 6 pm, I think I have condemned these poor begonias to death.

Of course, having four means I've spread my bets a little. However, now I feel like a Victorian parent, having eight babies to try and beat the odds and have at least one child survive a high infant mortality death rate. I am not naming them, lest I get too attached. Guess I'm not ready for babies yet. Dammit.

P.S. Thanks to the inability of wee shops to cater to wee gardening projects I have about 3 litres of soil left. If anyone is in the Paris area and has a similar wee project in mind, please email me at easyjetsetter@hotmail.com and we'll set up a meeting so I can pass it on.

Incorrigibly sappy post :: 07:48 PM :: easyjetsetter

I was walking down rue de la Pompe today, on my way to Coffee Parisien around the corner (it was for work people!) when I looked across the street and saw the signs for La Reciproque recently mentioned here. Sadly, even on plastic, I cannot afford much in that store, and yet, I thought a look would not hurt. Well, I never made it in, because I was distracted.

I used to play softball at weekends in Carrboro with a group of friends, and while I am pretty rubbish at the game, as I can't throw, can't catch, can't run, and can't hit (three out of the four are related to depth perception - incidentally also why I am a terrible driver) I can trash talk. So I was allowed to play. My nickname on the team was "Add scot" because I would get distracted from the game by anybody walking a dog. I was generally in the outfield or behind the plate, both ideal positions on the edge of things to trot off and fuss over dogwalkers.

Well the distraction this time was a window full of puppies. They were too cute, I had to go in. They had a King Charles spaniel! My dog at home is a King Charles Spaniel, but he's not that tiny any more. This one was also white and tan, not black and tan, but she was sweet. We had a bit of a cuddle, and she weed on me. It was magical. She was about 400 euros. Probably less than La Coquette paid for those shoes, but still.

On Thursday evening Sabrina has procured two King Charles spaniels for us to take on a walk. I am weeing myself with excitement.

My family has had four of these lovely dogs. All of them black and tan. The first was called Wooster, and had the disposition of Victor Meldrew. He belonged to my grandmother until she became too old to look after him, and I don't remember much about him because he didn't like to be touched by children.

Then came Uly. My middle sister's spaniel. Boy was he spoiled. And stupid. And greedy. He used to be unable to understand anything you wanted from him, but was expert at opening drawers and unwrapping things without damaging the packaging if food was involved. He was very partial to chocolate gingers and one christmas ate a pound of them, and was so sick he had to be taken to the vet to have injections to stop his stomach from retching. My sister wanted him stuffed when he died, but he got cushings syndrome and lost a lot of his hair, so no slippers for her.

Then came Biffen. Named for John Biffen, an ex-cabinet member and prominent economist, because of their shared prominent eyebrows, he belonged to my eldest, evil, sister. You know how dogs are supposed to resemble their owners? Well, whereas my middle sister's spaniel was calm and placid and kind, albeit a bit thick, my eldest, evil, sister's dog was a paranoid, schizophrenic hate-monger. Funny how things work out. If that dog had a vote he'd have voted BNP. He barked at any animal larger than himself, particularly non-white people and policemen. Not kidding.

All of these dogs were well-loved and well-looked after and died of old age around 13 or 14. Up until Biffen died we had never not had a dog in the house, they always crossed over. My parents enjoyed the lack of pee stains on the carpet for a while, and then realised that they had nothing to talk about after 36 years of marriage. So they went looking for a new dog, who they could bring up without him learning bad ways from the others.

This time they wanted a ruby, as a change. So they searched for a while, as we are quite against puppy farms, and prefer people who breed for the love of the dogs. Well, they found what they thought was a litter entirely of rubies, but when they went to visit, the head that popped up and demanded to be taken home was a black and tan one.

The new puppy's name was a bit of a problem. First of all, everyone except for mum and me had had a go at picking a dog's name, but I wasn't in the country for another six weeks to meet the little blighter. All I had was a video file titled "little pootly puppy" of him dashing around the back garden. I showed it to a friend and she said "is that an insect?" because he was that tiny. Bless him.

Anyway, Mum picked the name "Berri" which nobody liked, mostly because it came from these awful books by Dornford Yates that she loves and everybody else thinks are a waste of space, taking up an entire bookshelf in the study. When everyone rejected this name Mum took a bit of a huff because she thought we didn't love her any more (she's going through the change) and so we were advised not to mention the dog's name for a while.

He was still being referred to as the "pootly puppy" when I came home six weeks later for my 21st birthday, wife in tow. He was still very small, and my parents were carrying him up and down the stairs, because he was too fat (as puppies should be) to climb up himself. So while Leslie taught him how to go up and down, pulling him up a step, then pushing him down, I suggested names.

Finally, the perfect one arrived. In Gerald Durrell's "My Family and Other Animals" Gerry's brother, also Leslie, makes him a boat for his birthday. The boat is too round to stay upright when its mast is put in, and Larry (of the Alexandria Quartet, which I am reading now) suggests it be named "The Bootle Bumtrinket." Due to his portliness, his habits of pootling and rootling around the garden, the birthday coincidence and the "Leslie" in the story, we decided to call the puppy "Bootle."

It was only afterwards that we realised we had named the dog after an economist again, Roger Bootle, a Treasury advisor. Tant pis. And what's his personality like I hear you ask? Well, he's wonderful, kind and sweet and loving and clever. But then, this one is officially, through the naming, my dog, so I would say that, wouldn't I?

The Crack on the referendum :: 11:54 PM :: easyjetsetter

Hexagon Two posts in one day. Aren't you lucky? Well, the thing is, y'all might not know this over the pond, but France is fixin' to have a referendum on whether to adopt the European Constitution on May 29. And there's a bit of a flap. A kerfuffle. A to-do. And I'm going to do a little underinformed pontificating and punditry.

Unlike, say, the Tory party, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, why is this a big deal? I thought the frogs would automatically vote yes because they want to keep on stealing all the money the EU has through the Common Agricultural Policy (CAP) anyway? Aren't you British? And automatically anti-Europe?

Hmm, let's start with the last question. Yes, I am British, but two things make me pro-EU.* The first is my recent first trip on the Eurostar. I sincerely objected to the check-in, screening, and waiting in the departure lounge. I take the train because these are the things I dislike about flying. I love taking trains between other countries in Europe because it avoids all these things.

I resent that simply because Britain has its knickers in a twist about the possibility of checking people's passports ON THE TRAIN, I have to throw away an untasted cup of coffee and buy a new one on the other side. Of course, I demanded, and received, a free replacement, but there is a larger point I am making here.

Second, I think a free-trade bloc an excellent idea. I think most Brits would agree with me. At least, they did the last time Britain had a referendum on Europe in 1975, because that's what they voted for. Most people like free-trade. Except the loonies who never took an economics class, but do they really count? No.

Europe has changed since then. I read somewhere the term "federasts" for those who wish the EU to be a big jolly federated state. These are commonly held to be the nations you probably already consider at the core of the EU, ie France and Germany, who continually contrast their "social model" with what they call the nay-sayers' "free-trade bloc." Because that's a bad thing in their eyes.

France and Germany are increasingly in each others' pockets at the moment anyway, sharing a pavillion at the world expo, merging the overseas premises of the Goethe Institute and the Alliance Francaise, formulating plans to make french and german citizenship (not just working papers) automatically available to citizens of the other country, and finally, but not flimsily, the TV channel arte (although I like that they do films in VO.)

It was indeed, until recently, a bit of a given that France would vote yes for the Constitution. The Yes campaign is overwhelmingly better-funded. The opposition party, the Socialists (PS - pronounced "pay-ess"), led by Francois Hollande, decided to do their own Yes campaign to add to the government's. And yet....the opinion polls started showing otherwise. Six in a row. Even now, a flurry of polls later, it stands at 50-50. Not, in the eyes of Chirac et al., a Good Thing.

The government (led by a centre-right coalition/party called the UMP pronounced "oo-em-pay") seems to firmly believe that people are only threatening to vote no because they don't like the Prime Minister Jean Pierre Raffarin. This is possible, because he is responsible for Chirac's domestic agenda, while he prances around the international stage, absolving himself of responsibility for such controversial measures as the partial repeal of the trente-cinq and the partial privatisation of GDF, EDF, France Telecom, la Poste, all the biggies. Raffarin is conveniently ill now. Gall Bladder. And Chirac is bribing France with the promise that he'll go if they vote "yes."

So there is one massive PR campaign to swing it. I mean, it's HUGE. National meetings, parties, debates, plays etc. Chirac keeps playing grand statesman on TV, and threatening that Europe will fall if the French don't vote yes. All of Europe has swung into action to keep the French punters happy. The EU parliament has been conceding French requests for investigations into Chinese textile imports harming French business, the blog run by the EU Commission Vice-President for Communications (translation: sell the constitution) was quickly translated into French and the French parliament (assemblee nationale) is in recess so as not to do anything silly.

But the internet and the meetings are alive with no-vote blogs and no-vote socialists. And the French lurve to protest. And they lurve to shoot their national interest in the foot while protesting. See details of the day the IOC was in town: nationwide, infrastructure-crippling strikes.

Why is Britain, and by extension, me, so interested? Well, because if they vote no, which is somewhat unlikely, considering the national luminaries they have parading the 300 (yes! 300!) public town hall meetings, like Delors, d'Estaing and Jospin,** then Britain, usually the black sheep baaing 'no' to Europe, may be allowed to postpone our referendum further. Blair wants us in the EU, but knows we don't want to be. So we're "waiting" for the Euro, not refusing or joining. I think he'd like to do the same with the Constitution.

There is also the elephant in the room of the money. The EU budget has not been approved by its internal auditors for ten years. Yes, the French do benefit disproportionately from the CAP, but Britain keeps pretty quiet about it, because if we pressured France into shaping up on this, the French government would immediately press for Britain's rebate from the EU to cease and stop. That's tautology, but this is my blog and I like it.

Nobody wants any of this to change, because SOMEONE would end up throwing a hissy fit and going to sulk in the corridor. So what can you do? I hear you ask. Well, mostly, just enjoy the spectacle. Like a car crash.

Go to the events. Complete listings here, for the government and here for the Socialist yes. Check here for the biggest no blog. My personal highlights:

12/5/05, 8:30pm: at the Carrousel du Louvre, the Comedie Francaise will be hosting a free play which the public can participate in, with characters debating the Constitution. Sounds dull? There's a bar!

14/5/05, 12 - 4pm: I really, really, regret that I am not going to be here for this. It sounds so wonderfully cheesy. There is going to be a "Big European Picnic" (just bring your food) in the Jardin d'Arsenal, with information stands and culminating in the release of a bunch of balloons in the colours of the EU flag.

17/5/05, time tbd: Maison de l'Europe a Paris, 35 rue des Francs Bourgeois, 75004. The European Outlook after the British elections and before the French referendum. Speaker: one Richard Corbett, apparently one of Blighty's Constitution monkeys. For more info, email maison-europe@paris-europe.com

17/5/05, 6:30: IN the National Assembly Building!!! Salle Victor Hugo, meet a bunch of Socialists. Just go for the venue.

18/5/05, 8:30: in the Cirque d'Hiver in the 11th. Lots of top dogs. Paris Mayor Bertrand Delanoe, PS leader Francois Hollande, erstwhile EU Commission President Jacques Delors, and two people I've never heard of called Jack Lang and Dominique Strauss-Kahn. Sound British and German don't they? UPDATE: both former ministers under Mitterand and possible socialist presidential candiates.

31/5/05, 6pm: Maison de l'Europe (address above) The consequences of the referendum to adopt the treaty for a European Constitution. Maybe dull and self-congratulatory. Could be bloody.

*I am QUITE anti-EU though. This is mostly due to the fact that, as a child, my school song was the European National Anthem "Ode an die Freude" sung in German, against bagpipes. You try it and see how much you like Europe. Also, I really dislike Peter Mandelson and anything that pops his balloon is fine with me.

**Mitterand's son, mayor of Libourne, is not, weirdly, hosting his own town's public meeting. Someone called Jack Lang instead. Anyone heard of him? UPDATE: former culture minister, sounds suspiciously anglo-saxon.

PS Danielle Mitterand, wife of THE Mitterand, is on the side of the 'no' because she considers that this "liberal constitution will make the very water we drink a commodity to buy and sell." Rich coming from a country that buys hundreds of gallons of bottled DIET water. Note that liberal is a dirty word here in France too, but in the economic sense, not libertinism, which is what Justice Scalia means.

PPS If you're really interested, this article is much more erudite than me. Although Asterix would NEVER say the French were crazy.

WHEEE! :: 10:33 AM :: easyjetsetter

I passed the DALF! In case you hadn't noticed from the late-night, rambling posts last night, I had trouble sleeping, I was so worried. Am rewarding myself with the most calorific breakfast known to man: the pain au chocolat aux amandes. I don't get my exact grades yet, they'll arrive in the post in a couple of days (assuming the landlord doesn't hoard my mail again, plus I think he's in Cannes...) because the poster with the results at the alliance only shows oui or non for your passing each module. I got four ouis! Step one of my plan to dominate the world complete...

Oh and this is what I will be doing this weekend. Saturday 14th of May, Nuit des Musees, all across France museums will be free and doing special events. Full listings are linked above, but this is what I will be doing. Email if you want to join. I am putting a group together.

1) 19:00, Concert at hotel des invalides: with first violin soloist for the French national orchestra and other soloists from the ONF. Programme: schubert and schoenberg.

2) 21:30, Drinking at the Centre historique des Archives
nationales: those magic words "open-bar" sponsored by champagne laurent perrier.

3) 22:00, Take the train out to Versailles: last admission to the chateau at midnight. Special lighting show. Open until one. Then taxi home.

In the poo :: 08:53 PM :: easyjetsetter

Hexagon Further to my post on the EU, I thought I'd take this opportunity to talk a little about my one and only direct experience of the European Parliament.

When I went to boarding school at nine, my parents had chosen a place they thought would help me pay attention in class. It was a private international school in the Scottish Borders, that was partially supported by local authorities subsiding places for kids with special needs (dyslexia, abnormally high IQ, asbergers syndrome, schizophrenia etc.) basically, anyone who needed small class sizes.

Our school song was the European National anthem, an adaptation of Beethoven's Ode an die Freude from his Ninth Symphony. We had to sing it in German, and one of the teachers always accompanied us on his bagpipes. This is why I have such powerful lungs today: trying to outsing those bloody pipes.

It let you work at your own pace, which is why I took Standard Grade French at 12 and not 16. But my French language skills were mostly due to the connections that the school had that meant I started going on exchanges at a very young age. Immersion is the only way to learn a language, and that is what I did.

From the family I stayed with every year for a month, and who I am still in touch with here in Paris, I learned a very nice song, based on the classic nursery song avec mes sabots literally, "with my clogs." The general gist of the song is that a wee girl in clogs is walking along the bank of the Lorraine river, and some captains in the French army call her ugly, because she is wearing clogs. Her reply is, well, the king's son loves me, so I'm not that ugly. The opening lines go:

les sabots d'Helene, etaient tout crottes

I had asked what this word crotte meant, and had been told it was an older version of "dirty."

So when the local Member of the European Parliament came to visit the school, in his capacity as overseer of internationalism I suppose, and asked me in French why I didn't like football, and I couldn't remember the modern word for "dirty" it made sense to say "parce que je le trouve crotte."

Silence. My blushing French teacher said, "err, don't you mean sale?" After the MEP had left the room, Mr Sakir pointed out, as my French readers already know, that crotte in fact means "shitty." As in crotte des chiens, meaning "dogshit."

Almost as embarrassing as the time that I was drawing a poster with all the colours of the rainbow marked in French.

At the time I did not possess a dictionary and so, one prep time, was reliant on the generosity of one Tom Prescott to look words up for me. I asked him what purple was, and I duly marked what he said down on my poster. It was a very pretty poster, it had butterflies, and flowers and a pot of gold.

I took it into class and Mr. Sakir went bright red. "That's a very bad word. I can't put this up with the others. Who told you that this was the word for 'purple'?"

Of course, Tom had told me that purple in French was merde. I assume it needs no translating.

Just say: 'know' :: 10:57 PM :: easyjetsetter

Despite the yummy sunshine, yummy food and the even yummier nanotechnology student from the Dominican Republic that I met and exchanged email addresses with on my trip to Holland, I still don't like Amsterdam.

In my hotel there was a rack of little cards on hooks, presumably for guests to take at their leisure. The cards were three inches by two, and had information on them about things to do around Amsterdam.

Between a card about the Hard Rock Cafe and another on Madame Tussauds, I found this little gem:

Hash & Marihuana: Facts and Tips
Using HASH or WEED can make you happy and relaxed, but there are also risks. Keep this card with you and read the tips on the reverse before use.

It has a picture of a smiling, winking, anthropomorphic joint.

I have a problem with drugs. I really hate them. Most people with a strong moral aversion to drugs feel that way without knowing much about them.

However, I do. I know their names, their effects, the chemistry, the biology and the psychology. I even, roughly, know the street value. And it's that knowledge, and my erstwhile tolerance, that has led me to my position today.

I've watched a classmate over years of heavy weed smoking slow down and lose the spark in his eyes, becoming dull and slow. I've sat with someone through a bad trip on magic mushrooms. I've seem someone lash out in anger because they're paranoid from one too many speed pills. But still, one has to live with others' chocies no?

Until I lost my flat because of someone else's drug-taking. I had known that my roommate did drugs, but I thought of myself as a tolerant person, and of her as a grown up who could manage to keep it out of our house. That was my one demand, because from a simply legal persepctive, I could never be even tenuously linked to drugs if I wanted to stay in the States. On a visa to the US, if there is even a sniff of drugs around your name (and bear in mind the lease was in both our names) they kick you out and bar you from returning for up to ten years. We had had this conversation several times, and she agreed with me.

Then one day, Leslie noticed some brownies on the side and, peckish, ate one. Well, you can guess what kind of brownies they were. Luckily, there was no effect, but I was so angry that my roommate had created a situation in which my friends couldn't trust the food in my house that I told her that if anything like that happened again I would move out.

I came home a few days before Thanksgiving to find my roommate and her friends snorting crushed white powder from a porcelain plate that had been chopped up with a credit card. There was a $20 bill on the table. It was all so cliche and so thoroughly crushing at the same time.

I called a friend to come and pick me up and broke the lease two days later. I lost a very close friend, because she never understood why I felt I had to go. She didn't think it was "that big a deal" that we had agreed on my legal situation and she had broken that agreement twice, and the second time with a class A drug.

I know now that there is a limit to how tolerant I will be, because even if you make relatively simple demands, with good reasons, of people on drugs, they will not be able to stick to them. That's what drugs do to you, they rob you of your mind, and of your will. And I include alcohol abuse in that criteria too.

Of course, you can go ahead and choose to do drugs, and I won't try and persuade you otherwise, that's your choice. But if you're a drug user, I know I can't trust you, and I won't have any more to do with you. That's one of the consequences of your choice. It's my perogative to not want anything to do with people who think it's fun to poison themselves.

And a little jolly, pointing, smiling joint cartoon isn't going to change that.

Complete Results :: 02:06 PM :: easyjetsetter

Hexagon So, as I suspected, my landlord has been hoarding my mail, because I got about six pieces of post under my doormat this morning, some dating from early APRIL. Including the complete results for the DALF:

The spoken oral: 20/20
The listening oral: 19/20
The general written: 15/20
The specialised written: 10.67/20

So, as suspected, I did indeed come close to failing the specialised written paper. I missed the fail mark by .67 points. PHEW!

UPDATE: I have been informed that a grade of 10/20 in France is considered "average." Jesus. Apparently below 9 would have been a fail.

Please remember that the paper I got full marks on was the only one where I was supposed to express myself, and that the interviewer was very interested in my French heritage as a Protestant fugitive from Louis XIV. Anyhow, I now have written proof that I am officially fluent in French. Just don't ask me to write in French.

On a related note, my cell phone's predictive text has got stuck in the French language, which means that I have joined the great unwashed majority and no longer write coherent text messages.

The view from the train :: 05:52 PM :: easyjetsetter

Hexagon My trip on the Thalys (and corresponding wait in the Brussels-Midi train station thanks to striking Belgian train workers) gave me time to think about my penchant for long train journeys.

I went to and from school by train every weekend for six years, Dumfries to Glasgow. My list of "50 things to do before I am 50" contains four train journeys: take the Trans-Siberian to Beijing from St Petersburg, take the Blue Train, cross the US by train, and take the Orient Express. I've always liked train stations, watching the countryside dashing past, alighting in a new city just as it gets dark and seeing the bums and the businessmen striding along side by side. Don't get that in airports. Nasty, soulless places.

The summer of 2003 I was travelling around Europe in ancient, unairconditioned trains because my Interrail ticket only allowed me on non high-speed services. I got sunstroke twice, flashed twice, mildly sexually harassed in a shower, and the best tan I've ever had. I also read "Atlas Shrugged" for the first time a book about motive power as represented by trains, and realised I was a libertarian. I was "researching" open-air theatre across Europe - which gave me an excuse to go and see Radiohead perform in the bull-ring in Madrid.

It was a busy summer for France. The Avignon festival had been cancelled due to the strikes by the intermittants. France had a policy whereby people who worked in entertainment over a certain number of hours in a year but who were not making a living wage were supported by the State. It was an expensive way of making sure that the entertainment industry was welcoming to newcomers. Waiting tables is a career here, unlike in the US, where it's a temporary occupation for high-schoolers and resting actors.

The government decided to scrap the statut des intermittants to bring themselves in line with Europe. Of course, the entire artistic establishment protested. The Avignon festival was cancelled, and every other performance I went to had workers stand onstage for a minute of silence in support before the show began. There were badges to wear, petitions to sign and billboards to write on in support of the workers. All this civil unrest turned my fluffy research project into something that seemed to have a little weight, so I was quite pleased.

It was also the summer of the killer heatwave. 15,000 extra deaths, mostly the elderly, were ascribed to the rise in temperature, aided and abetted by the dearth of health workers during the regular summer exodus to the coast and mountains.

Much more widely reported at the time was the fact that the heatwave was a boon for the vinters, as the increased temperature upped the sugar content of the grapes, meaning fewer additives needed for the fermenting process, meaning 2003 was predicted to be a super-vintage.

Well, the shit eventually hit the fan about the increased vulnerability of the elderly with adverse weather conditions. People were outraged. There was marching, petitions, demonstrations etc.

The French government promised that new funding would be made available for senior citizens, to stop this happening again.* Effective this year, they cancelled one of May's numerous jours feries in order to generate around two billion euros to be allocated to the elderly. This day of "free labor" has been spun as an annual "Day of Solidarity."

Tomorrow, Pentecost, or Whit Monday, is the day of that cancelled holiday. Most people in the private sector still get the day off, while public sector people are technically supposed to work. Never one to miss an opportunity for a good strike, however, the French public sector workers are mostly taking their bank holiday anyway. Schools, EDF, GDF, post offices, and public transportation will be at a bit of a standstill.

Here's my favourite ludicrous fun fact: SNCF, the national rail service, decreed that in order to keep the holiday while making the money for the elderly, their workers will work an extra "one minute and 52 seconds per day" for the rest of the year. Wheeee! Socialist planification! Almost like a chapter in an Ayn Rand book.

Who's betting such action will add fuel to the campaign against the EU Constitution fire, and that we'll see an upward swing in the "no" polls on Tuesday? I don't think a sane bookie would take that bet.

*I should like to point out at this juncture that the government has been characteristically vague ("new healthcare fund") as to how exactly it will do this. Of course, the switch late last-year from a perks-based, few cash-payments pension to a mostly cash payments pension, against which old people slowly, but doggedly marched, has nothing to do with this injection of cash. Nothing at all. Whatsoever. Honest.

In a Galaxy far far away... :: 05:25 PM :: easyjetsetter

Ladies and Gentlemen, you are about to be exposed to my uber-geekiness. I generally keep it relatively well-hidden, or at the very least express it through the rather hipper medium of politics, but nobody my age, except possibly Sabrina, can resist the call of the Force.

That's right, it's almost Star Wars III: Revenge of the Sith time, and I'm starting the party tonight. The movie will be released on Wednesday, as all movies are in France, but my friends and I shall be waiting until Friday night to go and see it, because Friday morning is when my wife arrives in town.

Last week, M6 screened the Phantom Menace, and follows that tonight with the Attack of the Clones, which are, weirdly, better in French, because the meaningless, moribund dialogue is just a pleasant hum in the background to the bright shiny flashing images on screen. Following this showing, there will be "Star Wars: the empire of dreams."

As interim reading I recommend this site, a daily journal from Darth Vader, and this one, examining the political basis for the Rebel Alliance.

May the Force be with you. I'll see you on the Dark side. To paraphrase vidkapundit: I just hope it ain't shit.

Diet blogging :: 12:40 AM :: easyjetsetter

This week. As my wife is in town, and I shall have to get up the enthusiasm to not resent paying for things that are part of my daily tableau. Like the eiffel tower. And the louvre. Worth it though, because I love her and it is her first trip to France.

We are then going to join my parents at a WWI dressing station near Amiens to do some walking around the trenches, followed by a day at Giverny. Super. More plants.

The begonias are doing a little better. They went brown and curled up, until I started bringing them inside at night. They look better now I pulled off all the dead heads. I might manage!

Kelsey Grammar is going to be Beast in Xmen 3. I'm thrilled. Can't improve on that.

Anyhoo, be back around the 30th. Unless I have something to say in between.

Bisous.

HOLY CRAP :: 12:55 AM :: easyjetsetter

It's been TEN YEARS????

I don't usually, read the sun. I was checking out the saddam controversy (really, honest.) I am not sure if they can be trusted on this, but upon seeing this "story" I was thrown back to Dumfriesshire.

I was 12, at boarding school, and I hadn't known girls could be individuals and singers and sexy and pouty and powerful all at once. I only knew, the song was damn catchy and I wanted their clothes.

That's why (OH SHUDDER) me, Jessica, Vicky, and two others who I now forget, DRESSED UP AND DID THE DANCE to Wanna Be for POOR 14 YEAR OLD Oliver's birthday. THE SHAME.

I feel like I just released some Freudian, repressed, anxiety-inducing memory, not unlike victims of childhood abuse who rage around their teenage years until a psychiatrist unlocks the event that sparked the whole cycle of repression and depression off. I'm glad I got that off my chest.

TEN YEARS??? I feel old. I remember ten years ago. Pretty clearly. I still wanted nothing more from life than a 1 in Standard Grade French, to join the older kids for a shandy at the Carmichael pub in Moniaive, and for Richard Lee to fancy me. I still played the harp and the recorder. Mr. Robson, in choir, had introduced me to the Beatles and Bach. My reading material at the time was Bliss magazine and Point Horror. I had recently bought my first single-artist album: Jagged Little Pill by Alanis Morisette. I wanted a pair of rollerblades for Christmas and wondered if I would ever "develop."

Jesus. Christ. Super. Star. I'm a fucking grown up.

So you want to be my boyfriend? :: 07:19 PM :: easyjetsetter

Social Circle Candidates must not turn over the exam paper before the invigilator instructs you to do so. On your answer sheet, fill in your name, phone number, email address, social security number and sexual orientation. Use a number 2 pencil. Be sure to fill in the bubbles completely on your answer sheet. If you circle, tick, strikethrough, or only half-fill the bubble, your answer will not be tabulated.

Failure to do any of this will lead me to the conclusion that you are incapable of following basic instructions and will automatically disqualify you on the grounds of incompetence.

You may turn over your question sheet now.

1) Are you a man or a:
a) mouse
b) mollusc
c) monkey
d) manatee
e) none of the above
f) all of the above

2) Are you secretly Texan?
a) HEEEELLL YEAH!
b) I have nothing against Texans I just wish they wouldn't FLAUNT it in public.
c) Only on weekdays. At weekends my gimp name is Mandy.
d) I resent your implication that Texans are anything but normal people who happen to have made a different lifestyle choice from you. We are the last minority that it's ok to discriminate against, and I'd like to see legislation enacted on my behalf that enshrines my rights and protects me from hate crimes.
e) both a & c
f) neither d nor a

3) How many wrongs make a right:
a) 2
b) Just because it feels good doesn't make it right
c) The answer is blowin' in the wind
d) A number tending towards the approximate square root of pi
e) A big slice of pie makes everything right
f) What's right and wrong again?

4) How well do you know Johnny Depp?
a) fairly
b) intimately
c) biblically
d) ironically
e) I have his phone number and can give it to you
f) I'm a sad fat loser who doesn't know Johhny Depp

5) Religious affiliation?
a) Pseuddhist
b) Texas
c) Jedi
d) Sith
e) Johnny Depp
f) Pie

6) Perfect date:
a) Dinner, movie, S&M
b) Cow tipping
c) Smart car tipping
d) Julia Roberts
e) March 7, 1983
f) Candied

7) Why do you want to date me?
a) I just saw you walking in the street. That's how I meet girls.
b) I like to break a filly with spirit.
c) I'm 45 and you're such a little fountain of youth
d) I really, you know, dig you. You remind me of my girlfriend.
e) You've got lovely eyes
f) My friend told me you were easy.

Your time is up. Put down your pencils, hand your sheets in. NOW BUGGER OFF you panoply of twitching, oily, smarmy, oversexed, ageing, balding, psychotic, dribbling FREAKS.

Gay or taken, my friends. All the good ones are gay or taken.

UPDATE 23/5:
Ok, obviously, this is A JOKE, but there is a serious point behind it.

When it comes to the job search, nobody questions that the most effective and efficient way of matching up employees and companies involves preliminary screening on paper. Imagine if, like in dating, an employer had to spend time meeting everyone who wanted the job?

I recently applied for a job with a government department, which consisted of answering an online test remotely and being screened by an HR consultancy before going for a day of tests and role-playing in London. Since they had to reimburse me for the trip to London, they wanted to make sure I wasn't a fuckwit first. I didn't get the job (they were looking for someone with more staff-management abilities than a 22 year old), but I liked how they set up the application procedure.

Dating needs this. Badly. In the simple economic sense of making the search more efficient. Especially if you intend to invest in it, e.g. paying for dinner and birthday presents and contraception and such.

As with the real-life situation that inspired question 7 d) one can often find out too late major flaws that makes the adventure amount to a waste of time and money, thanks to a lack of pre-date screening. No successful economic system can survive inefficient labour recruitment.

I feel that this is why online dating services are so successful, people feel they can meet the KIND of people they want, rather than relying on chance to drift them their way.

Just a thought - I'm sure most people would (at least publicly) resist the idea that online dating services can be more efficient and effective and therefore better. We don't want to admit that love is subject to the same economic pressures as other systems of exchange. For more about sex and money take a look at stumbling and mumbling's post about sex and unemployment? Highly recommend it.

Also piece of worriesome news. I am in the first page of results on google for "my ideal man." Damn.

It wasn't shit! :: 11:47 PM :: easyjetsetter

More of an anagram of shit. Preliminary impressions before full review:

1) Lucas has been watching Lord of the Rings: volcano denouements are so hot right now.
2) Leia apparently does not, in fact, remember her "real" mother. WOOO continuity.
3) Jimmy Smits must never have an english accent again. Even a terrible fake one.
4) Someone at Lucasarts finally got the hang of CGI: things look real. Almost as good as the models and much more versatile.*
5) For the first time in the Star Wars series, space actually has something to do with the action (sucking out of windows occurs, as does gravity. Cool eh?

My favourite part of the evening, however, was when the wife and I had our picture taken with the french man smoking outside the theatre dressed as a wookiee.

*This is my favourite chat-up line.

PS - Link list updated: check it out. If you want to be on it, email me the link, and I'll read your blog. I only link to things I read.

Snapshots :: 02:06 PM :: easyjetsetter

It seems I am not the only one that has trouble negotiating the finer points of dating. This article (requires subscription) investigates the new fashion for paniers de rencontre, literally, meeting with shopping baskets. Apparently, you go to Galeries Lafayettes' gourmet food section on Thursday nights and choose a shopping basket to signal your availability.

I think this requires a little investigative reporting. It is at least an improvement on the British method of getting really drunk and forgetting whether you slept together, and also on the American one of not calling for six months between dates, which progress rigidly from coffee, to lunch, to drinks, to dinner, then a year of pretending to ignore each other, and finally, maybe, a snog.

I can't go this Thursday, as it is the WWI trip with my parents and the wife. We're heading up Thursday morning to Amiens (which Leslie has a great deal of trouble pronouncing, so yesterday at a party, the guests were mystified as to what part of Spain we were planning to visit) and to stay at a dressing station, one of the stops on the way from the front line to the hospital for the wounded. We'll trudge through the trenches and take a gander at the graveyards. Then we're going to spend Sunday at Giverny, Monet's house and garden, before dropping Leslie off at the airpot on Monday.

It's been wonderful having her here. She brought a bag of stuff from the States for me, and I had forgotten what was in there, so it felt like Christmas to open up the suitcase. My photo albums were in there. I suddenly realised how much weight I've inadvertently lost in the last nine months. I knew I'd lost some, of course, but comparing a snapshot from months ago to how I look in the mirror now was kind of surprising. Could just be the mirror though.

People work like that too. I haven't seen Leslie in nine months, and both of us have changed, in little ways that neither of us really noticed until the other one pointed it out. I'm a little more uptight, she's a little more laid back. But the seeming suddenness of these changes and an awkward social situation last night led to a big argument.

It was partly my fault for not explaining to Leslie beforehand that I didn't know all of the people at the party very well, and partly her fault for choosing that particular evening to get completely smashed for the first time in years, knowing I would make sure she got home ok without any men in tow.

I, through insecurity at not seeing her for months, and several conversations about weekends and evenings with the boyfriend that sounded very liquored up, interpreted this as part of a pattern I had not seen, and freaked out that her boyfriend was leading her down the path to alcoholism. So this was why she was (justifiably) angry at me: for my disapproving attitude.

She was very drunk and was saying some seriously private (and some untrue) things about me to a room containing people I barely knew, because she was under the impression they were all close friends of mine, and so I was obviously fairly angry at her for failing to interpret my "Leslie, you're just making this up. Stop talking" as "No, seriously, shut up."

I play my cards much closer to my chest than I did in college, and she had missed this change in me. To be honest, until last night, I had missed it in myself. Time was, the idea of someone regaling a table with stories about my escapades would have made me pink with the glow of attention, but obviously, these days, the colour's from embarrassment.

And it led to me question WHY I was upset in the first place: is it because I think the other guests, a mixture of close friends and new friends, would think less of me? Or less of Leslie? Should I give a shit either way? I only discovered my latent tendency to control things when I started working in 2002, and I applied it outside the office only in my domestic arrangements, but has it now leaked out too far? Into my personal relationships? Do I just need to chill? Probably.

Now, since she's my wife, like all good married couples we talked it out, said what was on our minds, admitted we had both made stupid assumptions, kissed and made up, and went to bed feeling terrible that we'd upset the other one and determined to make up for it. But at the same time, we've definitely begun taking little steps along the very different roads we are going to be walking. I knew it was going to happen. I just didn't think it would happen so fast.

Getting hit on in Paris :: 09:49 PM :: easyjetsetter

Hexagon I don't often get off at the Barbes Rochechouart metro. It takes two minutes to get home from there, but instead I take about eight minutes to go one more stop along to Anvers, get off there, and then get home.

Why the waste of time you ask? Well, for a start, Anvers is always busy. It's at the foot of the Butte de Montmartre, where the Sacre Coeur presides over us all, and is right next to a major music venue, and so people are always milling around, from all walks of life.

Barbes, by contrast, is generally the opposite. It is either deserted or full of sleazy men, young and old, waiting to prey on young girls walking home alone under the eaves of the overhead metro line. I've mentioned before the experience when, outside Barbes, a car reversed up the street, and a passenger got out and went to grab my arm, as part of their "courting" ritual.

I've been followed home from there, necessitating a duck into the shop at the bottom of my building, using my secret signal for help to my friend the free-mango-juice shopkeeper ("what, you don't have ANY salted butter?") and dashing upstairs while he occupies the stalker.

Paris is generally a super safe city, with more talk than action from the harrassers on the street. However, all that has now changed. Being hit on in Paris has never gotten as physical as it did tonight.

When I have friends staying, it makes sense that two is better than one, so I generally get off at Barbes rather than waste the time on one extra stop. Tonight, Leslie and I were crossing the Boulevard de Rochechouart. Leslie was complaining about how the white jacket I had lent her made her look like a cast member in Miami Vice, and I was ogling a very pretty chap coming from the other side of the street.

That's when it happened. With my eyes elsewhere, I suddenly realised a flat, outstretched palm was coming smack into my face. I felt the underside of my nose make contact, and flipped my head back to stop my nose from breaking, while the guy's hand smacked my bottom lip into my teeth.

Of course, when I turned around, I realised it was someone who looked more like Harry Potter than Charles Manson, and he had been signing down a taxi. With my vision otherwise clouded, I had walked smack bang into his hand. He was mortified, and came running after us apologising profusely, and I muttered something about "not bleeding" and waved him away (although he was also quite cute...)

The last time I got hit in Paris was also an accident, with a metro gate swinging into my face and giving me a black eye. I fixed that with purple eyeshadow on the other side, but got some funny looks from people at my fairly "lady of the night" makeup.

This time, my bottom lip is turning an attractive shade of purple and has swelled up. It's not, however, split, so, as Leslie says, I just look pouty, and hence, more Parisian. Possibly leading to being hit on more.

I'm glad I am going to Amiens tomorrow. Speak to you all Sunday.

Sun stricken :: 11:19 PM :: easyjetsetter

Hexagon It had looked promising before, but generally, nothing had come of it. Pure, blue skies in the early morning are rarely, in the schizophrenic and capricious Paris springtime, a harbinger of a beautiful sunny day. Except today, when the Sun King himself appears to have blessed my trip with the wife to his home, the Chateau of Versailles.

I have been once before, but at an age where I couldn't look at a painting without being zapped into a sonambulant stupor, and where I was more concerned with imagining myself a princess in a big skirt sweeping through the halls of this royal castle than David and Le Brun.

One of the points of contention between Leslie and I the other evening was my tendency to be snooty about Paris tourists. Whenever Leslie went to take a picture of something I was rolling my eyes, and whenever she would suggest something touristy to do I would do the "Pfft" noise with the shrug.

So today, once we passed the peripherique in the RER, I took out a surprise from my bag: a UNC baseball cap and my camera. I was going to play at being a tourist for the day, just to make her happy. Also, I had broken my sunglasses and needed the cap to stop me squinting in the sun and worsening my already crappy vision. But Shhhh, don't tell Leslie - she thinks it was a gesture of solidarity. So with my diesel sneakers, khaki capris, white t-shirt, denim jacket, haven't-washed-my-hair pigtails, messenger bag and my UNC baseball cap, I was the perfect American.

The queue was long, and hot. We bought our tickets, and Leslie, with her pathetically weak bladder, needed the loo again. So we left the building and paid 50p for the toilet entrance. We were then informed that we had to rejoin the long hot queue to get in. However, as I have mentioned before, all rules in France are negotiable, as long as you can give a good reason for why you can in fact do what you have just been told you cannot. So, after some discussion, we slipped in the back door.

The main apartments were crowded, noisy, and dark. The prettiest room, to my recollection, was the Hall of Mirrors, which was bloody well encased on plywood for restoration, with a description of the room written on them. Cause that was going to make up for it.

But the gardens. Oh the gardens. They were wonderful. I am not much of a plant person. Leslie is, and she and my mother have an uncanny knack of spending an entire afternoon discussing whether than green thing with yellow flowers on it is a shrub or a bush of laburnum. It's amazing how much like my father I am, and how much like my mother Leslie is.

When she graduated from college, unlike the other lazy beggars like myself who moved back in with their parents and moaned about the job market, she got herself hired at a florist and worked all the hours God gave her to buy a three bedroomed house, before she even had her first "real" job. So that's how she knows all about plants. As mentioned previously, I kill cacti.

However, I like long walks in pretty areas, and we had a picnic, and there is nothing I like more than ending the long walk with a tasty treat or two. So we sat down on a marble bench opposite the Fountain of Appollo (the one with the horses) and had peaches and baguettes and ham and soft cheese and carambars. We surprised some prepubescent Germans by asking them in German to take our photo (yes, there is photographic evidence of me in a baseball cap) and then sauntered off into the park.

After an hour or so lounging in the shade of the king's flower garden, we decided we needed to hire a rowboat. I once played Toad in a production of Toad of Toad Hall, but I always secretly wanted to be the water rat, and to get to "mess about in boats" on the river.

I got into sailing in school because we were required to do a major sport and a minor sport three afternoons a week, as well as a service, and a hobby on the other two. Kurt Hahn, who founded Outward Bound and the Duke of Edinburgh award scheme, also founded my school, and so the idea of physical education was central to our curriculum. I was rather bookish at 15, and my parents thought that a school renowned for cold showers and morning runs would toughen me up a bit.

I chose sailing as both my minor and major sport, and the special boat service as my service, thinking that sitting in a boat would be more relaxing than alipine ski patrol, being a canoe lifeguard, or being a fireman in the on-campus fire station. For my hobby, I hid in the boarding house and drank hot chocolate with Audrey, our fabulous, unintelligible matron.

I was pretty much thrown in at the deep end, as sailing on the North Sea in early autumn is not a cup of tea. We had these devon yawls with ridiculously heavy keels that basically could not capsize to sail, and they just taught us newcomers a few knots and towed us out there and left us to it.

Well, I loved it. I loved every bloody minute of it. Hanging out the boat on a fifty year old harness, standing on the bowsprit as the gib thrashed about, tying down sodden rope in a gale, the ghastly yellow oilskins and the frightful itchy sailors' pants and sweaters we had to wear. I loved my wetsuit that made me look like a pudding, and even Dr. Bell, snug in his dry suit and his powerboat, the bastard.

As part of the curriculum, we all had to spend a week as part of a crew of the school ketch, 85 feet of Ocean Spirit, which would take us around the Outer Hebrides, and where we were obliged to jump off the boat every morning before we would get any breakfast. We did a 24 hour sail to St Kilda, and the night sitting in the cockpit with the phospherescence below, and the stars above, and the clock at 11 knots, and the port and starboard lights illuminating the waves red and green every time the bow crashed onto the waves will stay with me forever.

I further indulged this love of water with my Ouward Bound choice for pre-freshman year "leadership" training course. I rafted, canoed and kayacked 310 river miles in three weeks down the Green and the Colorado rivers, alternating between plus five cataracts like Satan's Gut and Hell's Half Mile and long, flat stretches of dead calm where I felt like my arms were going to fall off with the repetitve strain of paddling. I saw a forest fire drip down the sides of the canyon. I saw a boat wrapped around a rock. I was almost electrocuted in a thunderstorm, I used a chemical toilet, I got trench foot and I was deliriously happy.

Incidentally, Outward Bound is responsible both for my horrendously ugly feet and also my freakishly strong bladder. Because it was a national park, we were only allowed to pee IN the river (yes, I know not very environmentally friendly), and if you needed to pee during the day, you had to lower yourself off the boat, pee and pull yourself back in, cause they weren't stopping. I had the upper body strength of a T-rex at the time (really tiny arms) and until week two of daily paddling I was unable to pull myself back into the boat. I just made myself stop peeing between breakfast and lunch, and lunch and dinner, to avoid the embarrassment of being pulled back into the raft by sexy patrol leader Josh. This on six quarts of water a day. I have a bladder of steel to this day.

Apart from one foray onto a sailboat on the relative, boring calm of the outer banks I have not been in any boat other than a motor powered one since. And anyone who has ever made a boat go with their own knowledge of winds and rope, or their own sheer bloodymindedness with a paddle knows this is no bloody good.

So the row boat, on the Grand Canal of little Venice in the park of the Garden of Versailles, was like heaven. I shooed Leslie into the stern, and took the role of the man for once, plying my oars up and down that lake for all I was worth, belting out American Pie (an old sailing favourite of mine) at the top of my lungs and reciting some Lewis Carroll. I made some French people smile, some giggle, and I didn't care.

Of course, after all that time in the full sun on the open water, both Leslie and I now have sunburn, and since I was wearing a t-shirt, I have a farmers' tan. Sabrina remarked: gosh, you really ARE from North Carolina. I'm no farmer, I said. I'm a sailor.

Touring Death :: 09:50 PM :: easyjetsetter

As you may discern from the title, dear readers, I have come back from the Somme. A departement to the north-east of Paris, and made famous by possibly the most criminal thing that man has ever done.

On July 1st, 1916, General Douglas Haig ordered the British (and Commonwealth) army to go over the top and to attack the German dugouts, which had been there for two years and were dug deeply enough and on high enough ground that the preliminary air and artillery attack did not have the desired effect of making it easier for the mostly working class men, many in 'pals' battalions made up from the same town or sports club, to attack the front lines of the enemy. 20,000 were slaughtered outright that day, with another 40,000 missing, injured, or captured. Over the next three months, as the battle of the Somme waged, over a million people died. All for the gain of a few hundred metres of land. All to distract from the fact that the French were about to lose the war for the alliance in Verdun. All for one chaps. Right-o?

We saw great stone monoliths in memoriam. We saw the trenches, no longer teeming, stinking pits of mud, lice and disease, that have been restored as part of the Canadian memorial. We saw the chirpy students who have given up their summers to lead ignorant, chattering tourists around the fields of slaughter. We saw the French graveyard and war memorial staffed by veterans, and felt the sense of anguish that still lingers there. We heard the carts and horses in our minds on the streets of Albert, and were surprised when the piping sound turned out to be real people, using their lungs to remind the world of what happened here on the most piercing instrument known to man: the bagpipes.

We saw the railway carriage where the Armistice was signed, in the clearing in Compiegne, because the generals felt it more appropriate than gilded offices to be in the fields where their men had died. The same carriage was later used by Hitler, enraged at the humiliation Germany had suffered there in 1918, for the signing of the end of conflict with France in 1940, and he insisted in sitting in the seat formerly occupied by Marechal Petain 22 years ago.

We saw the seemingly infinite lists of names. We saw photographs of whole villages turned to mud, whole forests to firewood, whole battalions to carrion. We saw the poems of Siegfried Sassoon, Appollinaire, and Wilfred Owen amongst letters home, tightly scripted by the government. We saw the art of Otto Dix scribble deciminated, black landscapes lit up by shell fire.

And we saw graves. Masses and masses of graves, across hundreds of graveyards, from tens of countries, including Germany.

We saw that there were hardly any French people out in the glorious sunshine, with the first poppies peeking from the ground, to see what had happened to their country not even one hundred years ago. The proprietors of the visitor centres, built by British citizens' donations, confirmed this. Anybody French who I told I was going to the Somme said "why?"

Because they want to share their world expo pavillion and a TV channel and their overseas cultural institutes with Germany, and eventually allow French citizens to become German ones if they wish, and because Germany is France's New Best Friend, the French have forgotten the injunction on all their memorials: "on n'oubliera jamais" (we will never forget.) Now the Armistice clearing is a nice spot for a picnic for weekend bicyclists and our European national anthem is Ode an die Freude.

I'm not saying a country is more to blame for the carnage than another - especially when I think about what our side's commanders did to their soldiers - but I feel an overwhelming sense of sadness that something that mattered so much has been forgotten by so many in the name of harmony and increasing cultural homogeneity.

I'm sorry. I don't feel like trying to be funny tonight. Go and find out which of your ancestors, on whatever side, died in a war of territory fought by the poorest, and remembered by not the strongest, not the bravest, or even the most intelligent, only by those who had the luck to survive. They called it the Great War, and that, and they, merit more from us.

And so it begins... :: 09:49 PM :: easyjetsetter

I don't believe in the biological clock. But I can understand having one's patience and and will eroded by the irrepressible force of one's mother's opinion. Verbatim conversation reported below.

Mum: "I'm very disappointed that you and your sisters don't have any hobbies."

Me: "Hobbies Mum? We all have hobbies - I like politics, jazz, comic books, sailing, cooking, (enter nice sister's name here) likes riding, cats, the music business, (enter evil sister's name here) likes fascism, skiing and psychological torture - what do you mean?"

Mum: "Well, you know, outdoorsy ones"

Me: "You mean like sailing and riding and skiing?"

Mum: "Well, more that none of you seem to have people to do those things with"

Me "You mean people? Or people with Y chromosomes?"

Mum "Don't be silly dear. But yes."

Me "So by hobbies, you mean boyfriends?"

Mum "Of course not. But your father would love a grandson."

I'd like to ask just one question (other than where can I find a good hysterectomist?): what prompts my mother to consider boyfriends "outdoorsy" hobbies? Actually, I don't want to think about that.

Meta-blogging alert :: 10:29 PM :: easyjetsetter

This evening, after a long day of depleting my remaining card stock from my schmancy new case from Kat (it's PINK! And RETRO!) I wasn't feeling very sociable or chatty, especially not in French, which I had been talking all day. Which might be why I did not have the best time at Paris blogue t'il? a blogmeet for bloggers in Paris.

The event took place at l'Entrepot, a fabby cool chic cinema/restaurant/bar/meeting space place in the 14th, and about 130 bloggers had signed up (with many more expected), from the wee, puny personals, to the heavyweight creme de la creme with bookdeals. Everyone seemed to know each other.

In such situations I'm normally very very able to breeze into any conversation and a) hijack it for my own purposes and/or b) meet everyone in the circle. This evening, partly because I was a bit sick of "new people" from the salon, but also partly for other reasons, this did not occur.

I spoke to a few people, but (with a few exceptions) their questions were "what is your subject that you blog about?" and "what is your readership?" Perfectly reasonable questions, and if I had a particular subject or a ton of readers I would probably not have felt such a tool. However, for the first time since I was about 17 (note: last time I lived in Britain), I felt out of place. Like I did not belong. It was like revenge of the nerds.

Of course, this is nobody's fault but my own. Not just because of my bad mood. These people meant well, but the fact of the matter is, I'm a bit insecure about how very very very insignificant my blog is. Being a total Hermione Granger (gotta be the best...) that is.

It takes a certain amount of balls and ego to be a blogger. It's necessary healthy ego, not crazy dictator ego. One has to be totally unashamed about asking people much more widely read than you to link to you, and one has to do all one can to promote one's blog name.

I do neither of these things. My own personal blog ethics code of conduct (and intrinsic circa 1901 Britishness) means I consider this fairly vulgar behavior: pushy and (sorry) American. I took the decision to not comment on somebody's blog unless I was actually prompted to respond to what they wrote, and even then to have a pseudonym for commenting on non-expat blogs (eagle-eyed readers who know my real name and what British political blogs I frequent will discern this.) I also decided not to link to anyone unless I read their blog regularly. Almost unheard of in blogoland. Also unheard of was my decision to not ask for links back to me, and wait for them to come from people who read my blog.

All very noble, but now my inner teenager, never very far beneath the surface, is stamping her foot and saying "I want more readers NOW" in response to meeting people much more popular than me. It's ok that they are, I just want a piece of the pie.

So, not for the last time in my projected career, I am asking myself, integrity, or popularity?

I thought about why I started this blog, to keep friends and family up to date with what was happening in my life, and how it necessarily changed into something more public and more anonymous as I had a minor brush with an underrepresented ethno-religious group, and about how it became a way to practice the discipline of writing something (fairly) structured (nearly) every day. I thought about how, if I really want to make something of this blog, I have to be shameless and unrelenting in pursuing readers and exposure, and how I have to shape it up, redesign it, post every day RELIGIOUSLY, and take the damn thing seriously.

Then I thought, nah, fuck it, that's too much like hard work. Bugger integrity, I'm just lazy.

UPDATE: Of course, having just written this, I discover that a comment of mine over at EU Rota has been quoted in full as a post. Am glowing. Pinkly. Have the necessary ego for blogging it seems.

UPDATE 2: Almost simultaneously, I was asked to write a guest article for a group blog on politics on the strength of comments alone. *Blush* and *egomaniacal giggle.*