tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10808628935959323662024-02-19T08:48:17.659+01:00Lost Year in Paris . . . and beyondWhat to do when you've lost a year of life. Replace it with a found year in Paris.Doug Colliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09123539287906635991noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080862893595932366.post-62258897661121633252010-02-27T22:17:00.026+01:002010-03-18T17:08:38.847+01:00The Sounds of the City<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxhWPS_XzQ2io0GwIrt3-1IwqIo3MY9Bh3UXUhdZRE8U9aFbqAGT8NEL2rk4_RFY9t4f5Iiv34NPscbXy4RKA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><b>Street Music</b></span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">[Click on PLAY button to see video]</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b> </b></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Paris is justifiably famous for being an eye-candy kind of city. So much charm it can make your teeth ache. Sometimes you have to close your eyes to give it a rest. And when you do, you discover another city.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">After a few months I began realizing there is a distinctively sonic Paris. It began shortly after we moved by noticing the irritating </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">NEE-</span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">naah</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">NEE-</span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">naah</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">, of sirens cutting through the hum. At night, before the trains shut down, there was the low rumble of the Metro passing beneath our toes on to, I assume, the Rue du Bac stop.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And then subtler sounds. We lived on the first floor, around the corner from a grammar school at the end of Rue de St. Simon. You could set your watch by their students' comings and goings. Around 8 a.m. there would be the bird-like chirping of little children passing by and later in the afternoon the whooping, cheering and sometimes crying, after another long exhausting day in a French ecole, as they trooped in the other direction.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Around the corner from our place, directly across the street from our front door in fact, was a valet-serviced restaurant with an expense account crowd in the day and after midnight a jolly, well-oiled tourist clientele rolling out the door shouting good-nights to each other as they staggered down the street. Not surprisingly the Americans were the loudest. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Whistling. I have never heard so much whistling, from the straight ahead pucker up and blowing kind to the more virtuosic trilling, sometimes making notes for the sake of it. Hearing a particularly musical warble one day I went to the window to see who it was. Walking down the street with his market bag in hand was a dour looking old guy about my age trilling away. He looked like he didn't have a joyful bone in his body but that was belied by his saucy tunesmithing.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And finally music. Yes there is the government mandated spontaneity of the Fete de la Musique every June, and the calculated charm of the hurdy gurdy man outside the gate of the Jardin Luxembourg. And no street performer can perform on the street without getting a license. But it's always fun. Like the crowd of music students (above), performing near the garish and goofy Palais Royal Metro entrance with a lot of toe tapping verve. </span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Doug Colliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09123539287906635991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080862893595932366.post-49210826482525308122010-02-19T16:30:00.068+01:002010-02-24T15:36:40.568+01:00Parisian Scams and Misdemeanors<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrKuCVF7jh1MamGCXlscgKLCJp9EJ2qFQB3B6nGJhHqp3rytBkqfmAy-B4URA_mkVnuaw57iqLgEg9fY1iLnMqq_4j7h9z6gcieypqjKWwIOrESTXY2lyHG_Qwtvppdl89mRQIuUp7wGo/s1600-h/RingScam.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrKuCVF7jh1MamGCXlscgKLCJp9EJ2qFQB3B6nGJhHqp3rytBkqfmAy-B4URA_mkVnuaw57iqLgEg9fY1iLnMqq_4j7h9z6gcieypqjKWwIOrESTXY2lyHG_Qwtvppdl89mRQIuUp7wGo/s400/RingScam.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441270428048651874" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The Scam</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A little less than a year ago my sister Susan came to visit us in Paris and had a truly magical time right up until the day before she left, when she was robbed. In front of me.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">By Parisian standards it was a routine crime: pickpocket. She was wearing a small backpack as a purse and somewhere around Bastille, I'm convinced, some creep deftly and quickly zipped it open and grabbed her wallet without me seeing it happen. Later that afternoon, while walking on the Promenade des Plantes that I noticed the bag was unzipped and we made the depressing discovery. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">After first having a stiff drink in a cafe, Susan spent the rest of the day on the phone canceling credit cards and going through the dismal exercise of reconstructing her identity. Fortunately she left her passport back at our apartment so that escaped intact and now her experience as a victim of crime in the City of Light has morphed into a cautionary traveler's tale.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">That experience got me thinking about how quaint crime is in Paris. It's Dickensian. Very 19th Century. Things can be so quiet that if a pistol is fired, it is front page news. Granted they do have a form of vandalism that is Third Worldish. While car vandalism, say in New York, might be keying the side of it or even smashing a window, here they burn the vehicle. Last year some of the boyz in one hood were not thrilled about the John Travolta movie, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">From Paris with Love</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> being filmed in their neighborhood and to express their displeasure they </span><a href="http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/world/europe/article6823283.ece"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">set fire to some of the cars</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> used in the movie. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But generally it is a city with a low violence threshold and crime is committed with flair. An American acquaintance who lived off and on in the city for years was telling me how one night he and his wife were having friends for dinner in their third floor apartment. After his guests left he went into the bedroom. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"I noticed my wallet was missing from the dresser. And so was my father's gold pocket watch. And, my wife noticed, so were her pearls. And the window was open. Police determined that a burglar had gotten over an eight-foot wall from an adjacent yard into our courtyard, climbed up the outside of our building - three stories, mind you - into our bedroom, cleaned us out, then left - all while we were in the next room having dinner."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />"Impressive," I said. I'm afraid of heights.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Yes, it is," he agreed, suddenly appreciating the burglar's feat.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF6600;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">SAY HELLO TO MONSIEUR STUPID</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Fortunately I have never been the victim of a crime. Mostly because I am too dumb. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Case in point: One day this very charming young woman was walking towards me along the Seine. It was across the street from the Louvre. She paused, squeaked a little squeak of delight, reached down and picked something off the sidewalk. Then she came over to me holding a wedding ring that could have fit King Kong. She offered it to me saying she couldn't use it. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I thought, "What the hell am I going to do with this?" and handed it back, saying. "You keep it. A gift." She kept insisting but I demurred. In so doing I had witlessly dodged one of the oldest scams in Paris.</span></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The way it is supposed to work is when the scammer offers to give the found ring to you and if you are foolish enough to accept, they then say something like, "Hey I just gave you a gold ring, could you spare me some money. Say, 10 Euros." And if you are greedy or too slow witted you give them the money and are left with a yellow metal ring made of brass which is worth a few centimes.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I know this because I was suspicious of her sweet generosity and Googled </span><i><a href="http://www.google.com/search?client=safari&rls=en&q=wedding+ring+scam+paris&ie=UTF-8&oe=UTF-8"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">wedding ring scam Paris</span></a></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> out of curiosity. I found small library of citations about mentally challenged/greedy tourists getting taken. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">After that the scales fell from my eyes. Wherever tourists walked I noticed there were bad actors picking up brass rings off the ground, sometimes with limited success. One inept guy by the Place de la Concorde was so wretched at this no one noticed him picking up the ring. He could not get his scam started. Another overactor took so long with the astonishment part of her performance that my wife and I had walked way past her before she got to the look-what-I-found part and had to chase us down.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I felt personally insulted one rainy Sunday morning when I was heading out to an Eric Kayser for a baguette when some guy </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">across the street <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">- how lazy is that -</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> held up a ring and shouted for me to look at what he just found. There was no one else out that early so I guess he was desperate. Still, I was really annoyed. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Do I look that stupid?" I called out, then felt bad because he looked hurt. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF6600;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">THE SCAMMER'S REVENGE</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The scammer gods punished me not long afterwards. I was walking along the Blvd. Raspail heading for the Luxembourg Gardens to do my daily run. I was wearing a waterproof windshirt because it was raining lightly and it was cool out. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">My fingers shrink in cool weather and my loose fitting wedding ring sometimes slips off. So I decided to tuck it in the breast pocket of my windshirt to keep it safe. Halfway up Blvd. Raspail it stopped raining, so I took off the shirt and tied it around my waist. I had walked maybe another two blocks when a bad feeling crept over me. I checked the breast pocket. It was empty. The wedding ring must had fallen out, on one of the busiest boulevards in Paris no less. The noise of the traffic probably masked the clink of the ring hitting the pavement. It could have rolled anywhere. <i>Merde.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Inch by inch I retraced my steps down those last two blocks scanning every inch of the very wide sidewalk. Nothing. I re-retraced them still with no results. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Like someone afflicted with OCD I kept going up and down, up and down those two blocks. It started misting. Then pouring rain. I kept looking. Nothing.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Maybe the ring rolled under a car, I thought. I got down on my stomach and looked under every vehicle. More nothing. This went on for close to an hour. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Finally I stopped and stood on a corner, soaking wet and sick with the realization that the wedding ring I had for nearly 40 was gone forever. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I was about to step off the curb when I looked down in the gutter. There was what appeared to be a circle of gold. I got down on my knees and peered closer. It was a ring. <i>The</i> ring.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">With, I'm sure, an astonished and delighted look, I picked it up. At that moment a very attractive French woman came walking by and seeing this rain-drenched wretch of an old man, hunched over a gutter on the Boulevard Raspail in the classic ring-scammer pose, gave me the kind of withering look that only French women can give.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I was going to say, "No. Hey. I'm not . . ." but thought: <i>Forget it, Doug. It's Paris</i>.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Doug Colliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09123539287906635991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080862893595932366.post-40913973582780048842009-12-15T16:38:00.045+01:002010-01-21T17:08:05.795+01:00The Haunted Village<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEHLUR-hmYMxogsY05-SBRccqm2vcSv5zwF8TXSLBWMN6e5TdpM8-Bmy4PO4Bm2VnWhSLl7-6FwIkHzxZXhNPlyf3JzD91rxC0D2KEKIQoryz9pdnYzFEh8oRB4oxfVdyKpRGscf-dbeI/s1600-h/VILLAGE3.JPG" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 92px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEHLUR-hmYMxogsY05-SBRccqm2vcSv5zwF8TXSLBWMN6e5TdpM8-Bmy4PO4Bm2VnWhSLl7-6FwIkHzxZXhNPlyf3JzD91rxC0D2KEKIQoryz9pdnYzFEh8oRB4oxfVdyKpRGscf-dbeI/s400/VILLAGE3.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417046946770224722" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The charred remnants of Oradour-sur-Glane</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The region of France called the </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Limousin,</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> southwest of Paris, is not an area people go to, but one they go through. "It's like one of the flyover states in the U.S. Think of Indiana," is how one American who lives there put it. These days the Limousin is mostly known for its beef cattle and for being one of the most thinly populated areas in France. Its reputation as a sleepy backwater may be something of a liability today, but during World War II when France was occupied by the Nazis it was a blessing. That was probably how the residents of the tidy little market town of </span><a href="http://www.oradour.info/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Oradour-sur-Glane</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> saw it.</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">In 1944 they were surviving the war quite well. The village where they lived had no strategic value and, except for rationing, they were only marginally affected by the conflict. On the afternoon of June 10, 1944 it looked like even that inconvenience was due to end soon. The Allies had landed on the beaches of Normandy four days before. The Germans were pulling back. The war in Europe would be over in about six months.</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">But on that lovely Saturday afternoon, none of it would matter. There are variations on the story but facts everyone agrees with are as follows.</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">The village was busy that day because all the children were gathered in the schools for a health inspection. The young men were in town because ration coupons for tobacco were being distributed. Around 2 p.m. a convoy of about 180 SS troops, part of a Panzer division, rolled into town. Their commander told the mayor, a retired doctor, to round up everyone for an identity papers check. </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Oradour is not a big place. You can walk end to end in about ten minutes. So it didn't take long for all the men women and children to gather at the grassy fairgrounds on the edge of the village [See photo at top of this page]. There were about 650 people. No one was particularly concerned. The village was under the jurisdiction of German puppet Vichy government and what little contact they had with German troops in the past had been innocuous.</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">After everyone was present the Germans changed their story, saying they were investigating rumors of arms and ammunition hidden in the village. They planned to conduct a building to building search. To keep them out of the way, they gathered up the women and children and marched them to the village church. To keep an eye on the village men, the Germans broke them down into smaller groups and marched them to barns and garages in the town. They posted machine gunners at each of the six locations. </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Not long after this some soldiers walked into the <a href="http://www.oradour.info/images/or698097.htm">church</a> and set a large box with fuses dangling off it on the altar. Around four o'clock some sort of signal went off. Without warning the machine gunners at each of the six locations began gunning down the groups of unarmed Frenchmen in the barns and garages. The soldiers made a point of shooting waist high to make sure they would also kill any children who might be among the groups. After the fusillade, SS troops waded through the bodies, executing any who were still alive. Then they piled straw and wood on the bodies and set the pile of corpses on fire.</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">At the church, soldiers lit the fuses trailing out of the box and locked the door. An explosion released a thick cloud of black smoke. The women and children scrambled to the far corners to try and find a place to breathe. Seeing not all had suffocated to death, soldiers shot any survivors, firing through the church windows. They then tossed hand grenades into the church to finish off any still alive and lit the church on fire.</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">The next day the Germans</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> set fire to every building in the village and left. A handful of people, through luck, courage or resourcefulness had escaped before and even during the shooting, but not many. Total confirmed dead was 642. </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">The people who came to town afterwards looking for friends and relatives said the air was fill with the nauseating odor of charred flesh. Bodies were so badly burned only 52 were identifiable.</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">To this day no one knows why this happened given other nearby villages were left untouched. One story has it that the German officer in charge mistook Oradour for another village with a similar name where members of the French Resistance were hiding. Another story is that he mistakenly heard the village had captured and killed a German officer. Since the officer died in battle a short time after the atrocity we will not know for sure.</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">After the war Charles de Gaulle visited Oradour and ordered that the village be left exactly as it is as a memorial to those slaughtered there. A new Oradour was built north of the site. And so it has been ever since.</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">We went to visit it. Even today the place is a scene of quiet horror and madness. This was a thorough, efficient, soulless execution of a town. There was just a handful of people wandering the empty streets the weekday we visited. Those few who talked spoke in whispers as they walked past the blackened shells of buildings. Most walked around in a kind of stunned silence. Among the crowd were two young men, tourists from Germany.</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Some of what we saw:</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></div><div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj40XoKFup6_jenLuv0Taxl6lceakvfG3o60mNQ4783UbCV1bYbxEBSvoVZNU6mn4UyHpFTDW5bajHQoOX6pYvIB4JL6U7jLoNstSWc1ats9D5pdBpRfm0MAFFKwaM-RqGjjha8ZW_OLGs/s1600-h/Mayor'sCar.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj40XoKFup6_jenLuv0Taxl6lceakvfG3o60mNQ4783UbCV1bYbxEBSvoVZNU6mn4UyHpFTDW5bajHQoOX6pYvIB4JL6U7jLoNstSWc1ats9D5pdBpRfm0MAFFKwaM-RqGjjha8ZW_OLGs/s400/Mayor'sCar.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410705642732389522" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Across the street from the fairgrounds: The mayor's car was left where he parked it that afternoon.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3ApgIh_pHb5BfyU3GEcvyZ_sWI4alSHfUsjg8XUVOoimxbK99xkxbvTaqpuvD08BKn8WMmV_r6i_l28ApoCrXNeQfX__03a-4SKRcU7zCDaLkplBCEfyRb_liRX3GEiSXNrd29kPt9eg/s1600-h/IMG_0846.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3ApgIh_pHb5BfyU3GEcvyZ_sWI4alSHfUsjg8XUVOoimxbK99xkxbvTaqpuvD08BKn8WMmV_r6i_l28ApoCrXNeQfX__03a-4SKRcU7zCDaLkplBCEfyRb_liRX3GEiSXNrd29kPt9eg/s400/IMG_0846.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410706112667077922" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">It was burned in the conflagration.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7nObVJet9T0JJNJ8xPBV_WZ5o8n607jzRPQB7Hwoj3DHlOBMEV5RpnYGwzT8J9b0U_6cwc5DNcPb1ctxRH2DLNW_FTVIMpG0dYERuZoadSq3QMPRB4H_VETyOPUCVMMvSva9LHKdMMmM/s1600-h/Trolley+to+Limoges.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7nObVJet9T0JJNJ8xPBV_WZ5o8n607jzRPQB7Hwoj3DHlOBMEV5RpnYGwzT8J9b0U_6cwc5DNcPb1ctxRH2DLNW_FTVIMpG0dYERuZoadSq3QMPRB4H_VETyOPUCVMMvSva9LHKdMMmM/s400/Trolley+to+Limoges.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410704896592749474" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">The main street of the town: These trolley tracks once led to the city of Limoges.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJdvl-ONd4CmMqdeXX_Cr5W18JAqwhWIkhAa_biIPKqr9PkhIcpX5K4dlFHsbU2uddoZeT9LV6OvkVP8CNCcQnyJqCsgvN1Ujhxt8xOk109s24xWBPA45_3qZYxUa1AN6toGeKvWdeJ6Q/s1600-h/A+Cafe.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJdvl-ONd4CmMqdeXX_Cr5W18JAqwhWIkhAa_biIPKqr9PkhIcpX5K4dlFHsbU2uddoZeT9LV6OvkVP8CNCcQnyJqCsgvN1Ujhxt8xOk109s24xWBPA45_3qZYxUa1AN6toGeKvWdeJ6Q/s400/A+Cafe.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415296227634293410" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">What's left of one of the village's cafes.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7euE-DFCq-uKycFB8dhC7N-fbqTm-nmk2Acdpj0knYS1kcP2pWfgnrQyHN7h5F4eiUxnMSjc6homPhyphenhyphenNtKqKXDAEkGqQ-jk77l7DrHYrqMKTKe_ejvoxPOGPTvZC7-1zZx6UrdPQE58I/s1600-h/Garage.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7euE-DFCq-uKycFB8dhC7N-fbqTm-nmk2Acdpj0knYS1kcP2pWfgnrQyHN7h5F4eiUxnMSjc6homPhyphenhyphenNtKqKXDAEkGqQ-jk77l7DrHYrqMKTKe_ejvoxPOGPTvZC7-1zZx6UrdPQE58I/s400/Garage.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415297177667386738" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">A truck in one of the garages.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQwUyBxtFy5cH8w-q_RhEKNFkJrlZtU9MV57WPeglL9lq2QKUXM0ubDIG1qCbGHfRkBulGkruurHbNiy-Dpsx0xNczNsMZ5AnI8dy6uY45FMwMG4mQHG6ecRinvfVHmS0chU54Wz9wpEE/s1600-h/1768House.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQwUyBxtFy5cH8w-q_RhEKNFkJrlZtU9MV57WPeglL9lq2QKUXM0ubDIG1qCbGHfRkBulGkruurHbNiy-Dpsx0xNczNsMZ5AnI8dy6uY45FMwMG4mQHG6ecRinvfVHmS0chU54Wz9wpEE/s400/1768House.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415296854132086210" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">According to grillwork over the door, this house had stood here since 1768.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqJeM1TSLCoLTm2tiFtICAVMUsyPDQGft16ddUfJhewvyf7bLf97K9zCZfhqpo46oPENaVJfSz7ZMTZv6C0UdihuEAEIzIs9Hz6YwOlwQ2X714Te3W4Ybb5WJ6nKUEmzehjqfkkgIzvdY/s1600-h/2CharredBodiesFoundHere.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqJeM1TSLCoLTm2tiFtICAVMUsyPDQGft16ddUfJhewvyf7bLf97K9zCZfhqpo46oPENaVJfSz7ZMTZv6C0UdihuEAEIzIs9Hz6YwOlwQ2X714Te3W4Ybb5WJ6nKUEmzehjqfkkgIzvdY/s400/2CharredBodiesFoundHere.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415296557653303138" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">The stone plaque to the left of this door says, "Two charred bodies were found here."</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRGWSe25CtldnDVx0_WWZSUpytiRq8ilmdIbQbKv4ZKZclb4MB5umqaGSJWLFwctQLLm0Q8Q-PIWGASsmz75wlzwIiCcGu8Ejvyp9fnDnpN7DutyYTaac8xTLg4hj26DSxmIGA2jaPvPI/s1600-h/BulletHoles.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRGWSe25CtldnDVx0_WWZSUpytiRq8ilmdIbQbKv4ZKZclb4MB5umqaGSJWLFwctQLLm0Q8Q-PIWGASsmz75wlzwIiCcGu8Ejvyp9fnDnpN7DutyYTaac8xTLg4hj26DSxmIGA2jaPvPI/s400/BulletHoles.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415297593287715138" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">A memorial plaque to the men of the village who died in World War I. It is on a wall in the church. You can still see bullet scars on it from the day of the massacre.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></div></div></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7kBp5lnDWLmj7H1BTt8sIqky-ESMS1y2Mx90ub71p3NiBGRcYx1ObUn01iawTZlpm0a0581negclOx1krMvanonmGdARSW7lJPcfQSlXguPU9iKQdPdGQkeDH5fy7tjSti6GWRR0ENaY/s1600-h/Generations.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 293px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7kBp5lnDWLmj7H1BTt8sIqky-ESMS1y2Mx90ub71p3NiBGRcYx1ObUn01iawTZlpm0a0581negclOx1krMvanonmGdARSW7lJPcfQSlXguPU9iKQdPdGQkeDH5fy7tjSti6GWRR0ENaY/s400/Generations.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415297903042132690" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Because the individual bodies were burned beyond recognitions all the corpses were deposited in a memorial in the town cemetery, essentially an ossuary. The age range of those murdered was from one week to 90 years old. Above is a typical memorial. Three generations of a family - parents, their daughter and her two young children - erased in minutes. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></div><div></div>Doug Colliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09123539287906635991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080862893595932366.post-60641212694602009562009-12-06T16:51:00.037+01:002009-12-12T15:04:45.623+01:00Life is Like A Chicken Ladder<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpRt6tfpIRpWLQNAxh9sgag53lmQzHchXCZzszxHN3b1g70bh1TFDNst6h2o5eizQGMBHTLzXm8QUhYpFWKAU-9i2OhaMveLyPKfzYEC3aKuYScVeMdjoy4XOz1BfP2hzI06WqnCqn7ZE/s1600-h/ChickenLadder.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpRt6tfpIRpWLQNAxh9sgag53lmQzHchXCZzszxHN3b1g70bh1TFDNst6h2o5eizQGMBHTLzXm8QUhYpFWKAU-9i2OhaMveLyPKfzYEC3aKuYScVeMdjoy4XOz1BfP2hzI06WqnCqn7ZE/s400/ChickenLadder.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412151832765373154" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">It took a while to puzzle out why living in France seemed so annoyingly familiar. One day it came to me. It’s the cultural resonance of the place. Its citizens are smugly self-satisfied about their way of life. None sees the necessity of speaking any language other than their own. And they have an offhanded, unabashed xenophobia. It’s like being in the United States with cheaper wine. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Lately, however, I’ve been worried that the culture that gave us the acidic </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Candide</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">The Misanthrope</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> and wristslittingly dreary </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Being and Nothingness</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> is getting all warm and fuzzy, that their vinagery disdain for things non-French is fading and they are starting to think like the American philosopher and Raccoon Lodge member, Ralph Kramden, who once observed, “We are all brothers under the pelt.” </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />This epiphany came at a dinner given by my friend, Hilde. A true cosmopolite, she was born in Germany, lived in Paris as a young woman and spent most of her adult life in Manhattan before resettling in a tidy little village in the middle of France. Louise and I were visiting her for the weekend and earlier in the day we had been helping her prepare for an evening gettogether. The table was set and the food ready. She looked at her watch. It was eight o’clock precisely and her doorbell was silent. Everyone would be fashionably late. She muttered something in German. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />“What?” I asked.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />“Something my mother used to say: ‘Here I am with my neck washed and the aunt’s not coming.’”</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />“Don’t know that one,” I said.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />“But there’s an equivalent in English.” </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />“Can’t think of any,” I replied. “Maybe: ‘The hurrieder I go, the behinder I get.’ No. Forget it. That means the opposite.” </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />“Who said that? Your mother?”</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />“Satchel Paige, I think. Or Lewis Carroll.”</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />“Surely you have something similar,” she pressed. “Everyone does.” </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />Not really, I said.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />She was unconvinced. When the opportunity presented itself, she threw the topic out to her dinner guests, Europeans all. To my astonishment there was a consensus among everyone, even the French – especially the French – that there is a canon of everyday wisdom, a sort of international Poor Richard’s Almanac body of aphorisms and vocabulary we all share. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC6600;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">WE ARE THE WORLD . . .</span></span></span></b></div><div> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />A Dutch woman suggested one reason was the Americanization of globalspeak: </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Le weekend. Le sandwich. Happy Hour. Wi-fi</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">. And so on. “All I hear the young people say is ZOO-pah this and ZOO-pah that,” she said.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />“ZOO-pah?” I was lost.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />“ZOO-pah.” She looked at me as though I were, as Robert Downey, Jr. so delicately put it in </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Tropic Thunder</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">, On Full Retard. She spelled: “S-U-P-E-R.”</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />She went on. “And the other day I asked my son what he was going to do after school and he said I’m just going to be </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">chillen</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">. And he went into his room and spent hours on his computer with his friends. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Chillen</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">. What is that?”</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />“Chill-ING," I corrected. "It means to do nothing.” </span></span></div><div> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />“But he wasn’t not doing anything. He was on his computer.”</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />“Basically not working. To kick back.”</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />“Kick back?” her browed furrowed. </span></span></div><div> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />“Well you say window shopping,” interrupted a lively French woman at the other end of the table. “We say the same: ‘</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Léche-vitrines</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">.’” </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />She was correct, technically. But the French phrase is more graphic, unhygienic and, frankly, a little disgusting. It literally means to “lick the shop window,” a fairly accurate description of the avidity with which French people press their faces against the display windows of boutiques.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />“And there’s </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Chacun a son goût</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">.” In case I didn’t get it, she turned to me and said in slow English: “To itch heez zone.”</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />“Yeah, yeah. Even I know that one,” I assured. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC6600;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">CHICKEN BUMPS AND SOAP EATING MONKEYS </span></span></span></b></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />“It’s the same in German,” Hilde said and let fly a machine gun burst of German.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />“Which means . . . ?” I said.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />“’It's a matter of taste,' said the monkey as he bit into a bar of soap.”</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />WTF? That was a stretch, I thought, but I had to give her points for originality. I maintained it was naive to insist that we all drank from the same aphoristic well. Yes, I know there are </span></span><a href="http://www.systranet.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">web sites</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> where you can get expressions like “Don’t drink and drive.” translated into Polish or Arabic, but I bet some versions will come out like the soap eating monkey. </span></span></div><div> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />A few years ago the </span></span><a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/3830521.stm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">BBC</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> polled 1,000 linguists about the most untranslatable words and phrases from other languages. The winner was "ilunga" which comes from Tshiluba, a tongue spoken in the Republic of Congo. The word describes "a person who is ready to forgive an abuse for the first time, tolerate it a second time, but never a third."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />Unfortunately I did not have this info at the tips of my </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">doigts</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">, so the juggernaut of misguided good will and belief in common experience rolled on. The French woman, talking about something thrilling, declared, “I had </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">chair de poule</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">,” and rubbed her forearm to make her point. “Or as you would put it,” she turned to me, “the skin of a hen.” </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />It took me a moment. “You mean ‘goose bumps.’”</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />“</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Gänsehaut</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">,” threw in Hilde. “Goose skin.”</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />“Why do you call it goose bumps,” a younger Frenchwoman next to me asked.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />“Because that’s what a goose’s skin looks like after its feathers were plucked.”</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />“And that’s because you eat a lot of geese in the United States?”</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />“Actually I think we eat more chicken.” </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />“So why don’t you call it chicken bumps like us?” she said.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />“I don’t know. I don’t really know,” I sighed. “I guess language is complicated. Like life.”</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />Hilde nodded sagely. “As my mother used to say . . ,” (Oh god, now what, I wondered,) ‘Life is like a chicken ladder, always full of shit.”</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />To my delight, no one, absolutely no one, could match that, or for that matter understand what the hell she was talking about. But by that time the wine had kicked in and no one cared.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br />This alcohol enhanced camaraderie only intensified as the night went on and the evening finished with vows of newfound friendships and empty promises to see one another soon. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Just as I was despairing that the arrogant, cynical, parochial, Frenchman was no more, I heard the woman next to me mention to her husband she wanted to say good-bye to the hostess before leaving. “I don’t want to </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">filer comme un Anglais</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> [rush off like an Englishman].”<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Fascinating French Fact:</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> The American colloquial vocabulary is about 10,000 words larger than the colloquial French vocabulary.</span></span></div>Doug Colliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09123539287906635991noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080862893595932366.post-53694553413371215402009-10-05T01:00:00.038+02:002009-11-11T00:16:23.694+01:00The Transaction<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA8OxFmS_ai6fKCbBBvXQRtHldDz7zby8DGDfsF3ccaSw9T5HyPCTj7v6kwzpNn2ulGy9ffsuNAPx2oJIWZX0B5mO-KyUBF1b3Ruhy9FFDV3gOUfwywfIZyA6DvrUb8WcH36UZiFf4Pgc/s1600-h/CraigslistSwap.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 343px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA8OxFmS_ai6fKCbBBvXQRtHldDz7zby8DGDfsF3ccaSw9T5HyPCTj7v6kwzpNn2ulGy9ffsuNAPx2oJIWZX0B5mO-KyUBF1b3Ruhy9FFDV3gOUfwywfIZyA6DvrUb8WcH36UZiFf4Pgc/s400/CraigslistSwap.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388889293672879826" border="0" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Mme/Mr. A: </span></span><span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Do you have it?"</span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Mme/Mr. B: </span></span><span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Yes."</span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Mme/Mr. A: </span></span><span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Let's see. </span></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">(Views object of desire.)</span></span><span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> OK."</span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Hands Mme/Mr. B cash. </span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Transaction complete, the two people glance over their respective shoulders and slink off in opposite directions.</span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">[End scene]</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">All over Paris on any given day, two or more complete strangers are interacting this way, usually in a public place - on a bridge, outside a Metro stop, at an anonymous bench in a vest-pocket park, on a street corner in a double digit arrondissment, perhaps even in an apartment if they are feeling particularly adventurous - where they quickly introduce themselves, make perfunctory small talk then go through a quick, vaguely furtive exchange of money for goods. Minutes later they scurry off, aflutter with the dark thrill of having met a stranger's needs and their own. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">They are the aficionados of </span></span><span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">La Liste de Craig, </span></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">more commonly known as <a href="http://paris.en.craigslist.org/">Craigslist</a>. Every western country, every city of note seems to have one and Paris is no exception.<br /><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I was thrilled when I found it. There were offers of platonic relationships, one-on-one translation classes, used bicycles, used motorcycles, massage therapy, and, for all I know, a French Craigslist Serial Killer. I wasn't really interested in any of those goods and services, but it was nice to know they were out there.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Then after a few weeks I started seeing stuff I could use. Hot diggety<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC6600;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">MISTER INVISIBLE</span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The first transaction was typical. It seemed like every few months someone moving back to their country of origin was doing an apartment dump, offering everything from washing machines to flatware. In this instance a young American minister and his wife heading home and offloading much of their French bought possessions. Following his vague directions to a Metro B line stop south of the Luxembourg Gardens I arrived to find absolutely no one. A later phone call to him revealed he he had parked his truck full of stuff two blocks away around the corner. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Everyone else found it," he said. The implication was I should have spotted it. Lacking X-ray vision and ESP unlike his other customers, I apologized. We re-met. The payoff was a good printer/scanner/copier at a great price which I hauled, sweating and gasping, about a mile through the streets of Paris back to our place.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC6600;"><b>TWO GUITARS</b></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">My second transaction was what for what was described as a "party guitar." Basically it was a beat-up classical guitar. The seller was a bubbleheaded American student heading home. Via email he made, and broke, at least a dozen appointments. All of a sudden I was less interested in the guitar and more intrigued in seeing if I could actually make this deal happen.<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The day before he left he decided he could actually do the thing. He gave me the outdoor code and the hall code to his </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">girlfriend's -- not his --</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> place. A climb to the sixth floor got me to an apartment that was so small we had to take turns turning around. A sulking young woman who was glaring at me was banging and slamming her one cup and spoon as she cleaned them at a teeny-tiny sink, next to a teeny-tiny two-burner stovetop in the microspeck of a kitchenette which seemed to be about two feet away from where he and I were standing in the living/bed/everything room. It was two in the afternoon but it appeared as though he just got up. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"I don't have a case for this or anything," he apologized sleepily as he pulled out the battered instrument. I had anticipated this and pulled a garbage bag out of my pocket to carry it home. "Kewl!" he gushed. He was so impressed it frightened me a little.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The guitar was only 40 euros so I was not expecting a recital hall quality instrument. A good thing. It was awful. Three of its six stings were steel, an atrocity on a guitar not built to handle the heavy stress of tightly wound steel. There was a thumb-size dent in one side, and the fingerboard was pulling away from the body. I strummed it and realized I never heard such and odd sound come from any stringed instrument. It was strangled <i>plank. </i>I sold it two months later on Craigslist for the price of the new nylon strings I had bought for it. I could not in conscience pass this dreadful thing on to another unsuspecting soul for profit. My buyer and I met, of course, near a Metro stop.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But hope springs eternal. Two months after I sold that I saw another Craigslist ad for another classical guitar. This time the meeting was in front of a bar at an anonymous corner in the 17th. My contact was nowhere in sight when I arrived in the seedy neighborhood. I walked into the dark, gritty drinking establishment. The huge African bartender glared at me and gave me a hostile, "Bonjour." </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I cheeped, "I'm looking for a friend." I looked around at the room at the few drunks sitting in the dark. "</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Alors</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">, he's not here." And rushed out like my clothes were on fire.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It was bitter cold.I remember lots of young malnourished looking young people with lotsa tattoos on their necks skulking by.<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> I paced up and down the sidewalk to keep warm and everyone, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">everyone</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">, who walked by me as I stood on the corner gave me a wary look as though they thought I was a cop or something. Finally a wan, pale young man with a ratty little soul patch on his chin slipped up next to me.</span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Doug?"</span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Yes. Steven?"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Here it is." For some reason he was accompanied by a wan young boy even paler than he who watched the whole transaction in total silence. Steven pulled out an elegant little guitar - they call them parlor guitars in the States - out of its padded nylon case. It had five nylon strings and one steel string on it -- what is it with these freaking steel strings? I wondered - but it had a lovely tone. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Very nice," I said. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Then he looked up and down the street before he leaned forward and whispered, "I also have a music stand if you're interested." </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I said no and that was that. "So, do you play classical guitar," I asked as he was counting the euros I gave him.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">He looked up with a baffled expression as though it were an odd question. "No. But if you're interested," he lowered his voice. "I give lessons in music theory." With that, he and his young silent companion slipped down a side street like two characters from Oliver Twist. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Later I put on a fresh set of nylon strings and played that sweet instrument for a year before I sold it to an American architectural student who was in Paris for the summer. (This was only after I had exchanged frantic emails with a mom in the 6th Arr. who said she was eager to buy it for her daughter, and then abruptly stopped communicating. A typical Craigslist experience.) He said he's probably sell it before it went home. I like to think somewhere in Paris it has a good home, and six nylon strings.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Fascinating French Guitar Fact:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> For jazz manouche fans, Django Reinhardt's guitar is on display as part of the permanent collection of the</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><a href="http://www.citedelamusique.fr/anglais/musee/coll_permanentes.aspx">Musée de la Musique.</a></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></div>Doug Colliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09123539287906635991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080862893595932366.post-35379491311929354592009-08-29T18:19:00.012+02:002009-08-30T22:27:43.002+02:00ART APPRECIATION 102<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Just got back from a gallery here in the States where they had a Georgia O'Keefe retrospective. One thing I could not help but notice was the difference in the style of appreciating that goes on here vs. France. In the U.S. art spectators are a wary lot, standing a good three to five feet away and they zoom along, as though cruising the cereal box aisle in the supermarket looking for the right brand of breakfast food. For whatever reason the French by contrast like to linger and when possible manhandle the art. Some examples of what I mean:</span></span></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEickCTPmU1T9zGAu2GGcGKHz16bayGqx3qxvyBzhZLGXYhuGo6Kqw1wW6blUOdIZDPAg71k64r5t93oTOC-cxsz_K42Xn_kl3IPCh9g5mqgpP7QzaAbNVAjwFtKQShVkgdGb5ikmAvOAVE/s1600-h/PhotoDisplay1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEickCTPmU1T9zGAu2GGcGKHz16bayGqx3qxvyBzhZLGXYhuGo6Kqw1wW6blUOdIZDPAg71k64r5t93oTOC-cxsz_K42Xn_kl3IPCh9g5mqgpP7QzaAbNVAjwFtKQShVkgdGb5ikmAvOAVE/s400/PhotoDisplay1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375424457074739938" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj-KcUgr6tPaQXFxNmxmIJ5soAoir7y9InIj77nyzz3c_pRv1nCoHwhOQckYOCeF-UphENZfnV6fNAEBOzd7ipLlAHgxiEq89tPRNka4WSswkPnCfCZ0DzKxYPT8ZZJputycssVmMfJD0/s1600-h/PhotoDisplay3.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj-KcUgr6tPaQXFxNmxmIJ5soAoir7y9InIj77nyzz3c_pRv1nCoHwhOQckYOCeF-UphENZfnV6fNAEBOzd7ipLlAHgxiEq89tPRNka4WSswkPnCfCZ0DzKxYPT8ZZJputycssVmMfJD0/s400/PhotoDisplay3.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375424101649830882" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDhsq5LDDEZM0VaUa21fmOQCEoHjNfzY75TelEFmhMxpjVdRqjJc8B5rtv3NnPG10JnR93vq9OOVsBG3Y-thSr3Bn3OgWD_gwsbFi6PxhxfVQcsUeILqRtH_cvRRYkWqMc1EohGQfFGpc/s1600-h/PhotoDisplay5.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDhsq5LDDEZM0VaUa21fmOQCEoHjNfzY75TelEFmhMxpjVdRqjJc8B5rtv3NnPG10JnR93vq9OOVsBG3Y-thSr3Bn3OgWD_gwsbFi6PxhxfVQcsUeILqRtH_cvRRYkWqMc1EohGQfFGpc/s400/PhotoDisplay5.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375423757665203042" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzOMrp9AImJfLd5NbrHyyS6ehbY4Wsoxco-vWfnuRL0CCK-4jjONmHetG1SgyklOI8_-rql9gPD_gIQ6Z8lEQQZMdRfwVIGCvBGexg5tO_CELtVKT6ADV0mtNB8X1CaqVp9lDl9Ue7JtU/s1600-h/LouvreSpectator.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzOMrp9AImJfLd5NbrHyyS6ehbY4Wsoxco-vWfnuRL0CCK-4jjONmHetG1SgyklOI8_-rql9gPD_gIQ6Z8lEQQZMdRfwVIGCvBGexg5tO_CELtVKT6ADV0mtNB8X1CaqVp9lDl9Ue7JtU/s400/LouvreSpectator.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375423080228336370" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwtaGsOfZkk91xSnVSYvSLGNb1V4v2CmhRkQHHU0g4rMcH5MmbwJP_sd__-s8ROfBZXdslzRHO0A-UySWYel2eZ_bDeln2JIeHX9Zh6ZnN-ntlKIauho-8oR9mFBbH1zV4M-h6YW8HaPE/s1600-h/Lorangerie1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwtaGsOfZkk91xSnVSYvSLGNb1V4v2CmhRkQHHU0g4rMcH5MmbwJP_sd__-s8ROfBZXdslzRHO0A-UySWYel2eZ_bDeln2JIeHX9Zh6ZnN-ntlKIauho-8oR9mFBbH1zV4M-h6YW8HaPE/s400/Lorangerie1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375422630825962498" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJAIcW_SaN8aR4n9GYV2guLarosZTWWdCD20g5ECzJ2VZwW4g7PnUHR1wJf1JCQTUc9q0Bvm_qFWLZ6QZQya2aRaiCyFTUgUAh3VYM7epwgYfcpxcrXvZDYmG4oSC73igmO6_3mpty7nc/s1600-h/LookingatEachOther.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJAIcW_SaN8aR4n9GYV2guLarosZTWWdCD20g5ECzJ2VZwW4g7PnUHR1wJf1JCQTUc9q0Bvm_qFWLZ6QZQya2aRaiCyFTUgUAh3VYM7epwgYfcpxcrXvZDYmG4oSC73igmO6_3mpty7nc/s400/LookingatEachOther.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375422344587760962" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH12l6TuGFBacNNf_YzhcPwgjz5mtvcDZTTYg9tcgEvMq3BsWnsa3ci3MvNhtOTbx0G6IekH-MpkRm1lgcgWNg3Ur6yln8y_X27lQq8xmyzhySil59Ktbt65dFtrq6Y-XpHwK72-iPOQ8/s1600-h/GiantHead1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH12l6TuGFBacNNf_YzhcPwgjz5mtvcDZTTYg9tcgEvMq3BsWnsa3ci3MvNhtOTbx0G6IekH-MpkRm1lgcgWNg3Ur6yln8y_X27lQq8xmyzhySil59Ktbt65dFtrq6Y-XpHwK72-iPOQ8/s400/GiantHead1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375421730963342098" /></a>Doug Colliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09123539287906635991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080862893595932366.post-24792071837927529252009-08-26T02:17:00.019+02:002009-09-23T15:10:57.818+02:00Bye-bye<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfKWWSpo27TsPbqFTD7Cf8XRCcTMU15ACb5quJa_65eWpkwohNEjPh_8xz4IOBQtMNU1tWHfLcxdk8IiZpS0nqjssnrffKKvq1q54x5Jzw9hRCZebhgdUYrD7fC9fGpbzswAL-_54p06E/s1600-h/BottleinTrash.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfKWWSpo27TsPbqFTD7Cf8XRCcTMU15ACb5quJa_65eWpkwohNEjPh_8xz4IOBQtMNU1tWHfLcxdk8IiZpS0nqjssnrffKKvq1q54x5Jzw9hRCZebhgdUYrD7fC9fGpbzswAL-_54p06E/s400/BottleinTrash.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375028609489310178" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">April is not the cruellest month. June is. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">June is the month where our year countdown began. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">June is the month when Mlle. Butterfly left to visit her family in Tokyo and as she said good-bye asked if Louise and I were coming back in the fall for more classes. When I said no, I have to say I was secretly pleased that she looked a little bereft. At least I think that was the expression on her face. Or maybe it was relief.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">June is the month when one of the neighborhood clochards, the guy who lived in the doorway of the Shell mini-mart, the joker who made wisecracks when he saw me heading off for a run, left. I passed him crossing the Blvd. Raspail. He had his fully loaded backpack on and a sad, preoccupied look in his eyes as he walked east. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">June was when Madame Rosa our concierge left, maybe not to return. She had been in and out of the hospital during the spring. She came back looking very frail and stayed sequestered in her tiny apartment by the front door. Gradually she seemed to recover. One day I saw her standing uncertainly outside the front door. "The oxygen tubes are coming out next week!" she smiled. A few weeks later I saw her, as before, hauling the garbage bins to the sidewalk. Even then there was a diminished quality. Then one June afternoon I was coming back to our building and saw a small scrum of tenants out on the sidewalk. An ambulance was parked at the curb. Attendants had crowded into her apartment. Madame Rosa was going to have to go back to the hospital.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">June was when we left Paris. With no complaints. It was almost eery how smoothly everything had gone. When our year was up we realized there was no law that said we had to go, so we stayed another six months. When those six months were up, our landlord asked if we wanted to stay on another six months. We did, but it was time to leave.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Hemingway famously wrote, "If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast." I think I understood what he was getting at, but to be honest I'm not totally sure. For some reason I think of takeout meals and doggie bags when I read that. But I guess "Paris is a doggie bag" doesn't scan. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">In any case the quote had no relevance to me, I thought. I lived in Paris, yes -- as an old man. Just how old I realized one evening when I was at a birthday party of younger friends. The husband was turning 30. At one point in the evening I was talking to three of his young guests and was feeling acutely Methusalahish. I was thinking that the cumulative ages of the three of them only barely exceeded mine by a year or two. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Fortunately that feeling did not last. If you substitute "old man" for "young man" in Hemingway's line it still applies. Would it have been any different had I come as a young man? When I first came to Paris I felt unstylish, unsophisticated and poor. When I moved there decades later I </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">still</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> felt that way. Only then I didn't care. It was fun.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The cab was at the curb and we were loading it our six suitcases containing all our worldly goods into it to go to the airport and home. The gray-haired man who worked for Madame Rosa came running out. Madame Rosa was on the phone, calling from the hospital. She wished us <i>bon voyage</i> we wished her <i>bonne sante</i>. I hope she's there when we come back.</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Doug Colliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09123539287906635991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080862893595932366.post-77171606993174635262009-07-30T17:52:00.025+02:002009-08-28T01:44:05.276+02:00THE WALL-ART OF PARIS<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Something there is that doesn't love a blank wall in Paris. I don't know if it's the frustrated public artist in the Parisian, an abhorrence of a blank space, or just an addiction to eye candy of any and all kinds that is at the root of it. But on my meanderings around the city it seemed impossible to wander down a street without seeing something startling pop up on a wall. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', fantasy;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">There's the standard grungy grafitti:</span></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuQwI8__184gruhNZzqF58GyH7BpWp700m4UBv1FzrcpwBfNRjdHqnbgru_fD2wSP7rKMqDjpRhfG_EqOHW_uwyX2u9H2VljTWSCA4WLpH78LQW-SsdzWg7cC5VOWK-ohq_KEU23iCa0Q/s1600-h/WallArt10.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuQwI8__184gruhNZzqF58GyH7BpWp700m4UBv1FzrcpwBfNRjdHqnbgru_fD2wSP7rKMqDjpRhfG_EqOHW_uwyX2u9H2VljTWSCA4WLpH78LQW-SsdzWg7cC5VOWK-ohq_KEU23iCa0Q/s400/WallArt10.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364290742480893506" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. . . some of it in English. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Alors</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">.</span></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnnyUJ0us6AO_O2uZZmq21XVOhoFMCgX3Pw1mOBhJj2YD58gMp3aCYMVYnllcMudMqb6KVbyOn1La57dA0VNaDl8UoLtkd_4x7GfdeE6y5TG5SeqaBQZUZ7A-fWt-aI-0mrmEicv-1AYA/s1600-h/Grafitti.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnnyUJ0us6AO_O2uZZmq21XVOhoFMCgX3Pw1mOBhJj2YD58gMp3aCYMVYnllcMudMqb6KVbyOn1La57dA0VNaDl8UoLtkd_4x7GfdeE6y5TG5SeqaBQZUZ7A-fWt-aI-0mrmEicv-1AYA/s400/Grafitti.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364291060545821202" /></a><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Some of it quite striking:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', -webkit-fantasy;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRViNxhjou_vnsaNIYFqa5S0ZqZOqlLy2P7HddcfpS5WarybsDPnZ-78cO7tcmbq4My1phBv5FyCisdR6BW6OoSjvFcb8_5u8g2uUvxRxBSqigtmvFBXM7nlT1BxomGhsdpQV31_Bcae8/s1600-h/WallArt12.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRViNxhjou_vnsaNIYFqa5S0ZqZOqlLy2P7HddcfpS5WarybsDPnZ-78cO7tcmbq4My1phBv5FyCisdR6BW6OoSjvFcb8_5u8g2uUvxRxBSqigtmvFBXM7nlT1BxomGhsdpQV31_Bcae8/s400/WallArt12.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364292195120474402" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv8jx48uvk6ZRGILNcZzwK71RJRg5Pf1UzlioZim0kRWKcSGWF_iq9pikbf-XJnpyFhffaXtOjwiinPS9jno2V2dbZtrkzzz2GtiHE_VqD2laZVVRQNPG46KJuUjLhNzP6TZqVTjtmy7k/s1600-h/WallArt11.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv8jx48uvk6ZRGILNcZzwK71RJRg5Pf1UzlioZim0kRWKcSGWF_iq9pikbf-XJnpyFhffaXtOjwiinPS9jno2V2dbZtrkzzz2GtiHE_VqD2laZVVRQNPG46KJuUjLhNzP6TZqVTjtmy7k/s400/WallArt11.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364291691989362178" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Less imaginative but still intriguing is a kind of stencil art which appears mysteriously in nooks and crannies: </span></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtxeHLV8727TETLNKeVhQEXLP3QErB8NgItQIO5AhL0tEWuZL102KwfCubYUBbTRujgWkwhvWCLI2ZvYjMwRRF_pBojdFb2WwxkOm3di3Ty0CeDq3TTTMlRRatpwuKYGooUGMN_leRq3I/s1600-h/WallArt14.JPG" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtxeHLV8727TETLNKeVhQEXLP3QErB8NgItQIO5AhL0tEWuZL102KwfCubYUBbTRujgWkwhvWCLI2ZvYjMwRRF_pBojdFb2WwxkOm3di3Ty0CeDq3TTTMlRRatpwuKYGooUGMN_leRq3I/s400/WallArt14.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364292565786840546" /></a></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', fantasy;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz_dVgHpc-TCfd5f_NU5wg7OD3Qggo__b5qdYjqIba8qlbKvJFfcRbVSkTkBClSx6w5jQ7Rm9GOb7gW2Ian2opZqJdIbLLjiLhZoQfcQhuKfflTZ6urWyoUQrbwITwZ-nAYzRUm902Dlo/s1600-h/IMG_1710.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz_dVgHpc-TCfd5f_NU5wg7OD3Qggo__b5qdYjqIba8qlbKvJFfcRbVSkTkBClSx6w5jQ7Rm9GOb7gW2Ian2opZqJdIbLLjiLhZoQfcQhuKfflTZ6urWyoUQrbwITwZ-nAYzRUm902Dlo/s400/IMG_1710.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374792577360867602" /></a><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', -webkit-fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Or high on walls:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBCT6-aXSQcyYfLFxS42bfZ_uXRChyEHezlPgZz-Zx4zHpAq4zm4e8FDxxgp9-Ijtq3rY4pR1oQ5MCw6rn3i-xh3DuhQJrWLcVK1dwGCI5dxMpEd5DqiEoxcSO8J5jLjfhpGzYIFKuY2U/s1600-h/WallArt8.JPG" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBCT6-aXSQcyYfLFxS42bfZ_uXRChyEHezlPgZz-Zx4zHpAq4zm4e8FDxxgp9-Ijtq3rY4pR1oQ5MCw6rn3i-xh3DuhQJrWLcVK1dwGCI5dxMpEd5DqiEoxcSO8J5jLjfhpGzYIFKuY2U/s400/WallArt8.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364290164814861074" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPhtD11S6x3ZStM3pUehqJUZ43HG2viIMu4S_QFeMFSzVJ9H81Kocpb934WuAbGYBO5Uch-5KjLrWURlSjRLNVks4j54VgZh9lGbnRfMdgnZy6HXQbyGbs41yIFkCR_KKKQ-Tp_f3w0GQ/s1600-h/Wallart.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPhtD11S6x3ZStM3pUehqJUZ43HG2viIMu4S_QFeMFSzVJ9H81Kocpb934WuAbGYBO5Uch-5KjLrWURlSjRLNVks4j54VgZh9lGbnRfMdgnZy6HXQbyGbs41yIFkCR_KKKQ-Tp_f3w0GQ/s400/Wallart.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364289678705889602" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Or laid out like a kind of public gallery:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', -webkit-fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho2soDInBMTOZBZGRzInsUxk99vvjwDudIhkR0AHg0a8n-DXVKsLPYFXbvGyEBSM_zjws6Ax2dwD43qXW8BSUp10io5TauPq42NYJlnXLSxHVOm6sceBHmvkc0q2Scq-muJ-AFjlC_FQU/s1600-h/WallArt7.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho2soDInBMTOZBZGRzInsUxk99vvjwDudIhkR0AHg0a8n-DXVKsLPYFXbvGyEBSM_zjws6Ax2dwD43qXW8BSUp10io5TauPq42NYJlnXLSxHVOm6sceBHmvkc0q2Scq-muJ-AFjlC_FQU/s400/WallArt7.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364309519973538338" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I never saw anyone actually putting up this, until one day I turned a corner and there was a kind of SWAT team of student artists working frantically to put up a street's worth of this stuff:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', -webkit-fantasy;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTiy_HyBEQYClDG-7YLQg6relVDC08mmg-nmabd6AEUFeBOWBIeuaWWtihSqNR_qYjKJTpJJ0zrbsxHycAsNRU5xZxIi5P9cgPWNEsbllAM_POxCkfUy2iGNcK0lA0mewFnWzx1TIfe0c/s1600-h/WallArt1.JPG" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTiy_HyBEQYClDG-7YLQg6relVDC08mmg-nmabd6AEUFeBOWBIeuaWWtihSqNR_qYjKJTpJJ0zrbsxHycAsNRU5xZxIi5P9cgPWNEsbllAM_POxCkfUy2iGNcK0lA0mewFnWzx1TIfe0c/s400/WallArt1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364310418531050514" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ6OQ3aUhu3pO_gQqJr_70OiIp5q6aOT8I-UdtP-LeEixKp65aASXVpkQz2dYSNSYRPADsM8gtRvSWhNrv9DiPx4px32euJHHI1HBOVAJWoITybf-xaRKesGzRPAO3840kHF2-r1aIk6M/s1600-h/WallArt4.JPG" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ6OQ3aUhu3pO_gQqJr_70OiIp5q6aOT8I-UdtP-LeEixKp65aASXVpkQz2dYSNSYRPADsM8gtRvSWhNrv9DiPx4px32euJHHI1HBOVAJWoITybf-xaRKesGzRPAO3840kHF2-r1aIk6M/s400/WallArt4.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364310046655870034" /></a></span></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2sZwMInQZ8vP9U7h8rppfgV3bnacJdlwchmoitnufOZsJmUwyA19g3S1Y5a-sfmqPAhJT_SxJo4mkroRCi14cIlpWniM-AnvaxcAyZVoXj-kRIqhGB5Yb4Upi1lQzfNTsj1vRryI4DtY/s1600-h/WallArt5.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2sZwMInQZ8vP9U7h8rppfgV3bnacJdlwchmoitnufOZsJmUwyA19g3S1Y5a-sfmqPAhJT_SxJo4mkroRCi14cIlpWniM-AnvaxcAyZVoXj-kRIqhGB5Yb4Upi1lQzfNTsj1vRryI4DtY/s400/WallArt5.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364309120771072914" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">And then there is the soothing, pleasant shock of:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', -webkit-fantasy;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXQoQLjNTzkDBtaH_lH4tXIQVbrVvckFpAxR78-jkWdrrPDX8TCZRGlgZAxQa9wQnuUyg2JAVlMg7kbgsJsCJ0xHgBxmHzd9vnj4mkM9oD-w4qge16lJFQrajD2Wb5OWduWD-tOLA8kv8/s1600-h/SplitFace.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXQoQLjNTzkDBtaH_lH4tXIQVbrVvckFpAxR78-jkWdrrPDX8TCZRGlgZAxQa9wQnuUyg2JAVlMg7kbgsJsCJ0xHgBxmHzd9vnj4mkM9oD-w4qge16lJFQrajD2Wb5OWduWD-tOLA8kv8/s400/SplitFace.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364289106024639186" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">Or:</span></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJcJriqkAPkxwpJNHLMbwG4bmREtrtn6whJOjctJ_xQRpuV1Nr8BJZFj20bCFdWgMULSLfkWX2RLwlJGU18-ZaqaSBObELHKzgw6nsJatuJnHc5fJzcGu1Vo-87MT5NFaTB2m3Asbt71s/s1600-h/ManonWall.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJcJriqkAPkxwpJNHLMbwG4bmREtrtn6whJOjctJ_xQRpuV1Nr8BJZFj20bCFdWgMULSLfkWX2RLwlJGU18-ZaqaSBObELHKzgw6nsJatuJnHc5fJzcGu1Vo-87MT5NFaTB2m3Asbt71s/s400/ManonWall.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374764063576828098" /></a><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Or this Dali sundial high on a wall:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyTgdEP1OPXCs_73OpqWx-FG-CgUmelaL3FZqbUNmRTrY6A8dh25FmHgo8J9O58exNwKsq4PhCMcexgNd1zKkiQ2IXxT3rK5dL326Cjl8bQUs4BH_Ijd6V9bZrlLPoOswvt_yfgBXSxGE/s1600-h/DaliSundial.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyTgdEP1OPXCs_73OpqWx-FG-CgUmelaL3FZqbUNmRTrY6A8dh25FmHgo8J9O58exNwKsq4PhCMcexgNd1zKkiQ2IXxT3rK5dL326Cjl8bQUs4BH_Ijd6V9bZrlLPoOswvt_yfgBXSxGE/s400/DaliSundial.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364292914140438914" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Or ephemera like this, which only comes out at night: </span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioa9NHrGghJ98gJ_U_qYjOpBI3HK0iewkISzRfWDU90ZfhdGwMqqsc4X3jDiFnc2cky1RB8sKgrt0iL7vL9SiwhkB5vfZ_Vo090NdwQIU-zX8CPqNYwsptp6hLYyVdgvuh4SnyQxJ5lpM/s1600-h/WallProjection1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioa9NHrGghJ98gJ_U_qYjOpBI3HK0iewkISzRfWDU90ZfhdGwMqqsc4X3jDiFnc2cky1RB8sKgrt0iL7vL9SiwhkB5vfZ_Vo090NdwQIU-zX8CPqNYwsptp6hLYyVdgvuh4SnyQxJ5lpM/s400/WallProjection1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364293210642485250" /></a><br /><br /></div></span></div>Doug Colliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09123539287906635991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080862893595932366.post-68016521204896381312009-06-28T22:34:00.065+02:002009-07-27T20:32:21.853+02:00Ten Things I Won't Miss About Paris and Ten Things I Will<div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEe2IHyOyaveZjnlJJqZZ-hOHaVFSyBeOHWolGVLVxr1cQbSuLaA0uL9e_-ciwkUd5u0n_0ynDIfBvyBaBrkvtukyzgSmqoBTauCA3GMiGAwbXTayIsatIEwLrPbe_XXMc1oWNLLrjYCY/s1600-h/NewE+Tower+at+Nite.JPG" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEe2IHyOyaveZjnlJJqZZ-hOHaVFSyBeOHWolGVLVxr1cQbSuLaA0uL9e_-ciwkUd5u0n_0ynDIfBvyBaBrkvtukyzgSmqoBTauCA3GMiGAwbXTayIsatIEwLrPbe_XXMc1oWNLLrjYCY/s400/NewE+Tower+at+Nite.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354988591548419106" border="0" /></a><div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia,fantasy;"><span><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">WON'T MISS . . .</span></span></span></span><div><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">1. </span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">DOGSHIT.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> I know dogs have to take a crap, but I also know Parisians dog owners are supposed to pick it up. I have seen three people do it. The rest of the city's walkers are, tragically, struck blind the instant their pet's </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">merde</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> plops onto the pavement. Miraculously they get their vision back after they have walked out of smelling distance. If we can find a cure for Dog Walker's Blindness we will have solved the problem.<br /></span></span></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">2. </span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">SCAFFOLDING.</span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> There are 2,300,000 vertical meters of construction scaffolding blocking the already narrow sidewalks of the city. I don't know if this number is accurate. In fact I know it isn't because I just pulled it out of my ear, but that's what it seems like. Few experiences are more unnerving than walking under creaky, swaying scaffolding that looks like it was made of recycled Red Bull cans and assembled by drunken children.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman',-webkit-fantasy;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">3. </span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">THE SCOLDS</span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. It sounds sexist but some days it seems like there are a whole army of grim faced, post-menopausal harridans who have taken upon themselves the civic responsibility of telling the rest of the world how to behave. I was once yelled at in the Luxembourg Gardens for sitting too close to one of their public installations of art. (For the record I was about 5 meters away.) “Monsieur,” snapped a woman bypasser with, I noticed, a hint of a moustache, “not so close to the art!” My wife was once reprimanded by a woman in the market for touching fruit. Again, for the record everyone else was manhandling the bananas with the vendor's approval. The only thing that cancels out the Scolds is watching them take each other on. (See LINE CUTTERS below)</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman',-webkit-fantasy;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">4. </span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">THE SHANTY TOWN AROUND ST. SULPICE</span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. Yes it is sad but necessary to enshroud the church of St. Sulpice with that ugly scaffolding to refurbish it. But it is sadder and totally unnecessary to double uglify the lovely plaza with those crap shacks display booths they set up for their inane fairs showcasing: bad art, bad photography, overpriced antiques, mathematical games, travel booths promoting doomed leisure destinations like Kazakhstan. The one exception: the charming Christmas fair that’s set up there. I know I'm not alone on this. I overheard a woman talking to an older French couple and excitedly pointing out the current </span></span></span><span><i style="font-family:times new roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">foire</span></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> for I don't know what -- doorknobs or something -- as they strolled by Saint Sulpice. The older woman moaned, “But it blocks everything. <span style="font-style: italic;">Everything</span>.”</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />5. </span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">THE BUREAUCRACY.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> Too bad Kafka is dead, he'd have a field day here. Everyone has a story about the French bureaucracy. Mine is that last summer I received an email from someone in the Visa section saying they could not do the final processing of my application because my ears were cut off. I touched the sides of my head to make sure. Nope still there. I re-read. OK my ears were cut off in the </span></span><span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">photos</span></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> I had given them. But the pictures I sent were the government specified size – I measured -- and my ears were intact and visible in them.</span></span><div style="font-family:times new roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So I re-re-read the email. Apparently because of a spazzy inability to use scissors someone in the Visa office had inadvertently cut off my ears in my photos and now they couldn’t use them. That meant I had to make good on their incompetence and bring in more pictures. It’s a tribute to the French sense of humor that when I showed my copy of the email to the receptionist at the visa office she smirked then showed it to her fellow clerk who laughed and shook her head. Once I got to the right desk I discovered, sadly, that the pompous doofus who sent me the scolding email was on vacation and would not be back for weeks. Fortunately, I got a very nice woman who took care of it.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman',-webkit-fantasy;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">6. </span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">BACKWARDS DRIVERS</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. Yes the streets of Paris are confusing. Yes, it is a very old city with all the ambling, rambling streets and alleys that come with its history. But maps have been around at least since Magellan. And there are GPS's. Even so, at any given moment probably 30 percent of all the drivers on Paris streets are going backwards because they: A) went down the wrong street B) went down a street where garbage is being picked up and traffic is going nowhere C) passed a parking space half a block back and want it D) found themselves on a street whose appearance for some vague reason displeased them. So they put it in reverse and occasionally even look over a shoulder as they shoot backwards. Because of this I long ago learned to look both ways when crossing even one-way streets. I used to marvel at how deftly Parisians drive in reverse. Now know why. They spend half their time in that gear.</span></span></div></div></div></span><br />7. <span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">MOTO RIDERS WHO USE THE SIDEWALK AS THEIR PRIVATE ROAD</span>. Hey, I own a motorcycle too, but I drive like a grown-up, out on the road, with the traffic, not on the sidewalk like a child on a tricycle. Try it sometime. What's that? You have to go around the block to go the right way on a street? </span></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Tant pis, mon ami.</span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><br />8. <span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">LINE CUTTING</span>. Actually I'm a little ambivalent about this. Certainly it can be annoying to lose your space in line to some twit. But as one cute young Parisianne told my brother-in-law as she cut in front of him, "This is Paris. You have to assert yourself or you will lose out." Plus it can sometimes be a source of entertainment. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">One memorable day I had an Olympic caliber Scold, a real vinegar puss, standing in front of me in the ten item or less line at Monoprix when another Scold attempted to slip in front of her. I cannot translate the French dialogue precisely but it was something like, “Madame, [as in “Hey, Bitch”] I was here first.” And the reply was a supercilious, “But I have fewer items than you and I am in a hurry." And they were off and running. It was great, like watching two scorpions in a bottle.<br /><br />9. <span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">THE COFFEE</span>. When I first started coming to Paris decades ago, part of its charm and its specialness was the smell of coffee wafting out of the cafes in the morning. But in the years since, coffee has gotten better in the U.S. and the rest of the world for that matter. So I was horrified when came back to discover the coffee, quite frankly, stinks. When I had my first cup this past year I was thinking, “This tastes like a fart. When did they add tripe to their beans?”<br /><br />10. <span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">THE STREET BEGGARS</span>. Not all of them. I give selectively. The ones I find the most offensive are those who slink up to you, whispering and hissing their plea for </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">monnaie </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">centimeters from your face. And they have no beggar logic. I remember a quite plump guy sitting on a sidewalk with his pet rabbit in a box and a “J'ai faim” sign. I wanted to go up to him and say, “Here's an idea: Eat the rabbit.”<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">. . . BUT I WILL MISS</span><br /><br />1. <span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">THE SKY.</span> Even in the coal dark depths of winter or on a gloomy overcast Fall afternoon there comes an instant when the clouds part and the light shifts in a special way. Everything pops in bright relief against a crystalline sky. Buildings change hues. You can feel the mood of everyone lift. It’s a moment.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman',fantasy;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR2_Whuy3hUm3q2xN1oVZGTCRrc9ZJS7ee44k18VEfA8xL9iVaJYsuzUge2EJyXSOgluyZ5EXnrlEYSxkc5A9oogvPBv5PmCdWUmcoBU6y9JeI4vFOPxLLGGUpxBJaFD7PxoMVDHKSWnw/s1600-h/DarkTower.JPG" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR2_Whuy3hUm3q2xN1oVZGTCRrc9ZJS7ee44k18VEfA8xL9iVaJYsuzUge2EJyXSOgluyZ5EXnrlEYSxkc5A9oogvPBv5PmCdWUmcoBU6y9JeI4vFOPxLLGGUpxBJaFD7PxoMVDHKSWnw/s400/DarkTower.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355346442486691106" border="0" /></a></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman',fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">2. <span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">THE PEOPLE</span>. They are better looking here, at least the female half of the population I notice. They are also more courteous, albeit in a pro forma way, and they have style. OK, maybe they are a tad obsessive about their appearance, but I know I will miss it when I'm in a mall in the U.S. surrounded by fellow citizens who, according to Bill Bryson, look like "elephants dressed in children's clothing" in T-shirts, baggy shorts and flip flops. And I know Parisians are supposedly famous, or infamous, for their rudeness. I've run into my share, but no more than in Manhattan where I lived or any other big city I’ve visited. (For the record: The weirdest/rudest people I ever encountered were in Minneapolis.)</span></span><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman',fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman',fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">2. <span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">THE BREAD</span>. “You will find decent bread when you get home,” an American living in Paris said in consolation when I said we were leaving. No we’re not. No. Not going to happen. Ever. Period.</span></span><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman',fantasy;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9aTYPwgFuYmnF_1b0-WxqXF4FfALH2w3q5Y9XbwvnPUUGMkJi2H2S6KF2Vhli7LZ48jQe37j9gukInhd_nG2NIO6ds-Isi69hq0cNpNZcAsvt2ZPWQKy7ddZmgrJQPjOjhHsvz7xnpqE/s1600-h/Sandwich.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9aTYPwgFuYmnF_1b0-WxqXF4FfALH2w3q5Y9XbwvnPUUGMkJi2H2S6KF2Vhli7LZ48jQe37j9gukInhd_nG2NIO6ds-Isi69hq0cNpNZcAsvt2ZPWQKy7ddZmgrJQPjOjhHsvz7xnpqE/s400/Sandwich.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355347593962543986" border="0" /></a></span></div><div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman',fantasy;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">3. <span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">THE WINE</span>. Yes there is plonk here, which I discovered you can find if you pay less than 90 centimes a bottle. But there is lots and lots and lots of good, and of course, great wine here. It is easier to find good wine than bad, often for less than what it costs for a bottle of milk or water.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMjJqqWZxJ-MBUr8Be5LlVfilf8EFN8wfFTJYaySgjwV4_MBoqCg0o2My3-KApHH5nPMv0Zg_8-VQ8iTXUPpUwjwj9j8FXFEuND_TqxghVrljyVz9mG0SUBXz9N_HCvvxXLdtyWUugqEc/s1600-h/BIGBOTTLE2.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 205px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMjJqqWZxJ-MBUr8Be5LlVfilf8EFN8wfFTJYaySgjwV4_MBoqCg0o2My3-KApHH5nPMv0Zg_8-VQ8iTXUPpUwjwj9j8FXFEuND_TqxghVrljyVz9mG0SUBXz9N_HCvvxXLdtyWUugqEc/s400/BIGBOTTLE2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355352744509990226" border="0" /></a>4. <span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">SUNDAYS.</span> I'm old enough to remember when Sundays in the United States were authentic days of rest. Stores were closed. Most restaurants were as well. There was little to do but hang out, visit relatives or friends, go for a drive, do nothing. Those days are long gone. But not in France. There is still a mellow, relaxed old-fashioned Sunday feel I looked forward to.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeD4U9Nmszd7clvfmQV1iHEqfmxXzksHiIvGm857oZVanusy623o4cZMqOzp9SNlY618H5Hswiz-dIz6awz5kMikmscq7pvLDRAOybZAWDuXw6m0EpOHBgNQK4btFGNNfI-xnuECWCai0/s1600-h/SundayStreet.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeD4U9Nmszd7clvfmQV1iHEqfmxXzksHiIvGm857oZVanusy623o4cZMqOzp9SNlY618H5Hswiz-dIz6awz5kMikmscq7pvLDRAOybZAWDuXw6m0EpOHBgNQK4btFGNNfI-xnuECWCai0/s400/SundayStreet.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355354847962788290" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Sunday afternoon in Paris.</div><br />5. <span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">THE MURMUR IN A RESTAURANT</span>. Soon we’ll be back in a country where practically every restaurant has an agenda of enforced liveliness: LOUD MUSIC, crammed tables, hard surfaces bouncing shrill conversation all over the room, all engineered to make your dining experience more festive. Of course the reality is diners end up shreiking across their entrees to each other in futile attempt to make themselves heard. Gone will be the gentle murmur of a room full of people enjoying their meals and each other's company and being able to hear themselves think.<br /><br />6. <span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">THE WAITSTAFFS</span>. It's a small thing, perhaps, but there is a level of professionalism in restaurants that I will miss. I don't need to know the name of my waiter or, as happened at once fancy place in the U.S., to be told how to eat. (We were instructed that everyone had to order the exact same number of courses because the chef did not want the ritual of his food being served upset by someone eating their entrees out of synch with a fellow diner.) The waiters and waitresses here know their wine, know their specials. They know the job and do it well. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And they leave you alone. They don’t share their curriculum vitae with you. They don't pop up as you are about to fork the first bite into your mouth and ask how was everything. [Mother of Mercy, is my meal over already? I used to wonder.] They don't push overpriced bottled water. They work hard and act like adults.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />7. <span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">LUXEMBOURG GARDENS</span>. I used to find it annoying to arrive at the gate of Luxembourg Gardens at four o'clock and be told they were closing soon, or to have to listen to the officious shriek of police whistles as they shut down the park for the evening. But that established a rhythm and bestows a sense of propriety for the place which I have now come to appreciate. The first time I was aware of the Luxembourg Gardens was back in the 80s when we took our daughter there for donkey rides. In the hundreds of visits I’ve made there since it has only gotten more complex.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY5p_PFygoluGCxy345JcJPqVlilbOWqcU6hmeixCqY2jxS1_lMW9_3ZsG9jEQVuf77uIVwMpcHiXwiwJ0WQD0qbAp70uPxOBvaq5SS5roZ7UN35fjDFLSvMuw7g9l5JwhcOrRJ7v1HbA/s1600-h/WideLux1.JPG" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY5p_PFygoluGCxy345JcJPqVlilbOWqcU6hmeixCqY2jxS1_lMW9_3ZsG9jEQVuf77uIVwMpcHiXwiwJ0WQD0qbAp70uPxOBvaq5SS5roZ7UN35fjDFLSvMuw7g9l5JwhcOrRJ7v1HbA/s400/WideLux1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355354005693649682" border="0" /></a><br />8. <span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">ISLE OF SWANS.</span> This odd little pencil of a man made island just a few minutes walk from the Eiffel Tower gives the double bonus of privacy and being immersed totally in the Seine.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman',fantasy;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXnqUqJ_6osMUB-7vWdW3h3jHQ7msjHaHX8g1VYVv7ZQPX0Qcs3fOTHidl5_595JxTgEvyQ6Cs1Fi95gC3BZBFV_sqkTqRVwuD-CSTc2nUIxOaE1rtqAjRByk0wXy4ie-OPdoR7p6rZvw/s1600-h/Isle+of+Swans.JPG" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXnqUqJ_6osMUB-7vWdW3h3jHQ7msjHaHX8g1VYVv7ZQPX0Qcs3fOTHidl5_595JxTgEvyQ6Cs1Fi95gC3BZBFV_sqkTqRVwuD-CSTc2nUIxOaE1rtqAjRByk0wXy4ie-OPdoR7p6rZvw/s400/Isle+of+Swans.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355348857996363474" border="0" /></a><br />9. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">THE STREETS. ANY STREET</span>. On a typical Sunday I would give myself a destination to walk to. Sometimes I would make it. Sometimes I would not. It never mattered. Three to four hours later I would be back home my head full of discoveries and images, knowing I hadn’t even come close to scratching the surface of this complex city.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />10. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia,fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">THE TWINKLING EIFFEL TOWER</span>. It’s corny, it’s flashy, it’s schmaltzy, and irresistable. A friend who has been coming to France for over 30 years made me run to the other side of the Seine one night so she could catch the lights display on the stroke of the hour. Our landlady, who was born in Paris, stressed that we </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">must</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> see it. She was right.</span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman',-webkit-fantasy;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);font-family:'times new roman',fantasy;"><br /></span></div></div></div><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwISY_s0aq1T47phbJ23ibVfOmNPWuRiWZRF8OaFvDQrqx-OruhXuTWJADl7SPgJOATu5Uja6uZmYo5mjrPWw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div></div>Doug Colliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09123539287906635991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080862893595932366.post-6011530774028646382009-06-28T21:26:00.098+02:002017-01-31T18:50:27.980+01:00The Last Battle<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT-lgpl2_-NPQYcyPJx5Wcb0Fik23fr_3AmECADIjN1D-g6AfBgC9zthA3eJYeyqFNJrpD6mN-m-FlYdsFYtQptIxcXrOyb864h-RQSkA1YPkSTWOU21Gs63sLy76iX0_ns9t0OTWw0C8/s1600-h/U.AS.army.mil-2008-10-21-053504.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352740840424587282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT-lgpl2_-NPQYcyPJx5Wcb0Fik23fr_3AmECADIjN1D-g6AfBgC9zthA3eJYeyqFNJrpD6mN-m-FlYdsFYtQptIxcXrOyb864h-RQSkA1YPkSTWOU21Gs63sLy76iX0_ns9t0OTWw0C8/s400/U.AS.army.mil-2008-10-21-053504.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 276px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Argonne Forest 1918</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></span>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The Argonne Forest is a hilly stretch of woods, a deep crease in the rolling landscape of northeastern France. It is so steep there is barely a place flat enough to set down a cup of coffee. Anyone moving through it is either walking uphill or down.<br /><br />An American General, James G. Harbord who saw it in the fall of 1918, described the Argonne as a "dense forest gashed by steep ridges and deep ravines, littered by the debris of many storms, natural and man-made. It was a region forgotten when level ground was being created. No man's horizon was more than a few yards away."</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">That was where Tom Hogan was going in October of 1918. The American army, with the French, had taken on a 20-mile stretch of no man's land with the insane notion of walking across it and pushing the Germans back to Germany.</span></span></span></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Topographically probably the meanest part of the battle line was through the forest, with its relentless up and down terrain and thick undergrowth. It didn't help that the Germans knew the woods intimately. After all, they had been in the area for four years, so long they turned that section of the battle line into an elaborate military city -- elegant underground bunkers with carpeting, hospitals, even a theater. They had placed concrete machine gun nests throughout the woods with criss-crossing fields of fire. An ant couldn't walk through there and not be in the sights of a German gunner.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255 , 102 , 0); font-weight: bold;">A Long Walk to Hell</span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The Argonne front was about 50 miles north of St. Mihiel. There were and still are few roads that go in that direction and those few were gridlocked with supply convoys. The only one way to get there was to walk. So one day in late September Tom loaded a 50-pound pack on his back, picked up his rifle and headed north.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Try to imagine walking 50 miles, in the pouring rain, through knee deep mud, with the equivalent of a small trunk strapped to your back, after about 4 hours of fitful sleep in damp woods and nearly a week of combat, knowing you are heading into more combat and you will have grasped Tom's situation.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjockqIIV9zBOTrOucYCqU-vK_hUVEd5oqtrLAsL52kMAeCodLlqaVzzpty0IyufHCFoQhLYvUbee27_JdMDtCQcxtcM-OWFeskI6YtHqCVcaY1Oa9LtUIX5jjL1OX586gvcYSj8ri0tMI/s1600-h/WalkRestStop.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="text-decoration: none;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354384702223941458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjockqIIV9zBOTrOucYCqU-vK_hUVEd5oqtrLAsL52kMAeCodLlqaVzzpty0IyufHCFoQhLYvUbee27_JdMDtCQcxtcM-OWFeskI6YtHqCVcaY1Oa9LtUIX5jjL1OX586gvcYSj8ri0tMI/s400/WalkRestStop.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 264px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">American troops in France on a rest break.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">By the time Tom got to the Argonne in early October the fighting had already begun and it was getting meaner. The Germans were digging in and fighting back hard. His unit had to clear out the Argonne, which meant one machine gun nest at a time. It was slow, exhausting, dangerous, bloody work. The weather was miserable -- cold, rainy. The troops were freezing. Most were still wearing their summer uniforms.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255 , 102 , 0); font-weight: bold;">The Bloodiest Battle in History</span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Once they got into the woods the men quickly discovered they were on their own. Supporting artillery was useless. Shells exploded against the trees before they reached their targets. The hilly terrain and dense forest forced the Americans to fragment into smaller, more vulnerable groups. There was no safe place in the rolling terrain. As the men quickly found out, to stand at the top of a ravine was to become an easy target for machine guns. To take cover at the bottom was to be a target for poison gas which was heavier than air and settled insidiously into the lower elevations.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The Germans had years of experience with gas which was</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> in artillery shells and fired from their big guns. They</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> devised various strategies. Sometimes they would lob just enough gas into enemy lines to scare soldiers into putting on gas masks. Since it was harder to breath with masks on, the men tired quickly. Other times Germans would mix poison gas shells in with regular explosive shells during an artillery barrage. By the time the soldiers realized they had been gassed it was too late. Finally German generals liked gas because it was cost effective. Someone calculated</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> that three shells of poison could kill as many men as nine regular artillery shells</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> under the right conditions</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">. And the conditions in the Argonne Forest, with all its ravines and defiles, were ideal.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Chlorine, phosgene and mustard gas were the three killers of choice and the Germans used all three during the battle. Mustard gas was the worst. Its acidic fumes burned the skin, raised huge oozing blisters, and attacked mucous membranes, blinding any poor soul who didn't get his mask on fast enough. But all brought on choking and gasping fits and, among the survivors, permanent lung damage. </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">One wet and chilly October morning Tom Hogan found himself thrashing his way through the dense Argonne underbrush, possibly thinking how seven months earlier he leading a quiet, happy life, making knitting needles in a sleepy New England town, and now he was stuck in the middle of a place he never heard of, with the world blowing up around him.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Not much detail is known about what happened to him and his fellow troops, but what is certain that at one moment there was a the loud crack of explosion and in the next Tom was on the ground stunned and bleeding from shrapnel wounds. Lying nearby were other unlucky men from his unit. As they lay there, there was another explosion and a suffocating cloud of poison gently descended on them.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Missing</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The battle was called the <a href="http://www.worldwar1.com/dbc/bigshow.htm">Meuse-Argonne Offensive</a>, because the line extended from the Meuse River in the west to the Argonne Forest in the east. The Germans yielded ground slowly, making many Americans die for every yard. But by early November the Germans could see it was over and surrendered. </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I knew little about World War I and nothing about this battle. So it came as a big surprise to learn that Meuse-Argonne was the bloodiest battle ever in American history. During 47 days of fighting, 26,277 American soldiers were killed and more than 95,000 were wounded. Not during World War II or not even during the Civil War had so many men been slaughtered in a single fight.</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The Armistice was signed in November. The War to End All Wars was over. The troops started coming home in late 1918. Tom was not among them. The Army couldn't seem to account for him at all. No one could tell the family if he were living or dead. The year 1918 ended, 1919 began and still no word.</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="color: rgb(255 , 102 , 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"You're supposed to be dead."</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">My mother was about five years old and still remembers the moment. She was standing in her grandfather's living room when someone walked through the front door. He was a gaunt man in a brown uniform, his legs wrapped in puttees, a Sam Brown bell crossed over his chest and around his waist. What followed was mayhem: her aunts shreiking, sobbing, laughing. He was her godfather, Thomas Francis Hogan.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><br /></span></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">She remembers saying to him, "You're supposed to be dead."</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">It was only after the chaos of the battle was over that the Army realized Tom was missing. Eventually someone found him and his buddies. He spent time in a field hospital in France. When he recovered, he was loaded on a troop ship for the States for the ten-day trip across the Atlantic. He had entered the Army in April of 1918 and was released in February of 1919. In a mere 11 months he had been in three major battles and was nearly killed.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Tom never talked much about what happened in the Argonne. Once he told his daughters that he and his friends were too badly injured to get up and were lying on the ground a long, long time before someone finally found them. His only piece of good luck, if one could consider it such, is that by having been so badly wounded he was too weak to move and that may have saved his life. During gas attacks men who had been wounded and were immobile suffered less than men who ran. That only made them breathe in more deadly fumes.</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">After the war Tom got on with his life, returned to his job at the needle factory, married and raised two daughters. He had left the war but the war did not leave him. His daughters remember him making regular visits to a VA hospital in New York for treatments, possibly for his damaged lungs, and although he talked little about his experiences, one day not long before his death he lifted his pants leg to show his older daughter one of his injury. She gasped at what she saw, saying it looked like a chunk of muscle had been scooped out of his leg. That was all he ever shared of his war experiences.</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">My mother remembers two things about him, his happy go lucky personality, and his distinctive gasping cough. The lung damage almost certainly shortened his life. He died in 1948 at the age of 59.</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: rgb(255 , 102 , 0); font-weight: bold;">Acres of Corpses</span><br />Today part of the battlefield where he was wounded has been transformed into the <a href="https://www.abmc.gov/cemeteries-memorials/europe/meuse-argonne-american-cemetery#.WJDOPxiZOXQ">Meuse-Argonne Cemetery</a>. As the cheery young woman in the tourist office reminded me, it is the largest U.S. military cemetery outside the United States. More American soldiers are buried in its 130 acres of meticulously groomed grass -- over 14,000 -- than are even buried near Normandy beach, where over 9,000 are interred. </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I drove there on a rainy June afternoon to have a look. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The cemetery sits between two country roads in a vista of rolling farmland in the middle of nowhere.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> As I got out of the car the first thing that struck me was how ranks of white markers</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> beyond the stand of dark trees </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">had a trans</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">lucent glow. A sudden rainstorm came over the ridge and swept down through the emptiness of the vast graveyard. The only sounds were the rustle of trees and raindrops splattering against the stone markers.</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-size: 100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihZ6AwW76PE2oJ0ZC8u-M6SKkMp9c1i0wb831NqmWnj3-VysrPRR_lC5ih9NKjSLhX2cx2Hqyb1A3v5nACfSZEIjWX8m6ygY8St0hbxZaSCm1Z5k08TBqhM9-k8TCG9HJcBWAVqnPw0E8/s1600-h/Behind+the+Trees2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353031918268873858" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihZ6AwW76PE2oJ0ZC8u-M6SKkMp9c1i0wb831NqmWnj3-VysrPRR_lC5ih9NKjSLhX2cx2Hqyb1A3v5nACfSZEIjWX8m6ygY8St0hbxZaSCm1Z5k08TBqhM9-k8TCG9HJcBWAVqnPw0E8/s400/Behind+the+Trees2.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 217px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-size: 100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR9cx3JGWKyxKVqGTVSrFsEhjwIXwiIqvdvExKK5wcBi9UVbgDdUJ-I7exprm-V3_bsj4gqEPtG3jWCok-n292xrpVbvjAi7MUYrtsMi1bTgzgkTW46138zVdwQLBSgyI9u8Knojy_vUU/s1600-h/A+Row.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="font-family: times new roman;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353032344134835826" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR9cx3JGWKyxKVqGTVSrFsEhjwIXwiIqvdvExKK5wcBi9UVbgDdUJ-I7exprm-V3_bsj4gqEPtG3jWCok-n292xrpVbvjAi7MUYrtsMi1bTgzgkTW46138zVdwQLBSgyI9u8Knojy_vUU/s400/A+Row.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 225px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXEkHfRtHlSnqF1YYrxS44-XIVytNQX2btI8xCkgw3lOnGmQSsd3COdSan8VIhzetSqjDLzj8HhKSTcJV9xuD93WNOR7dgkDHr_uGHWRkO9PLpk2lE3EE81aPdiRDExKbUb87FfGmIJw8/s1600-h/Infinity.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="font-family: times new roman;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353033320641292210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXEkHfRtHlSnqF1YYrxS44-XIVytNQX2btI8xCkgw3lOnGmQSsd3COdSan8VIhzetSqjDLzj8HhKSTcJV9xuD93WNOR7dgkDHr_uGHWRkO9PLpk2lE3EE81aPdiRDExKbUb87FfGmIJw8/s400/Infinity.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 225px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The rows of the dead men's markers converged towards the horizon. It was creepily quiet. Except for a groundskeeping crew, I was the only one here. Looking out over the acres of dead I recalled a quote from the writer Graham Greene: "There is poetry in a battlefield." Not to those slaughtered on it, I thought. </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman" , -webkit-fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman" , fantasy;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: rgb(255 , 102 , 0); font-weight: bold;">The Road</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";">Recently I found an old Word War I photo showing a spectacular traffic jam of Army supply wagons and trucks on a road all to the Argonne. It was utter chaos, a scene out of Hieronymus Bosch.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><br /></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvRg3qNACtpbMM_ArF93pHvHYPNgvlW9g0MBD6lFloS-BpHvwJYPGfiDcucCQRKgRapX6z8kWyYxQLBV0NIkTyS84iTyzKuKQXUeuVJi5_6_JxkGmn4MIDuD__UeHyDDb48f9XlSlYRtg/s1600-h/ArgonneRoad.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352703446442690898" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvRg3qNACtpbMM_ArF93pHvHYPNgvlW9g0MBD6lFloS-BpHvwJYPGfiDcucCQRKgRapX6z8kWyYxQLBV0NIkTyS84iTyzKuKQXUeuVJi5_6_JxkGmn4MIDuD__UeHyDDb48f9XlSlYRtg/s400/ArgonneRoad.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 280px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Supply convoy headed for the Argonne Forest</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">As I left the cemetery I drove back to Verdun down one of these roads, possibly the one in the photo. Today there is nothing -- no villages, no traffic, no signs of anything to suggest a World War was fought in the surrounding countryside. More than 90 years ago the air was full of the explosive thunder of dueling artillery and gunfire. Today the only sound I heard was the hum of my tires on the road and the click of the windshield wipers. All around was total emptiness. And I mean total. Here's a video of my last sights of the Argonne.</span></span></div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dz8KCb2v7siDMb9Dz44oDgRy89WRbdPn0_5w7iSoYp5gLxb-hXmSP1RtVwZaosw6aQJh5DY22P5wgnJT6snXA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Fascinating graveyard fact:</span> France is the foreign country with the largest number of American soldiers buried in its soil.</span></span></div>
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Doug Colliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09123539287906635991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080862893595932366.post-29735009567665716312009-06-26T09:17:00.096+02:002009-12-12T15:03:33.135+01:00On Haunted Ground<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">When the train pulled into Verdun, my first impression was: pretty little city. A couple of canals and the very mellow Meuse River run through the middle of it.</span></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRoy_cIAIT-zFPqJpDElhccxgBH6N8tCeuEct8JSXlJM2LH39_TMddQDJyVDQP3FMpJXNIvPC8nj94eD27EJo65Ku-BV6WU8f4UKTOtmDc1MlkM67B_pEvnch2_cbWan2fFDa7gx6AeDE/s1600-h/ByTheRIVER.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRoy_cIAIT-zFPqJpDElhccxgBH6N8tCeuEct8JSXlJM2LH39_TMddQDJyVDQP3FMpJXNIvPC8nj94eD27EJo65Ku-BV6WU8f4UKTOtmDc1MlkM67B_pEvnch2_cbWan2fFDa7gx6AeDE/s400/ByTheRIVER.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352689902897155010" border="0" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman',fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The second impression was it was a place frozen in misery. Like Gettysburg, Pearl Harbor, Dresden, and Hiroshima, Verdun's identity is forever intertwined with death and destruction. For a while in the early 1900s it was the Battle Capital of the world. Some of the older building still show the scars of bullets and shrapnel.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman',fantasy;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">This is Verdun as it looked like at the height of World War I. The Cathedral of Notre Dame is in the background, rising over the blasted shells of buildings by one of the canals.</span></span></div><div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitw05odcmOoKAftk7dUD0CYn5wAmAIanfMRs04AaPawpZJBd9lkLpylHvGYQ1AbJjq0z8mgwwKoo6vcjZa-WVHRrafIe5GrbV9UqlKxbiw-SDUMUolK-KWs2HZ0V51Usz3fMozuKLcq4s/s1600-h/verdun_canal.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 137px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitw05odcmOoKAftk7dUD0CYn5wAmAIanfMRs04AaPawpZJBd9lkLpylHvGYQ1AbJjq0z8mgwwKoo6vcjZa-WVHRrafIe5GrbV9UqlKxbiw-SDUMUolK-KWs2HZ0V51Usz3fMozuKLcq4s/s400/verdun_canal.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351532332431743122" border="0" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">This is what the prosperous little burg looks like today from the same viewpoint.</span></span></div></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVFI9lZ0qpYaIQi_323avFUGkK6nvCMuBVUOHrX1pWn5n-7fF9IgJ28Dmn3Va7WctaxEx23HxnYyZ8erQvajNa_786c3oPUG9y96G8-N0KlifqYtP2dO-20GavxoW8vGoMTDENCOEHChI/s1600-h/VerdunNow1.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 142px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVFI9lZ0qpYaIQi_323avFUGkK6nvCMuBVUOHrX1pWn5n-7fF9IgJ28Dmn3Va7WctaxEx23HxnYyZ8erQvajNa_786c3oPUG9y96G8-N0KlifqYtP2dO-20GavxoW8vGoMTDENCOEHChI/s400/VerdunNow1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352693469260347522" border="0" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I stopped by the tourist office to pick up a few maps and discovered war is Big Biz here. The city and the area around had seen some of the bloodiest fighting in World War I. In 1916 a quarter of a million French and German soldiers were killed in the area, with basically nothing to show for it. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman',-webkit-fantasy;">By the time Uncle Tom arrived in September of 1918, the two armies had fought to an exhausted standstill. The French hoped the arrival of a million and a half Americans would give their side the necessary boost to push the Germans out.</span></span></span><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The energetic young woman at the information desk had that special tourist office ability to read the map upside down as she cheerily pointed out the sights: memorials, the statues to the heroic dead, an ossuary full of unknown soldiers' bones, a place called Bayonet Trench where French soldiers were buried alive by an artillery barrage and only their bayonets protruded above the earth and on and on. Each site had an horrific and bloody story attached to it. And a brochure for it.</span></span><div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Where is the American cemetery?" I asked.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Up the road that way," she pointed north. "It has the largest number of American soldiers buried there outside the United States." Big smile.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">What's a salient?<br /></span></span></span></b></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The plan was to follow Tom's steps through this area. His first battle was south of Verdun near a place called St. Mihiel. In 1914, as now, it was a sleepy village. Unfortunately back then it sat in the crossfire of French and German armies. For four horrific years friendly and enemy fire rained down on it. When Tom and his fellow soldiers arrived here from Chateau-Thierry their job was to clear the Germans out of something down that way called the St. Mihiel Salient.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I didn't know salient was a noun. Basically the word describes any kind of protrusion. In military jargon it refers to part of a battle line that has bulged into enemy territory, sometimes the result of a stalled advance. The German had a salient which had been a fixture near St. Mihiel for four years. The French had unsuccessfully tried to drive the Germans out of it, a piece of territory about the size of Manhattan. When the Americans arrived, the French said in effect, "You want something to do? Get those guys out of there."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">History books are sketchy about the battle of the St. Mihiel Salient. The condensed version is the Americans launched an attack against the Germans on September 12 and the battle was pretty much over three rainy muddy days later, September 15. The attack was no secret - date and time had already been published in a Swiss paper - and rather than stand and fight the huge number of Americans, the Germans decided to pull out. They were in the process of retreating when the shooting began. It was a win for what was grandly called the American Expeditionary Forces. According to one historian the U.S. lost "only" about 1,300 men in that battle. That's about two years worth of KIAs in the Iraq War killed in three days. I guess human life was cheaper then.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman',fantasy;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">There is no detailed record of how Tom did, but he survived. And his reward was a chance to die in another battle. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman',fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0); font-weight: bold;font-family:'times new roman',fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Battle Scars<br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Fortunately - if that's the right word - there are still sections of the battle zone which are preserved, or to put it more accurately had been frozen in time by benign neglect. The WWI generation has long died out and today few people bother to visit these forgotten places. I was grateful for this. I could step into a place where history was stopped and see what Tom had seen.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman',fantasy;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So, my GPS suction-cupped to the windshield of a rented car,a glossy tourist office map spread across my knees, I drove around until I found a spot my brochure said still had French and German trenches. Nobody in the parking lot. Everything was still. The only sounds were an occasional distinctive call of a cuckoo bird, the first time I heard one outside of a clock.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman',-webkit-fantasy;">Old signs pointed deep into the piney woods. I walked by a weatherworn memorial decorated with faded plastic flowers and stepped into the shadows beyond. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman',fantasy;">A place which used to be crowded with soldiers shooting at each other, bombarding each other, killing each other was now a silent patch of overgrown woods. This is what I found.</span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);font-family:'times new roman',-webkit-fantasy;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A huge crater from an artillery shell. It looked a dark entry to another dimension:</span></span></div></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC8yV2RdXhBW26FnCjCKBchHObI8MXb9MzWDaZT5fe3ZxAUcMLGXle1GZMJCBv9gTWNHEfE8jboCfrKviUT5gMAuJo9bJTP94TO3GK9KLs_NxX3kycLQeQ37eO_z74bOHZXza2t2BhLYQ/s1600-h/ShellCrater.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC8yV2RdXhBW26FnCjCKBchHObI8MXb9MzWDaZT5fe3ZxAUcMLGXle1GZMJCBv9gTWNHEfE8jboCfrKviUT5gMAuJo9bJTP94TO3GK9KLs_NxX3kycLQeQ37eO_z74bOHZXza2t2BhLYQ/s400/ShellCrater.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352311228166916338" border="0" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A mossy, overgrown bunker:</span></span><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDjPTcDdR2ZKv9w_Dd9StF-f4p7X4C4moLEvs4-GlmD0kBxkPKekx4c5TV4HGKBBO2HTaLPj4jMnu-jyo1UnVE8NOnfLSEkOwIxuvejiAzChFwDkQS95FXRo31Aa7BZ2sG48Ai5N9ZCq8/s1600-h/GermanBunker2.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDjPTcDdR2ZKv9w_Dd9StF-f4p7X4C4moLEvs4-GlmD0kBxkPKekx4c5TV4HGKBBO2HTaLPj4jMnu-jyo1UnVE8NOnfLSEkOwIxuvejiAzChFwDkQS95FXRo31Aa7BZ2sG48Ai5N9ZCq8/s400/GermanBunker2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352318594379086562" border="0" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The scars of trenches snaking through the forest.</span></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7-14zA9ZBS28hDZG6QpFB7Oe_YG_wXVBpZSyGui0N7gYUuw5Heb5Vkb3Yw2fSJgFn-AHRKWt-XEHQzPNEpKtwpV8KAlnmSwXPyFhDa9QGYT3ttwciySZk_hbWs7ih85vnCtlvaqnN68Q/s1600-h/IMG_1680.JPG" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 225px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7-14zA9ZBS28hDZG6QpFB7Oe_YG_wXVBpZSyGui0N7gYUuw5Heb5Vkb3Yw2fSJgFn-AHRKWt-XEHQzPNEpKtwpV8KAlnmSwXPyFhDa9QGYT3ttwciySZk_hbWs7ih85vnCtlvaqnN68Q/s400/IMG_1680.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352312855910587634" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggr6Djn-kcWBsuZaSwvZ4DjxEZoN8eeusQ2nuZ_H2LpFeZuYQsUu6q8nW61jjgsp-LeWQyvWxFi4mimY93bJY6c-IqR_JJuxngPhfCk5euCgFLGdXsawDhwkbJh5l7Zx81d-S77FddM8w/s1600-h/St.MihielTrench.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 225px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggr6Djn-kcWBsuZaSwvZ4DjxEZoN8eeusQ2nuZ_H2LpFeZuYQsUu6q8nW61jjgsp-LeWQyvWxFi4mimY93bJY6c-IqR_JJuxngPhfCk5euCgFLGdXsawDhwkbJh5l7Zx81d-S77FddM8w/s400/St.MihielTrench.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352316339780709490" border="0" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">How a similar trench looked during the war:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', fantasy;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7qYgQbay6uCkxHp4OBbd_Teea3Xaz1mJInISxQ7RQ2Flhl3Ii3BTPIavyx7t3Xive43ogyEbnARXyHkUeApx1dgvlAdKeQBJSxTEy-YFHEwcNCAd9nZbQX_ktB7VQE3fnSMFeHQeLlWc/s1600-h/FrenchTrench.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7qYgQbay6uCkxHp4OBbd_Teea3Xaz1mJInISxQ7RQ2Flhl3Ii3BTPIavyx7t3Xive43ogyEbnARXyHkUeApx1dgvlAdKeQBJSxTEy-YFHEwcNCAd9nZbQX_ktB7VQE3fnSMFeHQeLlWc/s400/FrenchTrench.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359944981442222562" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">When I tried to climb down into one, I slipped in the mud - it had rained heavily the day before - and grabbed for balance as I dropped into the trench. For my effort I got a fistful of greasy mud the color of dark chocolate. It stuck to my skin like paste. It was</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman',-webkit-fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> impossible to wipe off.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman',fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> Days later I was still digging it out of my cuticle. Soldiers crawled through this stuff, slept in it, had to live with it for years.</span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman',-webkit-fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman',-webkit-fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It was only after I had been here about an hour that I noticed something odd. I had hiked through woods in different parts of France and would always see some sorts of woodland creatures, birds, rabbits, even an occasional snake. But here there was nothing. The only sign of wildlife in all the time I was wandering through this silent world was a weird fluorescent orange slug shimmering in a patch of sunlight:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', -webkit-fantasy;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman',-webkit-fantasy;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE3a72fZKyEBHHGHiDjLEnDZGQE8qp2zBhWVQJIRBWeAYWuRglz03sV6jmD74mmQQ6u_bV8dzHEQfq-6hkO9U3KUcD1frqcBxJx0cOV8JHJMBV3nC9HAMDhyphenhyphenvWkC5A5HIel_gctrbwLzQ/s1600-h/IMG_1692.JPG" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE3a72fZKyEBHHGHiDjLEnDZGQE8qp2zBhWVQJIRBWeAYWuRglz03sV6jmD74mmQQ6u_bV8dzHEQfq-6hkO9U3KUcD1frqcBxJx0cOV8JHJMBV3nC9HAMDhyphenhyphenvWkC5A5HIel_gctrbwLzQ/s400/IMG_1692.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352644631986155858" border="0" /></a></span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I looked around at the woods. The growth was so dense that even as noon approached little sunlight seeped into the dim place. If it was this dark on a bright summer day, what must it have been like during the sodden, rainy fall of 1918? Men who slept in such dank spots even for a few days got trench foot, diptheria. The Argonne Forest, where Tom was going next, was very much like this, I had read, only worse.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Depressing WWI Fact:</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> Verdun was the site of the war's longest single battle. It dragged on for 11 months and caused over a million casualties. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman',fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">{To be continued}</span></span></div></div></div></div></div>Doug Colliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09123539287906635991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080862893595932366.post-61185748864843454052009-06-17T10:26:00.089+02:002017-01-31T18:25:03.534+01:00Uncle Tom's Nightmare Trip to France<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrHu3RNKFqmSNL1FhfcBB2L2tBc_8LiE9VwhB_SurWnWLDX8sFU2tVk4bZQFxPLLXKCYlk7JCmrsHMDYWm3gZeFnrBTV23Fi4de2y7i5eoRv4JQ2Et9PK0mjluJKNcPyMPl3VCNUeabCc/s1600-h/AmericansAttack.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352739498996045474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrHu3RNKFqmSNL1FhfcBB2L2tBc_8LiE9VwhB_SurWnWLDX8sFU2tVk4bZQFxPLLXKCYlk7JCmrsHMDYWm3gZeFnrBTV23Fi4de2y7i5eoRv4JQ2Et9PK0mjluJKNcPyMPl3VCNUeabCc/s400/AmericansAttack.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 373px;" /></a><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Americans fighting in France 1918</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The only other person in my family beside me who spent any time in France was my great uncle Tom Hogan. His visit was shorter and not as pleasant. He spent much of it trying to avoid getting killed.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">His story, in brief, was this. In the spring of 1918 he was drafted and shipped overseas to fight in World War I. He had been in combat about four or five months when he disappeared.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> This was all I knew about him. The story popped up in a casual conversation with my mother who talked about Tom's difficulties the way someone might mention that a relative had trouble finding a parking space at the mall. "He went off to France and just disappeared," Mom said with quiet bafflement. "No one knew what happened to him."</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman" , -webkit-fantasy;">Intrigued, I started doing a little research.</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> The Internet can be amazing. With a little hunting I found a copy of Uncle Tom’s draft registration card. (You can't tell from this image, but in the lower left corner of the card the small print reads, "If person is of African descent, cut off this corner.")</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg2woa4FZs__f9O5bThihqumqBNJxe8VNV1poenOlexGqTIWG8fsa_Z51pjpicwRW0SfaBGhUVP4GtL7J1wf6BpMCm5bJjsFtKWut7DmOuJYL66fr1h26GI6HhfosieiBDCk5glHxczBI/s1600-h/Thomas+Francis+Hogan.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350804948025385666" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg2woa4FZs__f9O5bThihqumqBNJxe8VNV1poenOlexGqTIWG8fsa_Z51pjpicwRW0SfaBGhUVP4GtL7J1wf6BpMCm5bJjsFtKWut7DmOuJYL66fr1h26GI6HhfosieiBDCk5glHxczBI/s400/Thomas+Francis+Hogan.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPTki61zyStGjUa_82DwsdYnVrrbdbqCaSV_mJ2iF0v9BAYf_QDX9-gmM97hr5f0L61jY__1PnvDYeaqVeEgTzBgfblXTP5TsSgHJTF-BpV3K1orSBw_A8Va-H72cnDFIqCnzeX4uEBZs/s1600-h/Thomas+Francis+HoganDraft1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350806940635177890" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPTki61zyStGjUa_82DwsdYnVrrbdbqCaSV_mJ2iF0v9BAYf_QDX9-gmM97hr5f0L61jY__1PnvDYeaqVeEgTzBgfblXTP5TsSgHJTF-BpV3K1orSBw_A8Va-H72cnDFIqCnzeX4uEBZs/s400/Thomas+Francis+HoganDraft1.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 306px;" /></a></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman" , fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">He filled it out on June 5, 1917. He was 27, old for the draft, and not married. He worked at a factory, the Excelsior Needle Company in Torrington, Connecticut, making knitting needles. I noticed in answer to the question: "Married or Single [which]" he wrote, "No." I also noticed he lived down the street from his father, Patrick, my Great Grandfather.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I already had done a little family history research and knew that Patrick D. Hogan, was born in Ireland, in the town of Thurles, County Mayo. Family lore has it that Patrick’s parents decided he deserved better than to waste his life in the depressed and oppressed country that was Ireland back then. The family pooled their money bought him a ticket from Liverpool to the United States. He arrived in the spring of 1880. Here's a photo of the distinguished Patrick in his glory days:</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman" , fantasy;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikO3R7FIdWFQFNC9r0OMzr9REqwYhaInVvGHllUiLH-LYKfugqwI9ddCjiNXglnmNLKzf7xxIqgRVIvf3m5fLDatll8HWOaCpF85AIFOeNN2hqJj-WC__xOXFrqQkvm2tULNHCbcY8OU0/s1600-h/GreatGrandpa_0001.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350807636187210482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikO3R7FIdWFQFNC9r0OMzr9REqwYhaInVvGHllUiLH-LYKfugqwI9ddCjiNXglnmNLKzf7xxIqgRVIvf3m5fLDatll8HWOaCpF85AIFOeNN2hqJj-WC__xOXFrqQkvm2tULNHCbcY8OU0/s400/GreatGrandpa_0001.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 267px;" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";">Using his skills as a carpenter Patrick got a job building packing crates for a local factory. Even though he was illiterate -- my mother remembers sitting on his lap as a seven-year-old girl reading him the headlines in the local paper – he prospered. He bought land and built two houses in a quiet neighborhood, Cherry Street, in my hometown. He and other Irish immigrants dug out by hand the foundation for my parish church St. Francis, where everyone in my family, including I assume my Uncle Tom, were baptized and many were married and buried. </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";">The early 1900s were hard years emotionally for Patrick. His daughter, Josephine, died in a flu epidemic <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman" , -webkit-fantasy;">in 1905 <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman" , fantasy;">at the age of 11. His wife Mary died in 1916. And now, in 1917, the government was drafting his son to fight in a war many in the U.S. thought was none of their business.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";">National Archive records of most World War I vets were destroyed in a huge warehouse fire in 1973, but my sister Carol, digging through in the files of our town historical society, found a little more info on Tom. I learned that i<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman" , -webkit-fantasy;">n May 1917 for the first time since the Civil War, the government reinstituted the draft. At time the<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "georgia" , fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"> U.S. entered World War I it had a pitifully small Army, just a few hundred thousand men. They needed a couple of million - fast. So they </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";">started dragooning men into the service.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman" , fantasy;"> Record of local vets' service showed that in the spring of 1918 Tom's number came up. He had to report for active duty. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "georgia" , fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "georgia" , fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";">Tom was assigned to the infantry. Cannonfodder.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";">It was not a good time to be a soldier. Training was absurd. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman" , -webkit-fantasy;">Some recruits didn’t even have any weapons to practice with. During basic training soldiers were issued two-by-fours cut out in the shapes of rifles. I guess the Army figured the men could always yell "Bang! Bang!" and conk the enemy over the head. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman" , fantasy;">Even though the war had been fought in trenches for over three years, there was little grounding in trench warfare, according to one historian. Tactics taught were based on the Spanish American War and the Franco Prussian War. Men spent hours on pointless bayonet practice, a weapon which, when they finally got to war, they used to dig foxholes and hang stuff off of. (This fine moronic tradition has continued. Some 50 years later I too had hours of pointless bayonet training. When I got to Vietnam I used mine to open beer cans.) </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman" , -webkit-fantasy;">The Army was rushed into the war so fast it had all kinds of equipment shortages. American soldiers used helmets provided by the British. Their artillery was provided mostly by the French. </span>The Army shipped cavalry horses </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";">to France. <i>Horses</i>.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"> It was like sending George Custer to fight tanks and machine guns. Communication was by carrier pigeon.( I'm not kidding.) Practically no one -- officers or enlisted men -- had any combat experience.What's that <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">cliché</span>? Oh, right: R<i>ecipe for a disaster</i>.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";">Historical society records also noted that in late spring of 1918 at the age of 28 Tom was loaded onto a troop ship and sailed to Europe across the same ocean his father had crossed 38 years earlier, getting the hell out of Europe.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";">The Historical Society notes pithily add that Tom was in three major battles at: Chateau-Thierry, a place called the Saint-Mihiel Salient, and the Argonne Forest. Tom survived the first two in one piece. But in the Argonne Forest [See U.S. Army photo taken of the fighting, above] his luck ran out. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";">I learned that at Chateau-Thierry our inexperienced troops fought under the command of the French. But at the Saint-Mihiel Salient and the Argonne Forest the Americans were on their own for the first time. Since both places were in striking distances of the city of Verdun in northeastern France, I decided to check them out. So, nearly 92 years to the day that Thomas Francis Hogan filled out his doomed draft card, I boarded a train in Paris and headed for Verdun.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman" , fantasy;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLnIYV92TrkMVlDOvSUYxVtfCbDLd9MIxMCSZr3E8YjbbJNDzqRe0ut_SjZhHXcc_QMMK4OdkGm-9jl36OdQ7j0OyrO2Q6Cfhothobbsnq1Qs4v3hwx4G532GUTSlXET-7e_JkRrF7WFY/s1600-h/UncleTomPhoto.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369509533098544770" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLnIYV92TrkMVlDOvSUYxVtfCbDLd9MIxMCSZr3E8YjbbJNDzqRe0ut_SjZhHXcc_QMMK4OdkGm-9jl36OdQ7j0OyrO2Q6Cfhothobbsnq1Qs4v3hwx4G532GUTSlXET-7e_JkRrF7WFY/s400/UncleTomPhoto.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 386px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 256px;" /></a></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman" , fantasy;"></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman" , fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Private Thomas Francis Hogan before shipping out to France.</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";">{To be continued}</span></span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";">Depressing French fact:</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";"> An estimated 1,385,000 French soldiers died in World War I. Over four million were wounded.</span></span></div>
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Doug Colliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09123539287906635991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080862893595932366.post-61517228815481312172009-06-10T10:19:00.014+02:002009-06-10T16:23:01.234+02:00Separated at Birth<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimrZ8iCP4IyY7ZLmDHog2oqKr_q6CDHgkZ7d1J2peFnMaYQKvpOzbLyPe9IVpMvjPcY-mvlfRni0cmKdj_VszEOwvPoSmrjVGDTYMYZmUXwvZCrA1_iEX6hRAr_czlNg4m9KEdYGRvd9E/s1600-h/Brokenwalk2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 230px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimrZ8iCP4IyY7ZLmDHog2oqKr_q6CDHgkZ7d1J2peFnMaYQKvpOzbLyPe9IVpMvjPcY-mvlfRni0cmKdj_VszEOwvPoSmrjVGDTYMYZmUXwvZCrA1_iEX6hRAr_czlNg4m9KEdYGRvd9E/s400/Brokenwalk2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345616746257343698" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Street construction on Rue St. Denis.</span></span><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJaE7JvXBBhOJXFPBJsO4J24arExnjtliGxFrMbMWOJsCsu2EKr3ZQ7ujvTEVaXaeeYYa5aTIYPl8y5OqJomoXlQ-I9ccYUCWRisMa_YUF0IcHH2TszFMAXcHFD_Gt7TTKbiS0fbjBONs/s1600-h/Broken+Fountain.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJaE7JvXBBhOJXFPBJsO4J24arExnjtliGxFrMbMWOJsCsu2EKr3ZQ7ujvTEVaXaeeYYa5aTIYPl8y5OqJomoXlQ-I9ccYUCWRisMa_YUF0IcHH2TszFMAXcHFD_Gt7TTKbiS0fbjBONs/s400/Broken+Fountain.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345614065782308482" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'times new roman';"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Fancy schmanzy fountain on Blvd. St. Germain.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></span>Doug Colliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09123539287906635991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080862893595932366.post-76994002388566897912009-06-06T10:12:00.028+02:002009-09-23T15:59:13.549+02:00Celebrityspotting<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3WhrxoNR7eM9xzW6eNf2CVmT_ve93KmofJHESnGb9-eEH0AoPVzRRmvG_vc-WqFUgQYFUfKsHu35LQt2AiOmkTgPPknJ4jzUIeUXkM11gQHaHm8Ww4y9MiCENxHS-69QGgZfCmQ6qfE4/s1600-h/WomanInUnderpass.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3WhrxoNR7eM9xzW6eNf2CVmT_ve93KmofJHESnGb9-eEH0AoPVzRRmvG_vc-WqFUgQYFUfKsHu35LQt2AiOmkTgPPknJ4jzUIeUXkM11gQHaHm8Ww4y9MiCENxHS-69QGgZfCmQ6qfE4/s400/WomanInUnderpass.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344125007548627266" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I am convinced I saw Bernie Madoff going along the Rue de Rennes on a Velib. I will swear on a stack of Bibles that just around the corner from our apartment William Shatner was waiting for the 69 bus. My wife is understandingly skeptical. She sees these as hysterical sightings of a desperate man. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">It is easy for her to be blase. Over the past year she has seen on, and around, the streets of Paris: Gerard Depardieu getting on a motorcycle, Katherine Deneuve (twice) shopping, Sharon Stone having a glass of wine at Brasserie Lipp, Julia Delpy pushing a stroller near Saint Sulpice, </span></span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Bernard-Henri Lévy and </span></span></span><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Arielle Dombasle out for a stroll, and director David Lynch. I've seen practically no one.</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It's a DNA thing. Either you have the Celebrityspotting gene or you don't. I don't. You would think in Paris where Popes, Presidents, Olympic torches and celebrities of all kinds waft through it would be like shooting fish in a barrel or whatever the equivalent French expression might be. And it is, if you have the requisite karma.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Yes, I once saw Juliette Binoche shooting a scene from a movie but that was only because my wife literally took me by the hand and pointed out the massive agglomeration of movie crew and the aforementioned Ms. Binoche standing in the eye of the storm of activity. And yes I also saw David Lynch but that was only because there had been a gargantuan poster in the window of a bookstore on Blvd. St. Germain announcing he would be in town for a book signing.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I think the gene is somehow attached to the female chromosome because my daughter, Deirdre, has it. In her relatively short life has seen close-up or met: Wesley Snipes, Quentin Tarantino, Barack Obama, Wayne Newton, P Diddy, and, for all I know, the Pope. When she came to visit last spring I mentioned David Lynch was signing books. We wandered over by the bookstore that evening where, yes indeed, you could see him inside. Without hesitation Deirdre and her husband, John, went into the store and within seconds purchased a book, ripped the shrink wrap off of it, got David Lynch's autograph in it and were involved in a conversation so long his publicist repeatedly tried to interrupt to move the line along, but he was having none of it. At that point Deirdre had been in town all of about five hours. I had been in Paris five months.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And so it goes. For all I know I have elbowed Carla Bruni out of the way at my local Monprix to get a bunch of bananas and I walk obliviously through the rues and boulevards cluelessly passing celebrities. Wait a second, I think I just saw Mick Jagger get out of a Smart Car on my street. Gotta go.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Fascinating French Fact:</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> France is <a href="http://goeurope.about.com/od/europeanmaps/l/bl-country-size-comparison-map.htm">slightly smaller than Texas</a>. </span></span></div></div>Doug Colliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09123539287906635991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080862893595932366.post-19291931077296797522009-05-28T08:34:00.025+02:002009-06-11T11:07:50.632+02:00I gave my blood for France<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1-gM1rGcbwbqOgSOFMal7HIttGV9qglL-_a7lrjrqo9ccfNDdXVgb5Kp1eZbGflzO5tgEajW5pSfr2c5qOng2bl1lqhlzpwKCvM-tGRn2eG1w9qiVyL3bLQo__KVg-Occh8OF-W30ylc/s1600-h/Pacemaker001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 287px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1-gM1rGcbwbqOgSOFMal7HIttGV9qglL-_a7lrjrqo9ccfNDdXVgb5Kp1eZbGflzO5tgEajW5pSfr2c5qOng2bl1lqhlzpwKCvM-tGRn2eG1w9qiVyL3bLQo__KVg-Occh8OF-W30ylc/s400/Pacemaker001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340760302933203186" border="0" /></a><br /><span><span style=";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">You never know where an idea will take you. In our case the brainstorm to move to Paris resulted in me standing in a generic medical examination room with my blood dripping on the linoleum floor.</span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /><br /></span></span></span><span style=";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Qualifying, and requalifying, for a Carte de Sejour requires, among many other things, a physical. I am not a fan of being unclothed in front of strangers or being punctured by them, even if they are medical personnel. But if people need information about your body there is no alternative.</span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /><br /></span></span></span><span style=";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Which is how we ended up in a bleak, utilitarian medical office in the 17th. There was the appropriately humorless bureaucrat at the reception desk, a woman who, from the looks of her face, had all the joy sucked out of her life around 1992 and never got a refill. She seemed disappointed to find we had an official letter of appointment and were there on the correct day and time. She pointed us upstairs.</span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /><br /></span></span></span><span style=";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">There we found her antitheses: cheerful, helpful people who patiently explained to us in simple French what the process would be. We were early and watched the clients arrive: a young Asian woman, Japanese I think, who kept getting up and pacing around; a couple with an infant; a tall young African man, a college student I guessed, reading a textbook. And us. </span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /><br /></span></span></span><span style=";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The staff drifted in: the black technician who would give me my eye test and prick my finger; a woman doctor in a white lab coat; a lanking balding guy in a loud tropical shirt. They seemed to genuinely like being around each other. A lot of joking and "how was your weekend" chat.</span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /><br /></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Dripping .</span></span></span></span><div><span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> .</span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> . </span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> BLOOD</span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span><span style=";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The physical was very basic: a simple questionnaire, an eye test, blood pressure cuff, a quick finger prick for a blood sample. It was after the prick that I had the bleeding problem. The technician only half-covered the hole with the band-aid and so a substantial amount was oozing out. I knew I would clot eventually but in the meantime my hand was dripping red dots on the floor. What followed surprised me. He apologized and nervously started layering band-aid after band-aid on top of the bloody fingertip. Now I had an oozing stump of a digit which looked very post-amputation.</span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /><br /></span></span></span><span style=";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The second last step was an X-ray. It was like a scene from a French farce: Open one door. Enter a large closet. Lock door. Remove shirt. Now that you are half-naked, open other door, step into a large dark room where two women briskly tug you over to an X-ray machine and push your naked torso up against very cold metal. Inhale. Hold. Click. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Voila</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. Back in the closet. Shirt on. Unlock door. Out to the waiting room.</span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /><br /></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">THE DOCTOR WILL SEE YOU NOW</span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span><span style=";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Eventually I was summoned to see the doctor. He turned out to be the guy with the wild and crazy tropical shirt -- pineapples and palm tree designs all over it. He already had my X-ray (see above) on his light box. The image of my pacemaker glowed in it like a weird alien spacecraft drifting through a black night. To my relief he spoke English. </span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /><br /></span></span></span><span style=";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The conversation went something like: "You are old. You have a pacemaker. And your blood pressure is a little high."</span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /><br /></span></span></span><span style=";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"White coat syndrome," I suggested.</span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /><br /></span></span></span><span style=";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">He shrugged in reluctant agreement. "But you also have health insurance and money. So welcome to France."</span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /><br /></span></span></span><span style=";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Afterwards we sat in a cafe down the street and had two champagnes to celebrate. For the first time in our lives were not just tourists. We were now </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">visiteurs</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">.</span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Mysterious French fact:</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> The word for "prostate" in French is feminine.</span><br /></span><br /></span></div>Doug Colliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09123539287906635991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080862893595932366.post-76626246604212129892009-05-21T00:44:00.026+02:002009-06-14T10:43:51.330+02:00Jokes from the bums<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif3L0cy-gngsZt-99o_zH4cBqbs3cCml6WxVUFHDroQK7jOaWfVOvQwlmDWfEQG7-CoZBtBETCxU8OPeg_fIxE_XVFVfDRrs22zEtZ3nYGbVGqHOJvS4zfVyTHuUsOVJF44YO9nWR1bMQ/s1600-h/BuminDoorway.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 298px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif3L0cy-gngsZt-99o_zH4cBqbs3cCml6WxVUFHDroQK7jOaWfVOvQwlmDWfEQG7-CoZBtBETCxU8OPeg_fIxE_XVFVfDRrs22zEtZ3nYGbVGqHOJvS4zfVyTHuUsOVJF44YO9nWR1bMQ/s400/BuminDoorway.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338041015165375746" border="0" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">For some reason the few people I have meaningful contact with in Paris are the <span style="font-style: italic;">clochards</span>, or what my father would call: bums. I have a predisposed liking for them as one of my grandfathers was a bum. Literally. (The last time my mother saw him he was a homeless man begging for quarters on a street.) So there is a kind of family tradition there. On at least two occasions the locals felt compelled to make wisecracks about my jogging. I suppose when your whole day is a physical challenge: trying to find a place to eat, to sleep, hauling your crap from one spot to the next, passing the time like a character from a Beckett play, the idea of putting on a T-shirt and what look like a pair of nylon undershorts to run around in circles and deliberately tire yourself is absurd.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /><br /></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">There are two guys who have been living not far away in the back doorway of a Shell station mini-mart on Boulevard Raspail. How long they have been there I don't know, but they are as much a neighborhood fixture as the Musee Maillol diagonally across the street from them. One guy has long gray hair and a beard. The other guy has dark matted hair and glasses. Crammed in the doorway is some sort of duvet for their bed, their sleeping bags and two backpacks which I guess contain all their life’s possessions. I have seen a lot of people stop to chat, including the manager of the mini-mart. They sleep in the doorway all year long, even this past brutal winter. </span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Although they have a small plastic bowl with a perfunctory “Monnaie, SVP” sign in front of it, they are not aggressive beggars and actually don’t seem to care if you put money in it or not. I must have passed them hundreds of time going to and from my run. Mostly I just nod. A couple of times I put money in their dish to their great surprise. One day I was walking past them sweaty and relaxed on the Rue de Grenelle on my way home and the graybeard said, "Hey!" </span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I turned. "Where you going? The track is that way." And he started laughing at his own joke. I knew Spring was here.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The other, more droll comment came from a black homeless guy sitting meditatively on a bench tucked in a corner of the Luxembourg Gardens. He studied me each time I went past. I have a grim, preoccupied look on my face when I run, like I’m thinking about a dead puppy. So as I loped by him a third time he urged, “Allez. Avec JOIE” which basically translates into, “At least <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">try</span> to look like you’re enjoying it.”</span></span></span><br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Fascinating French fact:</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> The word </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">clochard</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> comes from the French verb </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">clocher</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">, to limp.</span></span></div>Doug Colliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09123539287906635991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080862893595932366.post-19600736232379370202009-05-18T08:48:00.011+02:002009-06-11T10:56:03.514+02:00Sunday In Paris<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK4Eoegzc5EnMBqpegrxV-wsJ2atSVoMp8EmYi_TlXKLKpPoihke1rRV5jnmfkaV7twknFT7BaWXvzkAcOgja0PGuwtVwUI-6KvSJBn4cqte8LIlYI8NlE1XYJMlb2HvYOZs7aEN7_xN8/s1600-h/Subway.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK4Eoegzc5EnMBqpegrxV-wsJ2atSVoMp8EmYi_TlXKLKpPoihke1rRV5jnmfkaV7twknFT7BaWXvzkAcOgja0PGuwtVwUI-6KvSJBn4cqte8LIlYI8NlE1XYJMlb2HvYOZs7aEN7_xN8/s400/Subway.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337052921938160786" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">NEXT TRAIN :04</span></span><br /></div>Doug Colliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09123539287906635991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080862893595932366.post-76089313485295153172009-05-08T13:15:00.055+02:002009-06-20T00:15:24.071+02:00Animal Intelligence<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuPQgEKb7XX3ZQcwvjB5QT44SB170qes76IZP6IZhcZHCnjuhr39dPQMl6Lx1r5Aea_wRGVn7jY3B-2wRPA1k0Sn0VKEBeDgrHiKlv23iGtG2yE55Jd7v0v1UWnxFNrKJUYj-p0d2nngw/s1600-h/DeadPigeon2.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 166px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuPQgEKb7XX3ZQcwvjB5QT44SB170qes76IZP6IZhcZHCnjuhr39dPQMl6Lx1r5Aea_wRGVn7jY3B-2wRPA1k0Sn0VKEBeDgrHiKlv23iGtG2yE55Jd7v0v1UWnxFNrKJUYj-p0d2nngw/s200/DeadPigeon2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5333410613280451442" border="0" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A pigeon crapped on my head today. I was running my last lap of the Luxembourg Gardens, when I felt a warm, semi-solid dollop of goo splat on the top of my skull. Even before I smelled it, I knew what it was. You don't mistake something like that for rain. My attempt to wipe it off only smeared the poop around, creating a greenish birdshit mousse that made my hair stink and stand up in very odd ways. But this special event got me thinking about the complex relationships the French have with their animals in particular. And about animal intelligence in general. Let me explain.</span></span><br /></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">If one were do some sort of I.Q. rating of the animals in Paris, dogs would be at the top of the brain chain. Every day you see them out on the street,<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> self-possessed, four-legged </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">boulevardiers. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> usually ambling yards ahead of their owners, thinking doggie thoughts, off on a doggie mission, lost in doggie world. Unlike their American versions, the dogs of Paris rarely take note of people. They don't pant or pander or snarl or bark or hop up obsequiously or even look at you. Many stroll along leash-less, although an owner and leash are close by. I once saw a dog carrying its own leash in its mouth, sparing its master even that burden.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> For all I know they may vote in presidential elections.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">At the other end of the animal I.Q. spectrum are pigeons. They are far, far, far at the bottom. They are underneath the bottom. To put it another way, their intelligence only slightly higher than gravel. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', fantasy;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">One of my first impressions of the Luxembourg Gardens was how spectacularly dumb pigeons were. Unlike most creatures with eyes and ears and the ability to walk, not to mention the ability to fly, they were beyond dense. Barely a day went by when I did not almost step on a pigeon during my jog. The scenario was always the same. After I almost tripped over it, the bird would frantically flap its wings and coo and then run around in a tiny circle on the same spot like one of the Three Stooges, giving me multiple chances to step on it or accidentally kick it again. How do they keep from getting run over? I wondered. (Answer: They don't. See photo above.)</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">First I thought all the birds of Paris were all dimwits on the wing, until my wife and I were waiting for a train at Gare Austerlitz. We were sitting in the inside portion of a cafe. I noticed that a small posse of sparrows were loitering suspiciously outside the automatic door. Whenever a customer walked in, a sparrow would fly in behind him in a kind of I'm-with-him move, then flit around until it found a table with crumbs or, even better, a sympathetic diner. One flew over to the table next to us, perched on the back of a vacant chair facing a woman reading her paper and stared at her with its beady little eyes until she smiled and tossed it some crumbs.<br /><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></span></div><div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I'M SO HUNGRY I COULD EAT A HORSE . . . REALLY.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Of course critter love does not extend to all animals in France. Go to the markets and you'll see skinned bunnies and the heads of piglets hanging from meat hooks. Go to some neighborhoods and you will find signs for </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">chevalines</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">, horse meat butchers, like this:</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinsU8JoUF-l5TPx5Ln1QSage1SJHVWf7G5lqSARjNdL2rsceD1_O3oPJkNz4Ab8GAZht9mT44huxeAX_iqOq120Sb0y4IsnkYet3JmyQLL8D7k9MJEm4BesiSYyJt2SNizbtnktmdFgnM/s1600-h/HorseSign.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinsU8JoUF-l5TPx5Ln1QSage1SJHVWf7G5lqSARjNdL2rsceD1_O3oPJkNz4Ab8GAZht9mT44huxeAX_iqOq120Sb0y4IsnkYet3JmyQLL8D7k9MJEm4BesiSYyJt2SNizbtnktmdFgnM/s400/HorseSign.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5333573159933456802" border="0" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Although my understanding is the French are losing their appetite for eating a distant cousin of Seabiscuit, this shop I saw was doing pretty good weekend business. (In case you're wondering, the older the horse, the more tender the meat.) </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5333571268845535538"></a></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">IN THE COUNTRY</span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Once you get away from the city there is a big attitude shift. You will not see French people carrying their dogs as though they were made of porcelain or hauling them around in precious carriers with mesh netting windows so Monsieur Le Fido can get a little air and see the sights. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">"Country people are more basic, more grounded," is how one veterinarian put it to me.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">She has a thriving practice in the Limousin and during one of my visits she showed up late for lunch looking distraught. She accidentally hit a cat. "I can still hear the thump of the body when I ran over it," she moaned. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">She figured out which farmhouse it belonged to, went to the front door and nervously knocked. "Do you have a red and white cat?" she asked the woman who answered.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">"I have two," the woman said.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">"Not any more," said the vet. Then she told the cat owner about the accident.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">The woman shrugged. "Better the cat than me." </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">"This is what I like about country folks," the veterinarian said. "They see animals as animals. Not as people or substitute children."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Later she was complaining about a young horse she had recently bought and how aggressive and untrainable he was. When I suggested she sell it, she replied, "I couldn't do that. He's too dangerous. I would worry he would hurt the new owner."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">What about loaning it out for breeding? </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">"He's not that much of a thoroughbred. I'll try one more round of training."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">"And if that doesn't work?"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">"I'll eat him," she said.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Bon appetit.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Fascinating French Fact:</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> The oldest public pet cemetery in the world is </span></span><a href="http://europeforvisitors.com/paris/articles/paris-dog-cemetery.htm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Le </span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><a href="http://europeforvisitors.com/paris/articles/paris-dog-cemetery.htm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Cimetière des Chiens</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> on the outskirts of Paris.</span></span></span></div></div></div></div>Doug Colliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09123539287906635991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080862893595932366.post-44203642464280496682009-05-06T11:08:00.073+02:002010-05-21T15:01:48.808+02:00Getting out and around<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAH0qODtGfiHHoEU0H1H-c5Ep4U2aF2_n-SHI94XzHlkUpkXaMtz5cjJ16TFK-D_eFhWvciKWTWrKUnykvM15H555WgI66-vhTCCDa5CV4Eiz1PCjBRH21Mj9ZAdcCqh5GDP1USY6rMVg/s1600-h/Braille+label.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 164px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAH0qODtGfiHHoEU0H1H-c5Ep4U2aF2_n-SHI94XzHlkUpkXaMtz5cjJ16TFK-D_eFhWvciKWTWrKUnykvM15H555WgI66-vhTCCDa5CV4Eiz1PCjBRH21Mj9ZAdcCqh5GDP1USY6rMVg/s200/Braille+label.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332637656442580530" border="0" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">You get punished for being a homebody in Paris. In the past few months I missed seeing the <a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/europe/france/4699842/Garibaldi-the-runaway-horse-stuns-Parisians-in-cross-city-escapade.html">runaway horse,</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> the </span><a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/news/blog/2009/mar/29/naked-pole-vaulter-paris-nike"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">naked pole vaulter</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> and most recently (<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">sigh</span>) the <a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/fr/video/x99ein_make-the-girl-dance-baby-baby-baby_music">naked models</a> walking down the street where I get my hair cut, all of whom were galavanting just blocks away from our apartment. Oh well. Ever since I opted to blow off Woodstock and stay home and drink beer with friends, I felt like my destiny is always to miss the real party.</span></span><br /></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Fortunately I've discovered if you do manage to get out and around and keep your eyes open, there are still little surprises to be found. Some examples:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The other day I was passing a neighborhood wine shop which had their weekly specials in the window. Among them was a bottle of Cotes-Du-Rhone which caught my eye. The reason was the label.[See above left. Take a <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">close</span> look.] It had bumps all over it, like Braille elevator buttons, I thought. I told my wife I saw wine for the blind. I told my friends. I got the look usually given to people who say they have seen a UFO. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But I was right. The label </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">was</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> in Braille. I learned that since 1996 the wine maker, </span><a href="http://www.chapoutier.com/gb/societe/biodynamie_gout_braille.cfm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Michel Chapoutier</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">, has been labeling all his wines with Braille, partly as an homage to the previous owner of the property who created a shorthand version of Braille, and partly to make his wine more accessible to wine lovers with impaired vision. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">(Sometimes forgotten among in the thickets of history is how much various French innovators have done to improve the lives of the handicapped. A blind autodidact and gifted musician and inventor, </span><a href="http://www.afb.org/braillebug/louis_braille_bio.asp"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Louis Braille</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> gave the world the raised dot reading system used today on books, elevator buttons and wine labels. Another Frenchman, </span><a href="http://deafness.about.com/cs/education/a/deafeducation.htm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Abbe Charles Michel de L'Epee</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> was the first person to establish a school exclusively for deaf children. It was replicated in the United States with the help of one of his teachers.) </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">* * *</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">On a more mundane note, I am constantly fascinated during my Parisian walkabouts by the extremes to which people go to keep their bikes from being stolen. This person removed his seat and U-locked the bike to a tree guard. It must take him an hour to get ready for a ride:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio9N_yroyYr1CwbnSo2zhw2t8q377x0LwgbUDm_0a8ZY6cvrkki3EvVnsaa-ntKjfGnXW9wlNjtkTJ4m016IJVzJ1NHWaKPu9r0X9-VE-5y3D2BLU_ZHPishyphenhyphengFLaFZk-M3Qs1ouygKwo/s1600-h/BicycleUpaPole1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio9N_yroyYr1CwbnSo2zhw2t8q377x0LwgbUDm_0a8ZY6cvrkki3EvVnsaa-ntKjfGnXW9wlNjtkTJ4m016IJVzJ1NHWaKPu9r0X9-VE-5y3D2BLU_ZHPishyphenhyphengFLaFZk-M3Qs1ouygKwo/s400/BicycleUpaPole1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332993213965772482" border="0" /></a><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And I cannot get over the fact that sometimes you can turn an ordinary street corner and see hundreds of rollerbladers coming at you:</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxz_01Kct9chfTwNFtrtrk6-YOeQr356jjIF_rIOEdOnLlxAN6oVDF76fkBS5r5-w6DCdycdtsscnd6tggaCA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">That's almost as good as a runaway horse.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Fascinating French Fact:</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> Abbe Charles Michel De L'Epee is interred in the historic 17th century church of </span></span><a href="http://www.homeandabroad.com/browse/details/sites.ha?mainInfoId=39468&tabRef=details&rqs=$rqs"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Saint-Roch</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> on the Right Bank, where there is a statue of him and, below it, a thank you plaque from the blind people of Belgium.</span></span></div></div>Doug Colliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09123539287906635991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080862893595932366.post-17441101669683757452009-04-30T11:53:00.040+02:002009-06-19T10:03:40.553+02:00Just Buzz Me In<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR1JdjGTH2UGSMQQdymKSFORzSzTQgegzC7MSdYn-wdTyQNdOo-2tR6Ja2laE8bc6kmLY5ywZXVxaeY7LV70xhwXRgLq60BIUAxl70zMBIrqGMO1eRulAHJrOB7HhSod1G_JR-_yho4-U/s1600-h/THE+KEYPAD.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 96px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR1JdjGTH2UGSMQQdymKSFORzSzTQgegzC7MSdYn-wdTyQNdOo-2tR6Ja2laE8bc6kmLY5ywZXVxaeY7LV70xhwXRgLq60BIUAxl70zMBIrqGMO1eRulAHJrOB7HhSod1G_JR-_yho4-U/s200/THE+KEYPAD.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330420735522194786" border="0" /></a><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The morning we walked into the courtyard of our apartment building for the first time a compact little woman came walking towards me. She was shaped like R2D2 and was carrying a 50-pound suitcase from the curb – mine – in one hand and shaking my hand with the other. This was Madame Rosa, our concierge.</span></span></span><div><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />The last concierge I dealt with was a smarmy, oleaginous fellow working the front desk of a hotel in Los Angeles who helped me find a good Thai restaurant. Madame Rosa was part of a different tradition. Her job dates to the 19th century. Back then Napoleon started the whole thing by requiring that every apartment building in Paris have a caretaker, a concierge. </span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">(No one seems to knows where the word came from, but one school of thought says it was a corruption of </span></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">le compte de cierge</span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">, literally the “keeper of the candle” and originally referred to a person in the Middle Ages whose job was to light the castle candles - </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">cierges -</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> at the end of day and take care of other housekeeping matters. Or maybe not.)</span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">SNITCH IN RESIDENCE</span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />Whatever the word's provenance, Napoleon wasn’t thinking of candles or the comfort of Parisians when he laid down his mandate. He wanted to keep his eye on his fellow Frenchmen. The guy was a world class paranoid. </span></span></span></div><div><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Concierges in those days knew a lot - part of their job was to open the doors for their tenants and their guests - and were paid little. Consequently they also made ideal informers for government agents and anyone else willing to buy from them what they knew. Fairly or not, the concierges became typecast as a kind of latter-day Madame DeFarge, cold-hearted gossips and greedy harridans willing to turn in their tenants for the right price.<br /><br />By the turn of the 21st century many of these </span></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">gardiennes</span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> had been replaced by the security keypad with numbered buttons [see photo] you will see in the doorway of most Parisian apartment buildings. The concierge was becoming part of a quaint, </span></span><a href="http://www.expatica.com/fr/leisure/arts_culture/France_s-iconic-_concierge_-_-a-dying-breed_.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">fading tradition</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> like the hurdy-gurdy man outside the Luxembourg Gardens or the guy in the Tuilleries who rents sailboats to children. In many buildings the little one or two-room concierge apartments by the front door were renovated and sold for a tidy pile of Euros, and their occupants were encouraged to return to Portugal where many, including Madame Rosa, are from.<br /><br /></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">NEW CACHET</span></span></span></div><div><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The number of concierges in Paris have shrunk drastically. In the 1950s there were around 70,000 in Paris. By some estimates today there are around 20,000. Now that they are so rare, there is a newly discovered chicness to having a concierge in one's building. I found this out one day when Peter, an American I met in Paris, was stunned to hear me say that we had one. Or as he put it: “</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">You</span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> have a concierge?” He was impressed. </span></span></span></div><div><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I was impressed that he was impressed. He had lived in Paris off and on since the 70s and was continually bemused by the simple minded discoveries I was sharing with him. (“Peter, have you seen this huge pointy thing on the south bank of the Seine? Made by a guy named Eiffel?”) </span></span></span></div><div><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />Because of his approving reaction I looked at Madame Rosa in a new light. But she seemed oblivious to her status. She had the forlorn expression of someone constantly beset with worry about: the cleanliness of our courtyard, the efficiency – or lack of it – of mail delivery which the tenants complained about, the parade of workmen </span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">renovating the apartment upstairs </span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">in, the mess they made in her hallways, the theft of champagne from one of the caves in the basement during the renovation, the carelessness with which people sorted the trash. Notices were going up almost weekly to alert us to be on the lookout for thieves, to tell us that she was </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">not</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> withholding mail and delivering it when she felt like it, to tell us we should crush our cardboard cartons before dumping them in the trash, to tell us it wasn't her fault the workmen were making a mess.<br /></span></span></span></div><div><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />Still, she had power and we were instructed to woo her. “She has a lot of time on her hands during the day for ironing," our landlord suggested. "You could give her some of your shirts.”</span></span></span></div><div><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />Crap, I thought. All the shirts I brought with me were made of some astonishing no-wrinkle superfabric. If you tied them in knots and drove a steam roller over them and staked them out in the dessert soaking wet, they would never, ever, ever show so much as a pucker. But I had to do something, so one day I grabbed a couple of wet shirts right out of the wash, smushed and twisted and knotted them and immediately ran to Madame Rosa's apartment to hand them off to her before they unwrinkled on me. </span></span></span></div><div><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">An hour later I heard was a buzz at the door. There she stood proudly holding out my shirts as though they were vestments. I don't know how she did it but somehow she had managed to iron new wrinkles into them. (A year later they are still there.) But they were folded neatly.<br /></span></span></span></div><div><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />I gushed, “So quick. Thank you. Thank you very, very much. How much do I owe you?”</span></span></span></div><div><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />“Pffffff,” she waved the matter off as though it were just a favor, neighbor to a neighbor. But it was like more a favor done by the Godfather. The burden of just and appropriate recompense was on me. And whatever it was I knew it had better be good.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Paranoid French fact:</span> Napoleon had Baron (who was not a Baron) Haussmann widen some of the narrow streets into leafy boulevards not for their gentle ambiance, but to make it difficult for a revolting citizenry to blockade them and to serve as routes to dispatch masses of crowd controlling troops in case of an uprising.<br /></span></span></span></div><div><br /><br /></div>Doug Colliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09123539287906635991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080862893595932366.post-51642895436939958582009-04-16T14:06:00.039+02:002009-06-12T12:55:45.034+02:00Meet Mr. Alphabet<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIDnkZomEuzahiLKYapjXYjTmoo5vXHAEbPH6TcVERah-4VBIM1lkIocf42j8vGxazJnLhcUvW6_3UktlxW7OljjvhG-P9SHL3ScsoOWZ9AkFCfcZKaop4cuWKOMLP4SmxOcdySUQmTY0/s1600-h/Workbook.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIDnkZomEuzahiLKYapjXYjTmoo5vXHAEbPH6TcVERah-4VBIM1lkIocf42j8vGxazJnLhcUvW6_3UktlxW7OljjvhG-P9SHL3ScsoOWZ9AkFCfcZKaop4cuWKOMLP4SmxOcdySUQmTY0/s200/Workbook.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325263832157191458" border="0" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">“Ooooh,” Mlle. Butterfly groaned and dropped her head onto the desk. “I'm exhausted.”<br /><br />In the months we had been desk buddies this was the most demonstrative she had ever been. Usually class began with a nod, a perfunctory “Ça va?” and we’d open our notebooks in silence. She did not encourage questions. I did not ask any. Our relationship was like that of two polite strangers sitting next to each other in coach on a long, long flight, each doing their best not to invade the other’s armrest space and minimize personal interaction. For her to even share the small fact she was <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">fatiguée</span> was unprecedented.<br /><br />“Why?” I asked.<br /><br />“I spent all day Sunday at </span><a href="http://www.disneylandparis.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">EuroDisney</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">.”<br /><br />“My god,” I gasped. “WHY?” I completely forgot that place existed.<br /><br />“Visitors. With children,” she muttered into her folded arms.<br /><br />It turned out that even exhausted, she loved every minute. She was a fan and often went to the Disney World in her hometown, Tokyo.<br /><br />“Have you been?” she asked.<br /><br />“To the one in the United States,” I said. “I saw Tokyo Disney on the way to the airport.”<br /><br />“You’ve been to Japan?” She looked up.<br /><br />“For a few weeks. On business. I know five Japanese words: </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Hai</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> [yes], <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Arigato</span> [thank you], </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Domo</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> Arigato</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> [thank you very much], </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Ohayo</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> [Good morning] and </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Konichiwa</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> [Good afternoon]. No, seven: </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">sushi</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> and </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">saki.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> No nine: </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Toyota </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">and</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> Honda.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">”<br /><br />No smile. “Did you go to Kyoto?”<br /><br />I could not figure out a way to say in French, “I did want to go, but It was a working trip and I was scheduled from nine in the morning to late at night every day so I didn’t have any free time except for one Sunday, and by then I was so <span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">fatigué</span></span></span> all I wanted to do was sleep in, even though Kyoto was only a three hour train ride away so I did, but I feel guilty about missing it.”<br /><br />So I said, “No.”<br /><br />“You should have gone.” She frowned.<br /><br />“Yeah, well I should have done a lot of things.”<br /><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">THE INCREDIBLE SHRINKING CLASS</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">“Coucou! Coucou!” Mlle. G. our teacher was calling out, trying to get everyone to quiet down. Our band of French grammar explorers was shrinking by the week. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The very sad Japanese woman I noticed the first class abruptly disappeared after just a couple of sessions. A few weeks later it was the young woman from Cuba. I missed her droll sense of humor. (When I told her I knew some people who had gone kayaking in Cuba and asked if she ever tried it, she shook her head. “My family is descended from slaves. We don’t get into boats.”)<br /><br />Then the Hungarian costume designer who had an amazing wardrobe of silk scarves disappeared. Perhaps he ran out of class scarves. And then there was Maria, the animated Italian with the beautiful smile and delightfully accented French. She followed her husband back to Rome.<br /><br />But Mlle. Butterfly remained, doggedly coming to every class. She had been a bit of a mystery, not so much aloof as wistful. Gradually I learned that she had come to Paris ten years ago, stayed to marry a Frenchman, stayed on after the divorce. She was in her 40s. She used to work for an insurance company. But now she worked in a shop on the Champ d'Elysees as a </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">vendeuse,</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> a saleswoman, handling expensive handbags. She told me the name of the boutique and was horrified I did not recognize the brand.<br /><br />“I'm not a handbag shopper,” I apologized.<br /><br />“But the bags are famous,” she said.<br /><br />“No doubt,” I said in broken French, “but the World of the Handbag is not the World of Doug.”<br /><br />In spite of my ignorance of bags, we had become a team. She was able to explain things to me in baby French. In return, I had a talent I had underestimated. I knew the alphabet.<br /><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">MR. ALPHABET TO THE RESCUE</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Early on, I noticed that she took notes in Japanese script. She had an electronic French-Japanese dictionary which showed on its screen French words in Japanese script. One week after I missed a class and asked to copy down the homework assignment. She showed me her notebook, pages of Japanese writing. That was when I realized why those impromptu essays we had to write were so difficult for her. She hadn’t mastered the Western alphabet. She struggled to craft one sentence, while I would crank out paragraphs of bad French on the most absurd topics.<br /><br />One typical assignment: What does a baby dream? I was thinking of an old </span><a href="http://www.deepthoughtsbyjackhandey.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Jack Handey </span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://www.deepthoughtsbyjackhandey.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Deep Thought</span></a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">: “A boy wants to grow up to be a fireman, but a man wants to grow up to be a giant, monster fireman.”<br /><br />So I wrote: “I will be a fireman or perhaps a soldier, but not the president because I hate politics. I will live in the country and would like to have two or three chickens, and some cows. I will stay in a little house in the Perigord.” This, from a grown man. (Don’t laugh. I got a “Tres bien.”)<br /><br />Whenever someone from the two-student teams had to go the blackboard for an exercise, Mlle. Butterfly commanded, “You go. That’s not my métier.” So I would stand there meekly as she called out grammatical corrections for me to make or sometimes send me back to the board to fix an error. It's fair to say that if I made a list of 10,000 possible scenarios of my life in Paris, standing at a blackboard being ordered around at by an ex-pat Japanese </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">vendeuse</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> would not be on the list.<br /><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">That night as we were leaving class, I overheard someone say to Mlle. Butterfly, "Are you not feeling well?"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"I'm just tired. I was at Euro Disney all day yesterday."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"My god," I heard. "WHY?"<br /></span></span><br /></div>Doug Colliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09123539287906635991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080862893595932366.post-13300278860656604802009-04-14T10:53:00.012+02:002009-06-14T10:59:10.057+02:00"I'm with stupid"<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3sHpkodahbe2TYtSS3Z3cisX1yrBqQeyqEHD_jgK8DQ_6Po17HGFh9brjDgYyFnuV2nkLvvvx7KKbcfoPGtZZRpK2LaGLMIt-5NbdRb9pet0gA7lWInz_wPlaS4MwNPlb6Hn90xyx3Qw/s1600-h/Tshirt3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 162px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3sHpkodahbe2TYtSS3Z3cisX1yrBqQeyqEHD_jgK8DQ_6Po17HGFh9brjDgYyFnuV2nkLvvvx7KKbcfoPGtZZRpK2LaGLMIt-5NbdRb9pet0gA7lWInz_wPlaS4MwNPlb6Hn90xyx3Qw/s200/Tshirt3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324468036373203666" border="0" /></a><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">One gift to global culture for which Americans owe the world a big apology is that bastard spawn of the bumper sticker: the clever T-shirt. For years, the French had the good taste not to wear those things. Nowhere in Paris would you ever see anything like: "<i>J'accompagne l'idiot</i>" across someone's chest with a cartoon hand pointing to their companion. Sadly, this is no longer true. "I'm with Stupid" has come to town. Some examples seen on the boulevards:</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /><br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=";"></span></span></span><div style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;"><span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"PORNOGRAPHIC STAR"</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">(Worn by a 13-year-old boy.)<br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"You will go to hell for what your dirty mind is thinking"</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />(Radiohead fan.)<br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"FIGHT 4 SURVIVE"</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />(Above a picture of an endangered species, I think. A bison. Or a cow. It was hard to tell.)<br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"DON'T TOUCH WHAT YOU CANNOT AFFORD"</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />(Across the chubby chest of a chubby woman.)<br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"ROCKET SHIP ROBOT FUTURE IS HERE"</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />(I have no idea either.)<br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"KISS AND MAKE UP"</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />(Copied from a candy heart.)<br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"WHERE AM I?"</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />(Good question.)<br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"I WANT TO BE YOUR COWBOY"</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />(Seen on a funky smelling guy with no shoes and mocha-colored teeth.)<br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"QUI ES TU?"</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />(Another good question.)<br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"UNIVERSITY OF AMERICA"</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />(What is that - a branch of United States College?)<br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"I'M NOT IN THE MOOD"</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />(Worn by a 10-year-old boy.)<br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"FBI:</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">FEMALE</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">BODY</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">INSPECTOR"</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />(Worn by an idiot.)<br /></span></span></span></div><br /></div>Doug Colliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09123539287906635991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080862893595932366.post-75748506557572822282009-04-08T12:29:00.022+02:002009-05-09T09:54:45.633+02:00In the King's stables<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBdt2jaK7Isz_gosr9HXkJn6lMRKIAgIjmdYo6ldeKUUaX05EerUxmS95684SGdKl4EmUyynYTF1on6mKr5X4xDzN14SH5Rf7omTKl2QNyL_IKPK4ghAtRMAbo6V6K6e9vVwp69sdA_T0/s1600-h/HorsePoster.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBdt2jaK7Isz_gosr9HXkJn6lMRKIAgIjmdYo6ldeKUUaX05EerUxmS95684SGdKl4EmUyynYTF1on6mKr5X4xDzN14SH5Rf7omTKl2QNyL_IKPK4ghAtRMAbo6V6K6e9vVwp69sdA_T0/s200/HorsePoster.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322266381737824082" border="0" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">I hate circuses. I’m afraid of horses. And I never felt the least urge to visit Versailles, which I perennially dismissed as a McMansion on steroids. So how to explain the fact that I was spending a balmy evening this spring indoors, sitting on a lightly padded wooden bench at the edge of what suspiciously resembled the ring of a one-ring circus, waiting for a troupe of performing horses to appear – at Versailles? </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">The short answer is that I was there with my daughter, an avid rider, who had wanted to see something called the </span></span><a href="http://www.acadequestre.fr/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">Academie du Spectacle Equestre</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"> during her visit to Paris. The even shorter answer is that, against my inclination, I was intrigued.<br /><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">THE KING AND THE GYPSY</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">A few years ago the French Ministry of Culture realized they had a diamond in the rough at Versailles. It is a building just outside the gates of the Sun King’s palace called the Great Stables, where Louis XIV, housed a small army of pages and grooms and his 600 magnificent horses. He favored a Portuguese breed called Lusitano, known for their gracefulness, mellow dispositions and striking appearance – cream colored coat and startling pale blue eyes. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">In its glory days during the late 1600s, the Great Stables was a place of dazzling opulence. It was designed by Jules Hardouin-Mansart, the same architect who did the famous Hall of Mirrors in the King’s residence. From the stone frieze of three stallions leaping out just above the doorway, to long rows of burnished wood stalls illuminated by lamps hanging from armatures of hand-wrought cast iron beneath arched stone ceiling it was Valhalla for the prestigious royal cavalry. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">But time had not been kind to the building. The once elegant structure was variously used over the centuries as an army barracks, an assembly building for gun carriages, offices for bureaucrats and most recently as a musty warehouse for old government files. By the turn of the 21st century it was a derelict building, in the word of one architect, a “soulless space.”<br /><br />In 2002 the government’s Ministry of Culture decided to rehabilitate the structure and searched for a head of the stables. One obvious choice was the aristocratic Michel Henriquet, revered teacher and master of French dressage, a formal series of movements by horse and rider which evolved from cavalry warfare. Instead the Ministry opted for a wildcard: a French impresario named Clément Marty, who prefers to be known as Bartabas. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">A former street performer, bullfighter and steeplechase jockey, Bartabas is self-taught horsemen who founded a troupe of performing horses which is called </span><a href="http://video.google.com/videosearch?client=safari&rls=en&q=zingaro&oe=UTF-8&um=1&ie=UTF-8&sa=N&hl=en&tab=wv#"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">Zingaro</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"> – Italian for Gypsy. It is a kind of equestrian Cirque de Soleil which is so quirky he has been invited to avant garde art venues around the world, from the Brooklyn Academy of Music to the Tokyo Arts Festival.<br /><br />He agreed to take on the challenge of restoring the Great Stables at least partly to their old glory and donated 30 Lusitano horses. Today, after a 300-year absence, the ghostly white animals again occupy the stalls. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">He also established an Academy of Equestrian Performance which invites experienced young riders from all over the world to learn the higher skills of horsemanship in a two-year program. The students are given modest stipends and living quarters and participate in a curriculum which is unique. They are instructed in fencing, dance and even singing, as well as the finer points of riding. They help keep the Great Stables financially solvent by putting on performances for tourists who come to Versailles.<br /><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">DESIGNER SPACE</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">The government has invested heavily in the stables and it shows. Riders have saddles made by Hermes. The 15 chandeliers in the performing ring are crafted from Murano glass and the performers wear elegantly brocaded jackets created by high fashion designer Dries van Noten. And the show did not disappoint. It was a combination of displays of traditional demonstrations of horsemanship and demonstrations of the animals intelligence, which were magical. Visitors can either pay to watch </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lh53SIW-c2A"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">dressage practice </span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">or the full-blown show, performed to classical music by riders. In neither case should one miss a visit to the awe inspiring stables and a close-up look at the magnificent animals. </span></span><br /><br /></div>Doug Colliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09123539287906635991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080862893595932366.post-66814428822350018782009-04-07T17:45:00.101+02:002009-06-19T10:16:05.943+02:00It ain't got that swing<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3E7Zp7rQPVo2TuRHYZOcUOg0Ur9Ixp3q1WNoOOZ_-rX3CbmRGfn_aBTnTI9xznqXZ97UP8cFTbf4SUKuvdXZrEXA9rEVSXRW2_mVOF9Z5I329TNq3TdZAQySKKC4OS_ujXJhRSFRrMQg/s1600-h/QBranly.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 199px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3E7Zp7rQPVo2TuRHYZOcUOg0Ur9Ixp3q1WNoOOZ_-rX3CbmRGfn_aBTnTI9xznqXZ97UP8cFTbf4SUKuvdXZrEXA9rEVSXRW2_mVOF9Z5I329TNq3TdZAQySKKC4OS_ujXJhRSFRrMQg/s200/QBranly.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322064670646257186" border="0" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">My father had his own jazz orchestra [“Doug Colligan and the Night Hawks”] in the 30's. I grew up listening to Benny Goodman, Teddy Wilson and Earl “Fatha” Hines. I still own my original vinyls of Dave Brubeck’s classic “Take Five,” Stan Getz and Charlie Byrd’s groundbreaking “Jazz Samba” and Archie Shepp’s slyly subversive “Sea of Faces.” I have shaken Sonny Rollins hand. I once shared an elevator with Stéphane Grappelli in awestruck silence for 10 seconds. I have seen County Basie and Joe Williams perform in Lincoln Center to a packed house. I’ve seen Joe Pizzarelli play practically to no one in a bar on the upper West Side of New York. I’ve heard Roy Eldridge in Eddie Condon’s jazz club, in the waning days of 52nd Street. And I own a signed first edition of Eubie Blake’s autobiography. So when I read that the Musée de Quai Branly in Paris was mounting a show called the </span></span><a href="http://www.quaibranly.fr/en/programmation/exhibitions/currently/the-jazz-century/index.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Jazz Century"</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> I was very, very excited.<br /></span></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Paris is an aloof, snobby city paradoxically known for its goofy affection for jazz musicians, the wackier, the better. Just one example: in the 1930s, musical genius and hot-tempered alto saxophonist Sydney Bechet accidentally shot a woman bystander during a street duel in Paris. He was aiming at a producer who told Bechet he played a wrong note. Bechet was arrested, spent time in prison and later was deported. This should have been a hint, but he came back in the 1950s and the French not only let him in, they welcomed him so warmly he stayed there the rest of his life. It was because he played so well, and didn't shoot any more Parisians. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Naturally I had great expectations for the show after I read, “close to 1,000 works have been brought together for this exposition.” So I began my journey along the serpentine “street” that was the labyrinthine layout for the show, a stroll through ten rooms of exhibits representing 100 years of jazz history. It was a layout so convoluted you needed a map, which the museum thoughtfully provided. [See above]. Hours later I was back on the street outside the museum. Five words popped into my head: “What the hell was that?”</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Then two more words: "Science Fair." The whole show had that earnest nerdy feel of an exhibit put on by the talented and gifted. The only thing missing was a booth on photosynthesis.<br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">JAZZ FOR THE DEAF</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />Background for those unfamiliar with it: Jazz is an aural art form. For that reason I expected – there is no other way to put it -- music. Rythmic and/or interesting sounds. Yes, the show had music, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">sheet music</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">, acres of it, untouchable, displayed behind glass like religious artifacts. That was OK up to a point, but unless you knew the song by heart, seeing the cover sheet of a ditty like “Grand Pere n’aime pas Le Swing” had limited impact and wasn’t going to get the old toe tapping.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />Besides sheet music, the show also had books, magazine articles, record sleeves and more magazine articles and more books and many, many, many more record sleeves dangling by nylon threads from the ceiling. At one point the monotony was broken by an instructional video showing how an actual record of a Duke Ellington recording was made. It looked like someone jamming a black dog turd onto a potter's wheel and squishing with something like a round waffle iron. That video was followed by more sheet music and more books and more magazine articles and more record sleeves, a few posters. And then some more sheet music.<br /><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Some of the displays were entertaining in unexpected ways. There was a 1943 Life magazine showing the photo of something known among "hip" musicians as a "jam session." On the facing page was an ad for Lee work clothes. The vaguely homoerotic art shows bunch of big, beefy guys in rugged Lee work clothes hoisting an American G.I high in the air. Hands supporting his taut butt. Big smiles all around. The ad copy is reassuring the GI that someday the war will be over and he'll be able to wear these terrific Lee work clothes that the grinning, muscular guys holding him are wearing: “You’ll wake up some morning with the last belligerent Jap gone the way of his ignoble ancestors . . .”</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />After I got poked in the head with yet another dangling record sleeve I decided I had been educated enough about the world of l</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">e jazz hot</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> and it was time to go. Then I heard a faint, faraway rhythmic </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">something</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">, as though I were sitting next to someone who had his iPod cranked up to full volume. That’s when I noticed that every few meters along the display cases there was a three-inch circle of holes drilled into the plexiglass dividers. Out of these holes was leaking actual music. It was like coming to an oasis which appeared to be bone dry but which yielded a little dribble of water if you were willing to claw your fingers to bloody stumps to get it.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />Even though it was nearly inaudible, I did manage to detect the faint honeyed notes of Sidney Bechet’s soulful “Petite Fleur” timidly seeping into the public space. And halfway farther along the walk was a cramped little viewing room where was shown a selection of video clips of famous cinematic moments in jazz, including a scene from that jazz icon of films, the Jerry Lewis flick, “Ladies Man.” (No, I didn't see it either.)<br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">AMERIKA</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />Although I did not hear a lot of music I did learn things. Like America was very, very racist. There were photos of atrocities, like an infamous </span></span><a href="http://www.nebraskastudies.org/0700/frameset_reset.html?http://www.nebraskastudies.org/0700/stories/0701_0134.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">picture of a charred corpse,</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> part of a horrible story about an innocent African American man who was shot, lynched and burned in Nebraska in 1919, complete with the requisite crowd of grinning white dimwits gathered around the grotesquely mangled body.<br /><br />Later on there was a news photo of an elegantly dressed Miles Davis in a blood-drenched sports jacket. The article told how in 1959 he was on the sidewalk taking a break between sets outside a nightclub on 52nd Street in Manhattan when a pea-brained New York cop told Davis to “move along.” When he did not, the cop beat one of the greatest jazz trumpet players of all times over the head. (Nice work, officer.) Perhaps after that he walked uptown to Carnegie Hall and pistol whipped Leonard Bernstein.<br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But I also learned other things. Like according to one movie poster Steve Allen and Donna Reed starred in “The Benny Goodman Story.” (There were no photos of Mr. Goodman himself, by the way, or mention of his historical </span></span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dbzXS49937A"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Carnegie Hall concert</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> or his breaking the color barrier.) And that one of the movers and shakers of jazz in America was Jackie Gleason. That’s right, “The Honeymooners” Gleason. He churned out a series of treacly, easy listening albums in the 50s and 60s which were distinctive for their forgettability and lack of originality. Except for his hiring Salvador Dali to do the album art for one record jacket, the one on exhibit, there was nothing worth noting about them. So where was Barry Manilow? I wondered, as I walked towards the 80s.<br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">THE SOUNDS OF SILENCE</span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A little background. The Musée de Quai Branly is famous for its ethnographic collection of artifacts of all kinds, including drums and other musical instrument, from Africa, Asia, Oceana, and the Americas. (They have over 8700 according to the museum's web site.) This collection was just a floor above where I was learning all about Jackie Gleason's impact on jazz. Logically I was hoping since they had instruments upstairs, they would have them downstairs.<br /><br />But I should have read the papers. Before the show opened, curator Daniel Soutif warned a reporter, "You won't see Louis Armstrong's trumpet or Django Rheinhardt's guitar," as though it were an absurd expectation. And by god he was right. Except for a tatty Claes Oldenberg-type sculpture of a huge clarinet, there were no musical instruments. That was too bad. I would have settled for just one of Djano Rheinhardt's guitar strings.<br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />Clearly I didn’t get it. Hobbled by a profound lack of sophistication and ignorance about the music created in my country of birth, I came into the place expecting to see something interesting. Instead I found a C+ doctoral dissertation under glass and lots of redundant and marginally relevant jazzabilia.<br /><br />Again, I should have read the papers. Museum director Stephane Martin cautioned would-be visitors, "It is not an exhibition about music, it is an exhibition about civilization." Of course. I should have figured it out from the title of the exhibit. The operative word was not "jazz" but "century," as in 100 ways to make an inherently interesting subject boring.<br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />Watching French museum goers earnestly studying a technician turning a black turd into a record, or quizzically watching an old film of a minstrel show, I wondered what was going on in their Gallic brains. And I couldn’t help think of something Miles Davis said: “I never thought that the music called ‘jazz’ was ever meant to become a museum thing locked under glass like all other dead things that were once considered artistic.” After a day at the Musée, I bet a lot of people would agree.</span></span></span><br /><br /></div></div>Doug Colliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09123539287906635991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080862893595932366.post-58871950292300597402009-04-01T13:18:00.030+02:002009-05-21T21:41:27.718+02:00The Fish of April<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLnG1SUJBK2sZBxQimZ7xAMd9iJ4dqmHXsaXBdVeRzdQUtLTncDJl5_nfVU2TqgajhJ-xmO6R9oTXnU_N17OePEqY4eVjIp5VJrdtAzh737pp3ZcPEnyomYOmZkcqp9Z3UzHRRONc8qOk/s1600-h/FISH.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 132px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLnG1SUJBK2sZBxQimZ7xAMd9iJ4dqmHXsaXBdVeRzdQUtLTncDJl5_nfVU2TqgajhJ-xmO6R9oTXnU_N17OePEqY4eVjIp5VJrdtAzh737pp3ZcPEnyomYOmZkcqp9Z3UzHRRONc8qOk/s200/FISH.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319681021743428674" border="0" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">When we arrived in the classroom where we had our French lessons I always felt the presence of the children who were there before us. Apparently part of their school day was for music. There was a small drum set pushed into a corner and in the back of the room some music books. Some time between their departure and our arrival I suspect the teacher tried to erase all traces of the children - no papers, no doodles. The board was wiped clean. Even so, there would be little clues what their day was like.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />On the evening of April 1 I noticed a small pile of paper fish cutouts the kids had made. They were on a table in the corner. Some were marked "Poisson d'Avril." I discovered that in France it is a tradition to pin or tape a small paper fish, like a "Kick Me" sign, on the back of someone else as an April Fool's joke. In general if you've pranked someone and they fall for it on April 1 you can yell "Poisson d'Avril!" literally Fish of April. As they say here: </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">bizarre</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. What is this all about, I wondered.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzqrKWa9XMMhyphenhyphenBX8IK0_pd_EwzCKY7VUjzUiyh8NxGdpC-n7M-x6EfOUS8XCT04SkVxB0j5KAnrpcpXd628D9HYRlX51H8TmY1VCKCsOJWORN-vdfKHLdAsI21datzg7LeM-ttBzD3Odw/s1600-h/PAPER+Fish.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 108px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzqrKWa9XMMhyphenhyphenBX8IK0_pd_EwzCKY7VUjzUiyh8NxGdpC-n7M-x6EfOUS8XCT04SkVxB0j5KAnrpcpXd628D9HYRlX51H8TmY1VCKCsOJWORN-vdfKHLdAsI21datzg7LeM-ttBzD3Odw/s200/PAPER+Fish.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319782629981364546" border="0" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"HAPPY NEW YE . . " HANG ON</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />My research turned up a lot of confusing explanations as to how this all came to be. The most common one was something I found on a </span><a href="http://www.momes.net/dictionnaire/minidossiers/je-sais-tout/poisson-d-avril-presentation.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">French website</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> which lays the whole thing at the feet of King Charles IX. The story goes that the calendar year used to begin on April 1 but in 1564 Charles switched it to January 1. In those days it was a tradition to exchange gifts at the beginning of the year. When the calendar changed, some jokers thought it would be funny to also exchange gifts in April as well. Wacky gifts.<br /><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">YEAH, BUT WE'RE STICKING PAPER FLOUNDERS ON PEOPLE'S BACKS BECAUSE . . .</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />Why a fish? It depends on whom you ask. One site said that April comes at the end of Lent when traditionally no one ate meat, only fish. Because of that, people used to give fishes to each other. (Hey, don't judge. They didn't have cable in those days.) Another source claimed it was because the moon in early April was in the zodiac position of Pisces. Yet another explained that the icthyological gesture was inspired by the fact that in early April it is forbidden to fish because they are breeding and are too vulnerable and dumb (when were fish smart?) and easy to catch.<br /><br />Yet another - and in my opinion, the most lame ass - explanation offered by a British author who said the fish was because the baffled face of the victim of a joke has the bug-eyed look of a hooked carp.<br /><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">THEREFORE . . .</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />But it all seems to circle back to Charles IX. Many citations say it sprung from his decision to adopt the Gregorian Calendar, which puts the beginning of the year at January. Except there is a little problem with that. The Gregorian Calendar was formally launched in 1582, not 1565 and by then Charles IX was dead. (He died in 1574, eight years before the Vatican rollout.) The only thing that might save this explanation, say Charles theorists, is that the idea of a January-first calendar had been around since the Council of Trent in 1545.Maybe the king decided to adopt it early, to show up the rest of Europe. It would not have been the first time the French launched a global trend. </span><br /></span></span></div>Doug Colliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09123539287906635991noreply@blogger.com0