Well, I have three papers due this week. Two are your garden-variety, five- to seven-page papers, and the third is the first draft of a fifteen- to twenty-page research project. Thanks to a couple of life-saving extensions, I now have one paper due on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. Oh, right - and a quiz today and a test next Tuesday. It's depressing to think about how much I still have left to do this semester, and how little time I've got to actually do it.
I'm not sure why all of the English professors insist on having everything due at the same time (both shorter papers were supposed to be turned in on Monday). You'd think they'd coordinate or something, instead of just dooming every English major to random weeks of abject misery.
At any rate, The next three days are really, really going to suck - which is especially wonderful since I now have all this time on my hands after the end of soccer season, and I wasn't particularly looking forward to spending an extra two hours every day on work. But that's the way it's going to be from here on out, I'd say. English exams in January (which gives me two months to read everything I have to read), followed by French exams in early April (another two months to read everything I have to read for those), and then a mad scramble to figure out what to do with my life after I (hopefully) graduate. That leaves a very, very slim chunk of time left over for things I actually want to do, like sit around and play video games.
On the plus side, I'm looking forward to staying fit/getting fitter now that I don't have to do it for anyone. Working out is great when I'm not worrying about soccer - in fact, I'll probably get even fitter now that soccer isn't taking up all of my time. Strange how things like that work.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
A Thing
So, I had thought I had gotten over the whole "originality crisis" after my sophomore year of college, which was riddled by angsty, meandering term papers and overly-verbose textual masturbation. So it should be no surprise that this post is going to be an angsty, meandering, overly verbose example of textual masturbation.
I'm sitting here, trying to write a short (one to two page, which is legitimately short) paper for my American Lit class. I suffer from a dysfunction where I'm compelled to google my paper theses immediately after I come up with them, in the hopes that nothing will appear, and my Thought will be proven Original. This never happens. Sometimes it's obvious; such is the case tonight, as I'm writing about commodity fetishism and the dangers of capitalism in Edith Wharton's The House of Mirth. Sometimes, however, the realization that one of your Really Good Thoughts is disgustingly old news is downright crushing. For example, for the past year and a half I've been semi-consciously putting together a theory about poetic violence as a response to boredom; at least three of the last six papers I've written have been about Baudelarian violence as a response to ennui in various modern and pre-modern texts. Last Wednesday, my British Lit teacher spat this tidbit like it was yesterday's leftovers. Everybody knows that violence is a response to boredom, and that poetry is violence. In retrospect, it was idiotic to think that I was on to something, but it's nevertheless incredibly disappointing to realize that all your Really Good Thoughts already got Thunk about forty years ago.
I've yet to find a cure for the apathy and intellectual depression that's brought on by the Originality Crisis. Most have suggested that it's unavoidable, since nothing's original anymore, which somehow doesn't make anything better. It seems that the best answer would be to avoid google, but somehow I'm not sure that ignorance is bliss - walking aroung acting like you're the king of everything is only entertaining when nobody can prove you're not. I'd rather be aware of the possibility that I'm intellectually bankrupt than be the laughingstock of the educated community at large. To some extent, old good news is still good news, and I oughtn't feel ashamed that other really smart people have the same really smart thoughts that I do.
That was nice and inspirational, but as self-advice, it's fairly empty. I'm perfectly aware that my distress over not being the first to do or think of everything will continue to be near-crippling in its effects. What I've so far been able to avoid is complete and utter nihilism; the "why bother if it's already been said" - which I think at least has an optimistic ring to it. I've reached a point of almost transcendent self-awareness. I can pretend that I'm Hot Shit, even though I know I'm not, just because I'm still fairly sure that I'm Hotter Shit than most of my peers. My Hypocritic Oath (c. Mike Krahulik and Jerry Holkins), taken young, allows me to be perfectly contradictory in everything I do and feel great about it - except for, as I said, the crippling anxiety that plagues me in my paper-writing.
I think that, in the future, I'll continue to post intellectual musings, as this silly little web log (or "blog," as it's now called) offers a perfect textual space to clear my head: no one reads it, and if they do, I can claim sanctuary since I'm young, stupid, and a blogger (and thus inherently dismissable).
Kade Out!
I'm sitting here, trying to write a short (one to two page, which is legitimately short) paper for my American Lit class. I suffer from a dysfunction where I'm compelled to google my paper theses immediately after I come up with them, in the hopes that nothing will appear, and my Thought will be proven Original. This never happens. Sometimes it's obvious; such is the case tonight, as I'm writing about commodity fetishism and the dangers of capitalism in Edith Wharton's The House of Mirth. Sometimes, however, the realization that one of your Really Good Thoughts is disgustingly old news is downright crushing. For example, for the past year and a half I've been semi-consciously putting together a theory about poetic violence as a response to boredom; at least three of the last six papers I've written have been about Baudelarian violence as a response to ennui in various modern and pre-modern texts. Last Wednesday, my British Lit teacher spat this tidbit like it was yesterday's leftovers. Everybody knows that violence is a response to boredom, and that poetry is violence. In retrospect, it was idiotic to think that I was on to something, but it's nevertheless incredibly disappointing to realize that all your Really Good Thoughts already got Thunk about forty years ago.
I've yet to find a cure for the apathy and intellectual depression that's brought on by the Originality Crisis. Most have suggested that it's unavoidable, since nothing's original anymore, which somehow doesn't make anything better. It seems that the best answer would be to avoid google, but somehow I'm not sure that ignorance is bliss - walking aroung acting like you're the king of everything is only entertaining when nobody can prove you're not. I'd rather be aware of the possibility that I'm intellectually bankrupt than be the laughingstock of the educated community at large. To some extent, old good news is still good news, and I oughtn't feel ashamed that other really smart people have the same really smart thoughts that I do.
That was nice and inspirational, but as self-advice, it's fairly empty. I'm perfectly aware that my distress over not being the first to do or think of everything will continue to be near-crippling in its effects. What I've so far been able to avoid is complete and utter nihilism; the "why bother if it's already been said" - which I think at least has an optimistic ring to it. I've reached a point of almost transcendent self-awareness. I can pretend that I'm Hot Shit, even though I know I'm not, just because I'm still fairly sure that I'm Hotter Shit than most of my peers. My Hypocritic Oath (c. Mike Krahulik and Jerry Holkins), taken young, allows me to be perfectly contradictory in everything I do and feel great about it - except for, as I said, the crippling anxiety that plagues me in my paper-writing.
I think that, in the future, I'll continue to post intellectual musings, as this silly little web log (or "blog," as it's now called) offers a perfect textual space to clear my head: no one reads it, and if they do, I can claim sanctuary since I'm young, stupid, and a blogger (and thus inherently dismissable).
Kade Out!
Thursday, July 23, 2009
A series of disappointments
I'd like to take a moment here and talk about the last two movies I saw.
It's not as if I was expecting the second Transformers movie to be good, exactly - but I certainly wasn't expecting it to be nearly as bad as it was. I actually don't even know where to start. I could start with the atrocious, face-palm opening that literally made me cringe with despair, the unbelievable wince-inducing attempts at one-liners, or the unfathomable plot holes, but I suppose I'll just start ranting and see where I end up.
Transformers should be the coolest thing ever. Giant robots that transform into cars and fighter planes? There is basically no excuse for not making that awesome. Plus, how much was the budget for this goddamned thing? Like a hojillion dollars? Optimus Prime is a GIANT ROBOT that transforms into a SEMI TRUCK. That should be, like, the most badass thing in the entire world. But every time he opened his stupid robot mouth I wanted to scream. He is given literally the dumbest lines I think I have ever heard in a movie. I can't actually remember all of them right now, but I think that's because my brain blocking out traumatic memories.
The propoganda in this movie is disgusting. Too many examples to list. The only evil car in the movie is German. Yup.
God, you know what? I can't even remember what I was going to write about. It's all too stupid. But Shia LeBeouf's fast talking can only do so much to save a movie, and it definitely wasn't enough. The parts where the robots are fighting are awesome, and the parts where people are talking are acceptable. It's when the robots talk and hte people fight that things get really stupid. I'd really like to know who wrote the script, so I could meet him and kick him in the nuts. I don't care if we're "not supposed to take it seriously" - Mr. Bay obviously takes this film (and everything else about himself) very seriously, so I don't think there's any reason not to call Bullshit. Seriously, what a waste of money.
The second movie I saw was the latest Harry Potter. Honestly, I don't even know why I bother anymore. I haven't liked the last 2, but for some reason I paid seven dollars to see this one, too. I'm telling you, don't bother. It is terrible. There is not a single redeeming feature about that film. It's unilaterally atrocious. The acting is terrible. The script is terrible. It's incredibly boring. The characters are hateful. Literally the only thing that's "neat" is how the Death Eaters fly around - which is by turning into black smoke and shooting around like giant, evil high-polluting bottle rockets. I don't see why the good wizards can't fly around like that, too. But whatever. Least of my worries.
Don't bother to watch this movie if you've read the book. Literally every likeable thing about Harry Potter has been completely ruined. For example: Albus Dumbledore, who features prominently in the 6th installment, is turned into the biggest asshat in the world. I still can't believe that someone, anyone, thought it was a good idea to cast him as a benevolent headmaster. First of all, the actor, whatever the hell his name is, has absolutely no emotional depth. No matter what he's saying, he sounds like he's pissed off, or like someone has just punched him in the nose (probably because he sucks so badly) and he's kind of ticked about it. He has been an asshole since movie number 3 - This is a problem, because the Dumbledore in the books is not an asshole until book #6 - and only briefly, but at least you notice that a nice person has lost his temper. In the movie, your response is "God, look at this guy. What an asshole. I can't wait 'til he's dead." Seriously, the ending doesn't come near quickly enough.
Actually, almost every single character is deplorable. Rupert Grint couldn't act his way out of a paper bag, Daniel Radcliffe has two faces (Wry, cringing grin; and cringing frown/scream, which look exactly the same except that he screws his eyes up in face number two), and Emma Watson - well, I guess she's the most acceptable of all of them. At least she sort of seems like a Hermione. Ugh. Alan Rickman, the only decent actor in the whole bunch, has like ten lines in the whole movie, which is unforgiveable. Any way, moving on.
Actually, if you haven't read the book (which, if you're under the age of 50 is almost mind-blowing), there's no point in watching it either. It makes no sense. It is a random sequence of completely disconnected events brought to life by characters with which you have no emotional attachment, other than to hate them. Massive chunks of the book are skipped over (as has been the trend). It's more of a pop-up book than a movie (And then Dumbledore died, and Harry was sad), which is just kind of depressing.
I guess that's really all I've got for now.
It's not as if I was expecting the second Transformers movie to be good, exactly - but I certainly wasn't expecting it to be nearly as bad as it was. I actually don't even know where to start. I could start with the atrocious, face-palm opening that literally made me cringe with despair, the unbelievable wince-inducing attempts at one-liners, or the unfathomable plot holes, but I suppose I'll just start ranting and see where I end up.
Transformers should be the coolest thing ever. Giant robots that transform into cars and fighter planes? There is basically no excuse for not making that awesome. Plus, how much was the budget for this goddamned thing? Like a hojillion dollars? Optimus Prime is a GIANT ROBOT that transforms into a SEMI TRUCK. That should be, like, the most badass thing in the entire world. But every time he opened his stupid robot mouth I wanted to scream. He is given literally the dumbest lines I think I have ever heard in a movie. I can't actually remember all of them right now, but I think that's because my brain blocking out traumatic memories.
The propoganda in this movie is disgusting. Too many examples to list. The only evil car in the movie is German. Yup.
God, you know what? I can't even remember what I was going to write about. It's all too stupid. But Shia LeBeouf's fast talking can only do so much to save a movie, and it definitely wasn't enough. The parts where the robots are fighting are awesome, and the parts where people are talking are acceptable. It's when the robots talk and hte people fight that things get really stupid. I'd really like to know who wrote the script, so I could meet him and kick him in the nuts. I don't care if we're "not supposed to take it seriously" - Mr. Bay obviously takes this film (and everything else about himself) very seriously, so I don't think there's any reason not to call Bullshit. Seriously, what a waste of money.
The second movie I saw was the latest Harry Potter. Honestly, I don't even know why I bother anymore. I haven't liked the last 2, but for some reason I paid seven dollars to see this one, too. I'm telling you, don't bother. It is terrible. There is not a single redeeming feature about that film. It's unilaterally atrocious. The acting is terrible. The script is terrible. It's incredibly boring. The characters are hateful. Literally the only thing that's "neat" is how the Death Eaters fly around - which is by turning into black smoke and shooting around like giant, evil high-polluting bottle rockets. I don't see why the good wizards can't fly around like that, too. But whatever. Least of my worries.
Don't bother to watch this movie if you've read the book. Literally every likeable thing about Harry Potter has been completely ruined. For example: Albus Dumbledore, who features prominently in the 6th installment, is turned into the biggest asshat in the world. I still can't believe that someone, anyone, thought it was a good idea to cast him as a benevolent headmaster. First of all, the actor, whatever the hell his name is, has absolutely no emotional depth. No matter what he's saying, he sounds like he's pissed off, or like someone has just punched him in the nose (probably because he sucks so badly) and he's kind of ticked about it. He has been an asshole since movie number 3 - This is a problem, because the Dumbledore in the books is not an asshole until book #6 - and only briefly, but at least you notice that a nice person has lost his temper. In the movie, your response is "God, look at this guy. What an asshole. I can't wait 'til he's dead." Seriously, the ending doesn't come near quickly enough.
Actually, almost every single character is deplorable. Rupert Grint couldn't act his way out of a paper bag, Daniel Radcliffe has two faces (Wry, cringing grin; and cringing frown/scream, which look exactly the same except that he screws his eyes up in face number two), and Emma Watson - well, I guess she's the most acceptable of all of them. At least she sort of seems like a Hermione. Ugh. Alan Rickman, the only decent actor in the whole bunch, has like ten lines in the whole movie, which is unforgiveable. Any way, moving on.
Actually, if you haven't read the book (which, if you're under the age of 50 is almost mind-blowing), there's no point in watching it either. It makes no sense. It is a random sequence of completely disconnected events brought to life by characters with which you have no emotional attachment, other than to hate them. Massive chunks of the book are skipped over (as has been the trend). It's more of a pop-up book than a movie (And then Dumbledore died, and Harry was sad), which is just kind of depressing.
I guess that's really all I've got for now.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Santorini, Wednesday
Wednesday
Woke up, ate breakfast, forget what happened next. At some point, around “lunchtime,” I walked up the road to look for cheap food at the mini market - a disgusting place; filthy, with ancient wares and rotting fruits. I bought a box of Loukum (Turkish delight, although don’t ever let the Greeks hear you call it that. Side note: Yesterday, at Manuel’s restaurant, three American girls walked in and started chatting with the manager. He asked where they were going next, and when they replied Turkey, he put his head in his hands, sat down next to them, and began to explain why this was a terrible idea. I lost track of the conversation then, as Olivier called me, and I had to remember my French) for two euros, and took it home. It looks to be about as old as I am; the powdered sugar long since turned to a yellowish crust, the candies themselves bland and mushy. Unfortunate.
After that, I went back to the pool (I’ve been listening to George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire – yes, I am a nerd – and I quite like it so far, although it’s taken me over ten hours of listening time to get through half of a book that I could have read in a night), and before I knew it, it was five o’clock. Or six, maybe – or seven. Who knows? In any case, I decided it was time for dinner, so I roused myself (read: put on pants) and walked through Fira looking for dinner. For some reason, I settled on a place that looked like a restaurant – mistake. I ordered saganaki (fried cheese) and a roast lamb shank. The saganaki tasted like saganaki – which is to say, good – but the lamb was a far cry from what I ate last night; Manny’s dripping, crisped chops. It was no where near as tender, no where near as flavorful. The bread, however, was excellent. For some reason my stomach’s still bothering me – although I suspect that long hours in the sun and little water didn’t do much to pacify it.
**
As Jasper was walking down the narrow road back to Blue Sky Villas, ice cream in hand (tiramisu and chocolate), he passed a girl walking in the other direction. She was young, maybe twenty, and very American; short jean shorts, blond hair, plump. He took no notice of her until she smiled at him and said hello. He smiled, said a polite “Hello” back, turned his attention back to the ice cream and began to continue down the road until he realized she was still talking to him.
“What are you doing tonight?” she asked. Jasper looked at her suspiciously. “Not sure,” he replied, wary. “Might stay in.” “How long are you here for?” she asked again. “Back to Athens on Friday,” Jasper said, “and then Paris.” “Is that where you’re studying?” Full of questions, this one. “Just finished the semester,” Jasper said. “Where are you from?” the girl asked, still smiling. “Colorado, and school in Washington,” said Jasper. “We kept on seeing each other all day,” she said. “The pool,” she added, when she saw the quizzical look on his face. “Ah,” said Jasper, half-smiling, “of course.” She still didn’t look familiar. “We’re going to go out tonight after dinner,” she began, “want to come? Where have you been going?”
“The Two Brothers,” said Jasper.
“Oh yeah,” she said, some old man was trying to get us to go there last night, but he was so creepy! All the men here are so creepy! And so old!”
“Don’t go to Athens,” was Jasper’s response.
“What’s your room number?” she asked, “we’ll come knock on your door after dinner. Unable to think of a way to give the girl his room number without coming across like an asshole, Jasper replied after a minute.
“Nineteen,” he said.
“Great,” she replied. “I’m Heather, by the way.”
“Jasper,” Jasper said, “Nice to meet you.”
“You too,” she said, “See you tonight at the hotel – or we’ll meet you at the Two Brothers.” Jasper winced.
Heather never showed, for which Jasper was very grateful. He didn’t want anything to do with her. Dames were trouble; dames always were. But, he had told Sean, Genie and Steve that he would meet them at eleven at the bar, so at eleven fifteen he trudged up the hill to the Two Brothers. Other Sean was there (and thankfully, no women were), and they talked sports and watched Shakhtar beat Werder Bremen in the UEFA finals. Jasper wasn’t in the mood for the Two Brothers; after six days under the Greek sun his head felt like a fried egg, and the booming music and shouting didn’t do much to help him out. All he really wanted was a couple advil and a glass of water. So, after two whiskeys and a shot of ouzo for the road (on the house, of course), Jasper walked back home and got into bed with a tall glass of ice water.
**
Kim has since pointed out that Jasper essentially (albeit unknowingly) invited the girl back to his room, which was certainly not his intention. Apparently, that's what giving out your room number means. I claim sanctuary, since I was fixated mostly on my ice cream, and not what was coming out of her mouth. Plus, I have a history of being socially oblivious, which not everyone remembers. What I did notice was that she was American, slightly chubby (I am not a savory character by anyone's definition), that she tried to make her handshake firmer to match mine, and that she must have overheard me talking about Paris (probably on the phone with the Reuters girl), because she jumped to the studying conclusion far too quickly for my comfort. In any case, I'm hoping that this girl never shows up. I had no idea women could be that...predatory.
For some reason, I’ve been thinking about the “future.” It’s certainly looming at this point in my life – one more year of college to go, no idea of what I want to be doing – and it’s fairly impossible not to take note of its vast, empty shape off in the near distance. I’m not sure how Greece has anything to do with this, but it seems to me it does – I predicted an introspective week, and it has certainly been that. Solo voyages are healthy, and I’ve taken advantage of this one, I’d say – even though from an outsider’s perspective it probably just looks like vacation (which it is, only so much more). I’ve enjoyed myself immensely; even while lounging by the pool I catch myself smiling, happy for some honest-to-god peace and quiet for once.
Woke up, ate breakfast, forget what happened next. At some point, around “lunchtime,” I walked up the road to look for cheap food at the mini market - a disgusting place; filthy, with ancient wares and rotting fruits. I bought a box of Loukum (Turkish delight, although don’t ever let the Greeks hear you call it that. Side note: Yesterday, at Manuel’s restaurant, three American girls walked in and started chatting with the manager. He asked where they were going next, and when they replied Turkey, he put his head in his hands, sat down next to them, and began to explain why this was a terrible idea. I lost track of the conversation then, as Olivier called me, and I had to remember my French) for two euros, and took it home. It looks to be about as old as I am; the powdered sugar long since turned to a yellowish crust, the candies themselves bland and mushy. Unfortunate.
After that, I went back to the pool (I’ve been listening to George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire – yes, I am a nerd – and I quite like it so far, although it’s taken me over ten hours of listening time to get through half of a book that I could have read in a night), and before I knew it, it was five o’clock. Or six, maybe – or seven. Who knows? In any case, I decided it was time for dinner, so I roused myself (read: put on pants) and walked through Fira looking for dinner. For some reason, I settled on a place that looked like a restaurant – mistake. I ordered saganaki (fried cheese) and a roast lamb shank. The saganaki tasted like saganaki – which is to say, good – but the lamb was a far cry from what I ate last night; Manny’s dripping, crisped chops. It was no where near as tender, no where near as flavorful. The bread, however, was excellent. For some reason my stomach’s still bothering me – although I suspect that long hours in the sun and little water didn’t do much to pacify it.
**
As Jasper was walking down the narrow road back to Blue Sky Villas, ice cream in hand (tiramisu and chocolate), he passed a girl walking in the other direction. She was young, maybe twenty, and very American; short jean shorts, blond hair, plump. He took no notice of her until she smiled at him and said hello. He smiled, said a polite “Hello” back, turned his attention back to the ice cream and began to continue down the road until he realized she was still talking to him.
“What are you doing tonight?” she asked. Jasper looked at her suspiciously. “Not sure,” he replied, wary. “Might stay in.” “How long are you here for?” she asked again. “Back to Athens on Friday,” Jasper said, “and then Paris.” “Is that where you’re studying?” Full of questions, this one. “Just finished the semester,” Jasper said. “Where are you from?” the girl asked, still smiling. “Colorado, and school in Washington,” said Jasper. “We kept on seeing each other all day,” she said. “The pool,” she added, when she saw the quizzical look on his face. “Ah,” said Jasper, half-smiling, “of course.” She still didn’t look familiar. “We’re going to go out tonight after dinner,” she began, “want to come? Where have you been going?”
“The Two Brothers,” said Jasper.
“Oh yeah,” she said, some old man was trying to get us to go there last night, but he was so creepy! All the men here are so creepy! And so old!”
“Don’t go to Athens,” was Jasper’s response.
“What’s your room number?” she asked, “we’ll come knock on your door after dinner. Unable to think of a way to give the girl his room number without coming across like an asshole, Jasper replied after a minute.
“Nineteen,” he said.
“Great,” she replied. “I’m Heather, by the way.”
“Jasper,” Jasper said, “Nice to meet you.”
“You too,” she said, “See you tonight at the hotel – or we’ll meet you at the Two Brothers.” Jasper winced.
Heather never showed, for which Jasper was very grateful. He didn’t want anything to do with her. Dames were trouble; dames always were. But, he had told Sean, Genie and Steve that he would meet them at eleven at the bar, so at eleven fifteen he trudged up the hill to the Two Brothers. Other Sean was there (and thankfully, no women were), and they talked sports and watched Shakhtar beat Werder Bremen in the UEFA finals. Jasper wasn’t in the mood for the Two Brothers; after six days under the Greek sun his head felt like a fried egg, and the booming music and shouting didn’t do much to help him out. All he really wanted was a couple advil and a glass of water. So, after two whiskeys and a shot of ouzo for the road (on the house, of course), Jasper walked back home and got into bed with a tall glass of ice water.
**
Kim has since pointed out that Jasper essentially (albeit unknowingly) invited the girl back to his room, which was certainly not his intention. Apparently, that's what giving out your room number means. I claim sanctuary, since I was fixated mostly on my ice cream, and not what was coming out of her mouth. Plus, I have a history of being socially oblivious, which not everyone remembers. What I did notice was that she was American, slightly chubby (I am not a savory character by anyone's definition), that she tried to make her handshake firmer to match mine, and that she must have overheard me talking about Paris (probably on the phone with the Reuters girl), because she jumped to the studying conclusion far too quickly for my comfort. In any case, I'm hoping that this girl never shows up. I had no idea women could be that...predatory.
For some reason, I’ve been thinking about the “future.” It’s certainly looming at this point in my life – one more year of college to go, no idea of what I want to be doing – and it’s fairly impossible not to take note of its vast, empty shape off in the near distance. I’m not sure how Greece has anything to do with this, but it seems to me it does – I predicted an introspective week, and it has certainly been that. Solo voyages are healthy, and I’ve taken advantage of this one, I’d say – even though from an outsider’s perspective it probably just looks like vacation (which it is, only so much more). I’ve enjoyed myself immensely; even while lounging by the pool I catch myself smiling, happy for some honest-to-god peace and quiet for once.
Santorini, Tuesday
In case you hadn't noticed, there are four new posts today. I urge you to scroll down and read from the beginning, as then things might make sense. My sense of time is shot; I keep running over the days of the week in my head - but I can never remember what's what. Which is, I suppose, part of the point of coming to Greece.
Weirdly, I got a phone call this morning from a British woman in Paris, who works for Reuters news agency. Apparently she had gotten my name from a Bulgarian intern (?!) who she said she thought I knew - I don't, and I'm faintly disturbed by the prospect of mysterious Bulgarians shadowing my every move. Anyway, she wanted to interview me about studying in Paris, and what effect the strikes had had on my semester. I obliged willingly - I'm wary of people putting words in mouth, so I did my best to correct her when she started writing stories instead of listening to me. Anyway, I'm not sure if I'll ever hear about it again, but it was certainly an interesting thing to have happen. EDIT: This actually happened yesterday. Or possibly the day before; it's impossible to say, really. SECOND EDIT: Here it is: http://www.reuters.com/article/lifestyleMolt/idUSTRE54I1ML20090519?pageNumber=1&virtualBrandChannel=10531 I kind of sound like a tool. Oh well.
So far, following my gut has resulted in good experiences. Today, walking up the hill to look for food, I ducked into a gyro shop. I got a first-rate pita and a coke for five euros (a little steep, but good), and started talking to the chef – Manuel, an Australian of Greek descent. He, too, has been all around the world (seems to be a lot of that going around), being a chef in some capacity or another, but he’s spent every summer for the last three years in Santorini. I asked him why. “You know, wherever I go I’m working sixteen hours a day non-stop, on my feet the whole time. You get stressed out and angry, no matter where you are. But everywhere else I’ve been, I could never relax after work. Here, no matter how angry or stressed out I am, I walk up the hill, I see that view, and everything melts away. It’s like, fuck, you know?” I thought that was probably the best description of Santorini that I would ever run across, so I came back here to write it down.
After lunch I took a walk, but quickly ran out of steam. I headed home and sat by the pool a little longer, and then decided that, for some reason, I wanted to play solitaire. So I did, for about two hours – I didn’t win a single game. I must be the worst solitaire player of all time. At some point I stopped playing solitaire and started doing sit-ups, and took a shower afterwards.
I went back to Manuel’s for dinner at around nine thirty, and per his suggestion, had the grilled “lamp chops.” They were, in a word, delicious, almost transcendent. Metatastual: tender and juicy, lightly charred on the outside, and deliciously spiced. They came with French fries and some tomatoes, and all joking aside, it’s probably the best lamb I’ve ever had. And it cost 11 euros – which again, is a little pricy, but it was so good. One thing I like about Greece is that everyone remembers you (or at least pretends to) and greets you with a handshake, a smile, and a “How are you my friend?” That’s not just the Greeks, either. There must be something in the water.
After dinner I walked back up to the Two Brothers, where I met Claire, Sean and Other Sean. As soon as I walked in, Claire asked me how my head had felt this morning. All I could do was wince in reply. I wasn’t ecstatic about the prospect of another night of drinking, so I sipped idly at a gin and tonic and talked soccer with Other Sean for a while after Sean left. Genie and Steve came in at about eleven, and Genie immediately bought me a drink. We all talked for a while, Genie still ecstatic about Twilight, talking about the Twilight parties that her friends throw (these are grown women), and how much she wished her husband (balding) had my hair. Other Sean added that everyone at the bar was asking him if he knew who the kid who looked like the guy from Twilight was. It was all very flattering, but seriously, really weird. I’m not sure how I feel about the whole thing.
Anyway, after Other Sean left to see if he could find the Swedish girls at another bar, Genie and Steve wanted to know all about my girlfriend (Genie: Let me guess. Stunning, ninety pounds, drop dead beautiful? Me: Basically. But she also does chemistry). Side note: Every time I tell people I’m here alone, I get positively stunned looks in reply. “What, no girlfriend?” everyone asks. And it’s certainly a good question, since Santorini’s one of the most romantic places I’ve ever been. Watching the sun set here is almost a religious experience, and in all sincerity, I wish there were someone here who I could share it with. I feel like I’m going to get home and be off in another world; unable to convince anyone that any of this happened. It’s been, in the best of clichéd terms, like walking in a dream.
In any case, Steve and Genie are basically teenagers who happen to have left adolescence far behind, so hanging out with them was, again, pretty entertaining. Genie once again insisted on buying everyone shots (ouzo), and then introduced me to a couple of Australian videographers (Genie: They’re photographers! Them: Videographers. Genie: Whatever), who agreed that I “looked like the Twilight posters.” Well, what with the deafening music despite the fairly deserted bar, a less-than-happy stomach, and no desire to have any more gin, I called it a night at twelve. Walking home, the scent of honeysuckles and the squeak of bats thick in the air, I thought about going back to Paris. I don’t think I want to. Going back to Paris seems like – like going back to black and white television after a week spent in Technicolor. I want to stay in Greece. Well, that’s not true. I want to come back to Greece some day – I have to. There’s too much to see. A week is plenty of time for Santorini, but there’s so much more. And as much as I enjoy being alone, this would be a great place to visit with another person, especially a place as breathtaking as Santorini.
Carefree will I roam; Ordinary eyes.
Weirdly, I got a phone call this morning from a British woman in Paris, who works for Reuters news agency. Apparently she had gotten my name from a Bulgarian intern (?!) who she said she thought I knew - I don't, and I'm faintly disturbed by the prospect of mysterious Bulgarians shadowing my every move. Anyway, she wanted to interview me about studying in Paris, and what effect the strikes had had on my semester. I obliged willingly - I'm wary of people putting words in mouth, so I did my best to correct her when she started writing stories instead of listening to me. Anyway, I'm not sure if I'll ever hear about it again, but it was certainly an interesting thing to have happen. EDIT: This actually happened yesterday. Or possibly the day before; it's impossible to say, really. SECOND EDIT: Here it is: http://www.reuters.com/article/lifestyleMolt/idUSTRE54I1ML20090519?pageNumber=1&virtualBrandChannel=10531 I kind of sound like a tool. Oh well.
So far, following my gut has resulted in good experiences. Today, walking up the hill to look for food, I ducked into a gyro shop. I got a first-rate pita and a coke for five euros (a little steep, but good), and started talking to the chef – Manuel, an Australian of Greek descent. He, too, has been all around the world (seems to be a lot of that going around), being a chef in some capacity or another, but he’s spent every summer for the last three years in Santorini. I asked him why. “You know, wherever I go I’m working sixteen hours a day non-stop, on my feet the whole time. You get stressed out and angry, no matter where you are. But everywhere else I’ve been, I could never relax after work. Here, no matter how angry or stressed out I am, I walk up the hill, I see that view, and everything melts away. It’s like, fuck, you know?” I thought that was probably the best description of Santorini that I would ever run across, so I came back here to write it down.
After lunch I took a walk, but quickly ran out of steam. I headed home and sat by the pool a little longer, and then decided that, for some reason, I wanted to play solitaire. So I did, for about two hours – I didn’t win a single game. I must be the worst solitaire player of all time. At some point I stopped playing solitaire and started doing sit-ups, and took a shower afterwards.
I went back to Manuel’s for dinner at around nine thirty, and per his suggestion, had the grilled “lamp chops.” They were, in a word, delicious, almost transcendent. Metatastual: tender and juicy, lightly charred on the outside, and deliciously spiced. They came with French fries and some tomatoes, and all joking aside, it’s probably the best lamb I’ve ever had. And it cost 11 euros – which again, is a little pricy, but it was so good. One thing I like about Greece is that everyone remembers you (or at least pretends to) and greets you with a handshake, a smile, and a “How are you my friend?” That’s not just the Greeks, either. There must be something in the water.
After dinner I walked back up to the Two Brothers, where I met Claire, Sean and Other Sean. As soon as I walked in, Claire asked me how my head had felt this morning. All I could do was wince in reply. I wasn’t ecstatic about the prospect of another night of drinking, so I sipped idly at a gin and tonic and talked soccer with Other Sean for a while after Sean left. Genie and Steve came in at about eleven, and Genie immediately bought me a drink. We all talked for a while, Genie still ecstatic about Twilight, talking about the Twilight parties that her friends throw (these are grown women), and how much she wished her husband (balding) had my hair. Other Sean added that everyone at the bar was asking him if he knew who the kid who looked like the guy from Twilight was. It was all very flattering, but seriously, really weird. I’m not sure how I feel about the whole thing.
Anyway, after Other Sean left to see if he could find the Swedish girls at another bar, Genie and Steve wanted to know all about my girlfriend (Genie: Let me guess. Stunning, ninety pounds, drop dead beautiful? Me: Basically. But she also does chemistry). Side note: Every time I tell people I’m here alone, I get positively stunned looks in reply. “What, no girlfriend?” everyone asks. And it’s certainly a good question, since Santorini’s one of the most romantic places I’ve ever been. Watching the sun set here is almost a religious experience, and in all sincerity, I wish there were someone here who I could share it with. I feel like I’m going to get home and be off in another world; unable to convince anyone that any of this happened. It’s been, in the best of clichéd terms, like walking in a dream.
In any case, Steve and Genie are basically teenagers who happen to have left adolescence far behind, so hanging out with them was, again, pretty entertaining. Genie once again insisted on buying everyone shots (ouzo), and then introduced me to a couple of Australian videographers (Genie: They’re photographers! Them: Videographers. Genie: Whatever), who agreed that I “looked like the Twilight posters.” Well, what with the deafening music despite the fairly deserted bar, a less-than-happy stomach, and no desire to have any more gin, I called it a night at twelve. Walking home, the scent of honeysuckles and the squeak of bats thick in the air, I thought about going back to Paris. I don’t think I want to. Going back to Paris seems like – like going back to black and white television after a week spent in Technicolor. I want to stay in Greece. Well, that’s not true. I want to come back to Greece some day – I have to. There’s too much to see. A week is plenty of time for Santorini, but there’s so much more. And as much as I enjoy being alone, this would be a great place to visit with another person, especially a place as breathtaking as Santorini.
Carefree will I roam; Ordinary eyes.
Santorini, Day 1(Monday)
Monday
Day
What a day. What an incredible, amazing, absolutely ridiculous day. I woke up at 9:15 and went to breakfast (bread and butter and jam, probably not worth five euros), then took a dip in the pool. Then I walked up to the nearest Moto rental place, where a man greeted me: “Why not try a bike, my friend?” So I got myself an ATV. It cost 10 euros for 24 hours, and that’s only because I got myself the fast one (I’d hate to see the slow one). Add to that 5 euros of gas, and I was set for the day. I took off randomly, aiming for Perissa, but I ended up in Kamari, where I found a “beach.” Really, it was large black pebbles. It was hardly comfortable, and also incredibly hot – like, oven hot. So after half an hour I got back on the X-Rider (for that was the name of my fearsome mount) and cruised towards Perissa. There I found a real beach, where I lay for a long time. It was all black sand – rather, fine black grit that invaded everything. Even so, it was very, very nice. I had a Greek salad and ouzo at one of the ubiquitous tavernas along the shore, and changed into my bathing suit (for no reason, as it turned out – I never went in the water). By this time, it was mid-afternoon, so I thought about heading home. But then I got distracted by the promise of red sand beaches, and so I followed the signs. I parked along the shore, and after a quick hike, I was looking out over the red sand beach of Santorini. Stunning. A huge cliff of red, eroding volcanic stone looms over the beach, and it really is red. After another lie-down, it really was time to head home. So I threw on my sweater and got back on the ATV and began the “long” drive home – nothing is really that far away from anything.
Riding the ATV was probably the most fun I’ve had in a long while. You feel so free – it’s ridiculously intoxicating. I had only the most general of maps, and would decide to head off in a random direction whenever the urge took me, pulling over to take pictures every ten minutes – and somehow I managed not to get lost. I found myself laughing out loud fairly regularly – I dare say I was more carefree than any of the other tourists I saw on their ATVs, all riding tandem and studying their maps with worried faces. That’s another thing – I think I must be the only tourist that’s here alone. Everyone’s in pairs, whether it’s the constant stream of vacationing couples, or the groups of young teenagers. And honestly, I am pretty glad I did. Not that this wouldn’t be the perfect place to come with somebody, because it would, but traveling alone is a pretty crazy experience. You learn a lot, listen a lot, and see a lot – more, probably, than you would if you weren’t flying solo. And everyone so far has been incredibly friendly, which I’m not sure I was expecting.
Night
After I parked the X-Rider in front of Blue Sky Villas, I took another quick dip in the pool, put on my pants and sweater, and sat outside and had a beer (which was given to me in the morning by a pair of Canadian women who were leaving that afternoon). Then I got up and walked into town. It was just as beautiful as the first time I was there, all white houses and blue roofs, and I stopped again on the edge of the cliff to stare out over the water for a good twenty minutes. Then I made my way to an open-air café on the cliffside, where I had a Greek coffee (I don’t even know what it was, but it was disgusting – just sludge, not even tasting of anything other than – oats, maybe? Bizarre) and another ouzo. I sat there for a long, long time, watching the sun set over the caldera. Behind me was a group of Americans, and I amused myself by eavesdropping shamelessly on their conversations. When they left, I offered to take their picture (which, for some reason, put one of the men very ill-at-ease), and told them where to watch the sun set in Athens. They were very grateful.
I walked out of the café and into the first restaurant I saw with octopus on the menu. It came grilled, with mashed potatoes, a salad, and some incredibly delicious mixture of rice, peas, and sweet peppers. The octopus was okay – nothing a Portuguese would be proud of, but it did the job. Covered in oil and lemon juice, it went down pretty easily. I’m having weird food issues these days – I rarely want to finish anything, and usually feel ill after I have a large meal. I don’t know if it means I just can’t eat as much, or if I haven’t been eating good food, or what. But it’s strange, whatever it is.
Wandering out of the restaurant, I saw a bar showing rally highlights on TV – and it so happened that it was happy hour. The Two Brothers is smallish but lively, the closest thing to a dive bar that I’ve seen since I got here – definitely my style. The bartenders are very friendly, and there’s some old guy named “Alex” who “works” outside, blowing his whistle at pretty girls. So I stopped short and walked in, and this is what happened next:
Girl (in English, smiling): Are you all right?
Me, smiling back: Yeah, thanks. (To the bartender) Jameson on the rocks, please.
Man sitting next to me: Where are you from?
Me: Colorado. The states.
Man: Ah. I’m from Scotland. And she’s from England. What’s your name?
Me: Jasper.
Man: I’m Sean. And this is Claire.
Me: Nice to meet you both.
Claire: Watch out, he’s a nutter
And he is, really, but of the best sort. He used to be in the army (for six years), doing exactly what he wouldn’t say. But he’s lived all over the place, finding odd jobs wherever he goes, living out of pocket and “not touching me bank accounts.” He’s about thirty, I’d guess, maybe a little younger, and he’s the guy at the bar that everybody knows and loves. He’s the free publicity, basically – the life of the party, singing and dancing and laughing and flirting with all the girls and joking with all the guys. He and I sat at the bar for a long time, talking, drinking and smoking, while Claire (who technically works there, though she doesn’t do much) jumped in and out of the conversation. At about eleven, Sean left to go see a woman, and I had another whisky. At that point I got approached by another woman, Genie, who was visiting with her husband, Steve.
“Can I feel your hair?” She asked. “Why not,” I said. So she did. “Have you seen Twilight?” She asked again. “Yup,” I said. “You look just like Edward!” she squealed, “My girlfriends are going to flip over this! Can I take a picture?” Laughing, I assented, so she took a picture of Claire and me. “Seriously, this is fantastic,” she said, “My girlfriends are going to be so jealous. We’re all obsessed with Twilight.” Then she bought everyone a round of shots – Me, Genie, Claire, Steve, another guy (my age) who they were with (also named Sean), and the bartenders. She kept asking everyone if they had seen Twilight – no one knew what she was talking about, which made her very disappointed. Steve and Genie were really fun and incredibly nice, and I sat and talked (and drank) with them for a while as well. Their son (Aged eleven – Genie is 43 and Steve is 37, but neither of them looks a day over 30) plays soccer, and they wanted to talk about competitive ball. Genie kept insisting on buying me drinks, which was fine with me. After a few more shots, a couple pictures, and a few more vampire-related jokes, she and Steve called it a night. I turned back to the bar, only to have Other Sean pull me away. He was talking to three Swedish girls, and I suppose he wanted me in some sort of Wingman capacity. So I joined them.
“Have you seen Twilight?” asked one of the girls. I laughed, and said yes. “That is good. Twilight is…good,” she said, and all her friends wholeheartedly agreed. “Do you know you look just like the boy in the film?” they asked. We talked briefly about family in Sweden (although I could barely understand anything they said. They all spoke English, but accented, and for some reason the music kept getting louder and louder as the bar got emptier and emptier), and they asked for a picture as well. Sean wandered back in at around one o’clock, having dropped his date off at home (being a gentleman, he said), had a few more beers, and somehow managed to get everyone to start dancing. Other Sean and the Swedish girls left for another bar, and Sean decided to call it a night, as he had to get up early for work (at what everyone assures me is the most exclusive hotel on the island). I was ready to leave as well, but for some reason I had another whisky. As I was about to walk out the door, the bartender (Alex) stopped me.
“Excuse me,” he said, “the lady at the bar would like to know if you have heard of a film called Twilight.” I walked over and said hello, and the bartender told me that she wanted to buy me a drink. “A shot of whisky in a beer,” he said. Very, very reluctantly I assented, took the drink, said goodbye, and walked out of the bar (I say walked, but what I did was far less elegant than walking). I made it back to my room, where I learned that being sick alone is even less fun than being sick in the company of others. In fact, it’s terrible. Anyway, I rinsed my head in a cold shower and downed a bottle of water, and then stumbled into bed.
I woke up with an absolutely terrible hangover and slept through breakfast, rising only to return my ATV. Then I came back, put on my swimsuit, and lay by the pool for three and a half hours, draping my arms and legs in the water. I ate some yogurt (also given to me by the Canadians), and drank some more water. It’s now 4:30, and I’m beginning to feel myself again. I’m supposed to meet Sean, Genie and Steve again tonight, but I don’t know if I can do it – maybe I can get away with cola and tonic water, because even though lying by a pool in Greece is fantastic, there are still things I want to see.
My god, I feel like I must be omitting so much – it seems like yesterday lasted a year. I kept telling myself, “write every day, write every day – you’ll forget everything if you don’t,” and already it’s proving true. Oh, well. Plenty of time left.
You’re next to me asleep and I smile; think I’ll drive on for a while.
Day
What a day. What an incredible, amazing, absolutely ridiculous day. I woke up at 9:15 and went to breakfast (bread and butter and jam, probably not worth five euros), then took a dip in the pool. Then I walked up to the nearest Moto rental place, where a man greeted me: “Why not try a bike, my friend?” So I got myself an ATV. It cost 10 euros for 24 hours, and that’s only because I got myself the fast one (I’d hate to see the slow one). Add to that 5 euros of gas, and I was set for the day. I took off randomly, aiming for Perissa, but I ended up in Kamari, where I found a “beach.” Really, it was large black pebbles. It was hardly comfortable, and also incredibly hot – like, oven hot. So after half an hour I got back on the X-Rider (for that was the name of my fearsome mount) and cruised towards Perissa. There I found a real beach, where I lay for a long time. It was all black sand – rather, fine black grit that invaded everything. Even so, it was very, very nice. I had a Greek salad and ouzo at one of the ubiquitous tavernas along the shore, and changed into my bathing suit (for no reason, as it turned out – I never went in the water). By this time, it was mid-afternoon, so I thought about heading home. But then I got distracted by the promise of red sand beaches, and so I followed the signs. I parked along the shore, and after a quick hike, I was looking out over the red sand beach of Santorini. Stunning. A huge cliff of red, eroding volcanic stone looms over the beach, and it really is red. After another lie-down, it really was time to head home. So I threw on my sweater and got back on the ATV and began the “long” drive home – nothing is really that far away from anything.
Riding the ATV was probably the most fun I’ve had in a long while. You feel so free – it’s ridiculously intoxicating. I had only the most general of maps, and would decide to head off in a random direction whenever the urge took me, pulling over to take pictures every ten minutes – and somehow I managed not to get lost. I found myself laughing out loud fairly regularly – I dare say I was more carefree than any of the other tourists I saw on their ATVs, all riding tandem and studying their maps with worried faces. That’s another thing – I think I must be the only tourist that’s here alone. Everyone’s in pairs, whether it’s the constant stream of vacationing couples, or the groups of young teenagers. And honestly, I am pretty glad I did. Not that this wouldn’t be the perfect place to come with somebody, because it would, but traveling alone is a pretty crazy experience. You learn a lot, listen a lot, and see a lot – more, probably, than you would if you weren’t flying solo. And everyone so far has been incredibly friendly, which I’m not sure I was expecting.
Night
After I parked the X-Rider in front of Blue Sky Villas, I took another quick dip in the pool, put on my pants and sweater, and sat outside and had a beer (which was given to me in the morning by a pair of Canadian women who were leaving that afternoon). Then I got up and walked into town. It was just as beautiful as the first time I was there, all white houses and blue roofs, and I stopped again on the edge of the cliff to stare out over the water for a good twenty minutes. Then I made my way to an open-air café on the cliffside, where I had a Greek coffee (I don’t even know what it was, but it was disgusting – just sludge, not even tasting of anything other than – oats, maybe? Bizarre) and another ouzo. I sat there for a long, long time, watching the sun set over the caldera. Behind me was a group of Americans, and I amused myself by eavesdropping shamelessly on their conversations. When they left, I offered to take their picture (which, for some reason, put one of the men very ill-at-ease), and told them where to watch the sun set in Athens. They were very grateful.
I walked out of the café and into the first restaurant I saw with octopus on the menu. It came grilled, with mashed potatoes, a salad, and some incredibly delicious mixture of rice, peas, and sweet peppers. The octopus was okay – nothing a Portuguese would be proud of, but it did the job. Covered in oil and lemon juice, it went down pretty easily. I’m having weird food issues these days – I rarely want to finish anything, and usually feel ill after I have a large meal. I don’t know if it means I just can’t eat as much, or if I haven’t been eating good food, or what. But it’s strange, whatever it is.
Wandering out of the restaurant, I saw a bar showing rally highlights on TV – and it so happened that it was happy hour. The Two Brothers is smallish but lively, the closest thing to a dive bar that I’ve seen since I got here – definitely my style. The bartenders are very friendly, and there’s some old guy named “Alex” who “works” outside, blowing his whistle at pretty girls. So I stopped short and walked in, and this is what happened next:
Girl (in English, smiling): Are you all right?
Me, smiling back: Yeah, thanks. (To the bartender) Jameson on the rocks, please.
Man sitting next to me: Where are you from?
Me: Colorado. The states.
Man: Ah. I’m from Scotland. And she’s from England. What’s your name?
Me: Jasper.
Man: I’m Sean. And this is Claire.
Me: Nice to meet you both.
Claire: Watch out, he’s a nutter
And he is, really, but of the best sort. He used to be in the army (for six years), doing exactly what he wouldn’t say. But he’s lived all over the place, finding odd jobs wherever he goes, living out of pocket and “not touching me bank accounts.” He’s about thirty, I’d guess, maybe a little younger, and he’s the guy at the bar that everybody knows and loves. He’s the free publicity, basically – the life of the party, singing and dancing and laughing and flirting with all the girls and joking with all the guys. He and I sat at the bar for a long time, talking, drinking and smoking, while Claire (who technically works there, though she doesn’t do much) jumped in and out of the conversation. At about eleven, Sean left to go see a woman, and I had another whisky. At that point I got approached by another woman, Genie, who was visiting with her husband, Steve.
“Can I feel your hair?” She asked. “Why not,” I said. So she did. “Have you seen Twilight?” She asked again. “Yup,” I said. “You look just like Edward!” she squealed, “My girlfriends are going to flip over this! Can I take a picture?” Laughing, I assented, so she took a picture of Claire and me. “Seriously, this is fantastic,” she said, “My girlfriends are going to be so jealous. We’re all obsessed with Twilight.” Then she bought everyone a round of shots – Me, Genie, Claire, Steve, another guy (my age) who they were with (also named Sean), and the bartenders. She kept asking everyone if they had seen Twilight – no one knew what she was talking about, which made her very disappointed. Steve and Genie were really fun and incredibly nice, and I sat and talked (and drank) with them for a while as well. Their son (Aged eleven – Genie is 43 and Steve is 37, but neither of them looks a day over 30) plays soccer, and they wanted to talk about competitive ball. Genie kept insisting on buying me drinks, which was fine with me. After a few more shots, a couple pictures, and a few more vampire-related jokes, she and Steve called it a night. I turned back to the bar, only to have Other Sean pull me away. He was talking to three Swedish girls, and I suppose he wanted me in some sort of Wingman capacity. So I joined them.
“Have you seen Twilight?” asked one of the girls. I laughed, and said yes. “That is good. Twilight is…good,” she said, and all her friends wholeheartedly agreed. “Do you know you look just like the boy in the film?” they asked. We talked briefly about family in Sweden (although I could barely understand anything they said. They all spoke English, but accented, and for some reason the music kept getting louder and louder as the bar got emptier and emptier), and they asked for a picture as well. Sean wandered back in at around one o’clock, having dropped his date off at home (being a gentleman, he said), had a few more beers, and somehow managed to get everyone to start dancing. Other Sean and the Swedish girls left for another bar, and Sean decided to call it a night, as he had to get up early for work (at what everyone assures me is the most exclusive hotel on the island). I was ready to leave as well, but for some reason I had another whisky. As I was about to walk out the door, the bartender (Alex) stopped me.
“Excuse me,” he said, “the lady at the bar would like to know if you have heard of a film called Twilight.” I walked over and said hello, and the bartender told me that she wanted to buy me a drink. “A shot of whisky in a beer,” he said. Very, very reluctantly I assented, took the drink, said goodbye, and walked out of the bar (I say walked, but what I did was far less elegant than walking). I made it back to my room, where I learned that being sick alone is even less fun than being sick in the company of others. In fact, it’s terrible. Anyway, I rinsed my head in a cold shower and downed a bottle of water, and then stumbled into bed.
I woke up with an absolutely terrible hangover and slept through breakfast, rising only to return my ATV. Then I came back, put on my swimsuit, and lay by the pool for three and a half hours, draping my arms and legs in the water. I ate some yogurt (also given to me by the Canadians), and drank some more water. It’s now 4:30, and I’m beginning to feel myself again. I’m supposed to meet Sean, Genie and Steve again tonight, but I don’t know if I can do it – maybe I can get away with cola and tonic water, because even though lying by a pool in Greece is fantastic, there are still things I want to see.
My god, I feel like I must be omitting so much – it seems like yesterday lasted a year. I kept telling myself, “write every day, write every day – you’ll forget everything if you don’t,” and already it’s proving true. Oh, well. Plenty of time left.
You’re next to me asleep and I smile; think I’ll drive on for a while.
Santorini, Arrival
I arrived on Santorini at three o’clock, stepping off the boat in complete awe of the blasted caldera. Santorini is always talked up by every tourist and guidebook, but somehow I thought it was only that – talk. No, the massive cliffs are incredible, the black volcanic island in the middle dark and beautiful.
Disembarking, I followed the crush onto the dock, where I was assaulted by an army of sign-bearing Greeks, shouting the name of their hotels and car-rental companies. I accosted three American boys who were leaving, and asked them where they stayed. Blue Sky Villas, the told me, and said it was plenty clean and safe. “But far from the beach,” said one, “so rent an ATV.” I found the man holding the Blue Sky Villas sign, and when five young American girls and two French girls approached him, I figured it was probably clean and safe enough. They took us up to the hotel in a little bus, the road winding up along the cliff face precipitously. At the top, we drove along what felt like the rim of the world, until we came to Fira. Blue Sky Villas is nice, the proprietor friendly and the room big, open and clean. It costs twenty-five euros a night, including breakfast, which seems like a deal to me. There’s even a swimming pool, should I decide to relax at the villas for a while.
Fira town is incredibly beautiful. It follows the ridge of the cliff that overlooks the bay, and all along its sides are cafes, bars, hotels, and tourist shops. Everything is brilliant, sparkling white – even under the cloudy sky. My first act was to buy a gyro at a diseased little stand that didn’t seem like it got much business. Nevertheless, it was tasty, and I sat on a whitewashed ledge and sipped a cold beer with my pita. Then I found a small supermarket and bought toothpaste (for some reason, I pretended to be French) before I walked up into the city proper. It’s beautiful, all small winding streets and terraces. There are some incredible views on the cliff side, and a stomach-wrenching cable car that goes down to the old port. I wandered for hours.
Tomorrow I’m going to rent an ATV and drive around the island. It costs seven or eight euros for a twenty-four hour rental, and everybody’s on them. I’ve seen a couple of racy-looking buggies for rent too, so I might see about those. I would go for a scooter, but the ability to drive in the sand seems useful – plus, although it’s likely untrue, the ATVs seem a touch safer, and I’ve already witnessed at least five near-accidents.
I got home at about seven, and I took an accidental nap, waking up at ten-thirty. I elected to skip dinner and wait for breakfast, and decided to spend the evening writing instead – which I’m doing, sitting in the chairs in the courtyard outside my room. It’s eleven-thirty now, and I’m considering bed. Morning is coming, and hopefully the sun with it – and I’ve got a lot to explore. Old ruins, black sand beaches, seaside towns – I hope I can see it all, but I’ve only got a few days. This trip is going to go quickly, and then it’s back to France – France, which seems so boring, so blah – host families and suitcases and logistics, when all I really want is the promise of a 25-euro room and a small duffel bag. I’m bringing presents back from Greece – no way not to – and my little bag is already full to bursting. I might have to pick up another, a prospect which doesn’t cheer me.
Put me in a new direction; point me to the edge of the world.
Disembarking, I followed the crush onto the dock, where I was assaulted by an army of sign-bearing Greeks, shouting the name of their hotels and car-rental companies. I accosted three American boys who were leaving, and asked them where they stayed. Blue Sky Villas, the told me, and said it was plenty clean and safe. “But far from the beach,” said one, “so rent an ATV.” I found the man holding the Blue Sky Villas sign, and when five young American girls and two French girls approached him, I figured it was probably clean and safe enough. They took us up to the hotel in a little bus, the road winding up along the cliff face precipitously. At the top, we drove along what felt like the rim of the world, until we came to Fira. Blue Sky Villas is nice, the proprietor friendly and the room big, open and clean. It costs twenty-five euros a night, including breakfast, which seems like a deal to me. There’s even a swimming pool, should I decide to relax at the villas for a while.
Fira town is incredibly beautiful. It follows the ridge of the cliff that overlooks the bay, and all along its sides are cafes, bars, hotels, and tourist shops. Everything is brilliant, sparkling white – even under the cloudy sky. My first act was to buy a gyro at a diseased little stand that didn’t seem like it got much business. Nevertheless, it was tasty, and I sat on a whitewashed ledge and sipped a cold beer with my pita. Then I found a small supermarket and bought toothpaste (for some reason, I pretended to be French) before I walked up into the city proper. It’s beautiful, all small winding streets and terraces. There are some incredible views on the cliff side, and a stomach-wrenching cable car that goes down to the old port. I wandered for hours.
Tomorrow I’m going to rent an ATV and drive around the island. It costs seven or eight euros for a twenty-four hour rental, and everybody’s on them. I’ve seen a couple of racy-looking buggies for rent too, so I might see about those. I would go for a scooter, but the ability to drive in the sand seems useful – plus, although it’s likely untrue, the ATVs seem a touch safer, and I’ve already witnessed at least five near-accidents.
I got home at about seven, and I took an accidental nap, waking up at ten-thirty. I elected to skip dinner and wait for breakfast, and decided to spend the evening writing instead – which I’m doing, sitting in the chairs in the courtyard outside my room. It’s eleven-thirty now, and I’m considering bed. Morning is coming, and hopefully the sun with it – and I’ve got a lot to explore. Old ruins, black sand beaches, seaside towns – I hope I can see it all, but I’ve only got a few days. This trip is going to go quickly, and then it’s back to France – France, which seems so boring, so blah – host families and suitcases and logistics, when all I really want is the promise of a 25-euro room and a small duffel bag. I’m bringing presents back from Greece – no way not to – and my little bag is already full to bursting. I might have to pick up another, a prospect which doesn’t cheer me.
Put me in a new direction; point me to the edge of the world.
First Travels – Disconnected thoughts
First Travels – Disconnected thoughts
Early Morning
As the Blue Star Ferry Paros rumbles away from Piraias and slips out into open water, I’m struck again by relative anonymity of the landscape around Athens. Low, rolling hills and a crush of urbanism fade into brown, dry mounds and, to the South, the Mediterranean. I don’t know whether it’s the scenery itself, or because I know I’m in Greece, but there’s still a romance to the landscape; a stark, desolate epicness that is only augmented by the images of gods and heroes that dance in front of my eyes.
The sun’s shining hazily through the early morning clouds, illuminating the small sailboats that dot the coastline. Poetry lives thick every where in Greece, in old, crumbled ruins and in the bustling modern ferries. People of all nationalities laugh and chat (and many sleep), and almost uniformly, everyone seems to snap a picture on departure.
*
On the boat
This morning I woke up half an hour later than I intended, resulting in a mad dash to the metro, a realization that I wouldn’t make it to the port in time, and an equally mad dash to a taxi, which I shared with two other Greeks. The driver was very helpful, although I’m fairly certain that I overpaid for the eight minute drive to the docks. Maybe someday I’ll be able to take a cab without getting strung along like a show pony.
All the French are in Greece, enjoying a break from the endless train to sun their faces in the Mediterranean. Their accents are smooth and familiar; a comfortable, mellifluous sound against the slightly harsher Greek. There are plenty of Americans as well, and I swear that every other person I saw last night was speaking German. I suppose everyone needs a little bit of Greek exuberance, which so far has not been hard to come by. Even the dourest of Greeks does something to affirm the Hellenic mythos.
Groups of young American backpackers are already forming; flirtatious young men and women who are happy to find a familiar face and a recognizable accent. They’re all short shorts and muscle shirts, their Oakleys and baseball caps making them easy to spot.
It’s not as if I’m doing the best job blending in myself, however, my large backpack and homemade cloak duffel make sure of that – not to mention my shorts and deck shoes. But everyone on the ferry has a relaxed air about them, everyone’s been bitten by the Yiati Ohi that seems to grab you like a hydra’s head as soon as you set foot on Greek soil. I ought to have brought a book with me; more and more I realize how headphones cut you off from the world. I’m hit by the urge to keep my eyes and ears open, to take in the microcosm of this floating melting-pot.
Still, Santorini lies ahead, somewhere out in the water. Islands loom out of the Mediterranean like sleeping titans, giving the already hazy, thick air a further does of enigmatic romance. It’s hard not to believe in the old gods in the face of such an ancient place. Every cliff-face I see, I think: That is where Aeolus kept his winds; or That must be the island of the Cyclops. It makes me wish we were sailing instead of chugging through the water – my constant love for all things ancient has, quite possibly, reached its epicenter. A part of me wants to put on a pair of Greek sandals, strip down to a tunic, and spend the next five days sleeping on the beaches and the rocks underneath the cypress trees. And then I think: Jasper, you don’t wear sandals. And who would ever want to see your nasty feet?
*
Reflections
Reading over my previous entries, it’s obvious to me that my pilgrimage to Greece is long overdue. For the most part, my anxious Parisian prickliness has already been replaced by a wary smile and what I hope will turn into real relaxation. I’ve got a ways to go, though, before I am home again. I’m hoping that a regimen of sun, ouzo, feta and olives will be a viable cure for what’s been ailing me.
*
A Person, and a short stream-of-consciousness observation:
A couple of real, honest-to-god douchebags are sitting at the tables on the other side of the deck from me, wearing long shorts, a baseball cap, two leather choker necklaces, a silver wrist chain, and a cut-off tee-shirt that says “Football club Barcelona” on the chest; his head replete with buzzed hair, soul-patch and miniature chin-strip. His friend is equally ridiculous, wearing a long-sleeve “Wrestling champion tee” (and I don’t think it’s ironic), board shorts, ear studs and shield sunglasses. Along with a less offensive companion, the two of them are shamelessly chatting up two American girls, who giggle and sip their frappés coquettishly, eating their pastries with pinkies upturned. A part of me wants to make some friends while I’m here (not with these people, of course), but a bigger part of me wants to spend the week in solitary, introspective silence. I have a feeling I’m going to be doing a lot of writing, which can only be a good thing.
There’s a Greek woman smoking a pack of Pall-Malls, and I have the desperate urge to roll them up in my t-shirt sleeve. My hair is suitably greased-back, in the best of fifties fashion – my uncontrollable cowlick transforming into a rockabilly-meets-21st- century pompadour.
I’m amazed that my sunglasses are still going. It’s been over a year now, and they’re scratched, bent, broken, falling apart; the frame is cracked and the lenses fall out occasionally, but they’re clinging to life with admirable tenacity. I’ve grown fond of them, despite the fact that they make me look ridiculous (like a drug dealer, said Linzy).
The wind’s picking up now, blowing across the stern with insistence. The islands continue to roll by, obscured by cigarette smoke and the same persistent haze, which is beginning to turn darker and cloudier. I’m three hours into an eight-hour trip, and the sea is stretching out in every direction, not fast and blue but deep and dark, the wake of the ferry leaving a bubbly, bright azure that’s slowly reclaimed by the relentless march of the waves. The sun is hidden now, and I’ve put on a light sweater. I have half a mind to move over to one of the tables closest to the railing, but based on the fact that they’ve all been vacated by jacketed travelers, I would guess that it’s much chillier over there.
As soon as I hit Santorini I’m buying toothpaste – I forgot to bring any, and my mouth feels like an ashtray.
And it is windy now, cold and blowing. All of a sudden I’m glad I brought my raincoat. It’s Monday. Tuesday is coming – did you bring your coat? Chin-Patch is staring at the girls with the hungry eyes of a snake-oil salesman, his biceps on prominent display.
End of the trip
In a way, Greece makes me sad. What place does it have in the modern world? The Greek people are proud, and it’s easy to see why – but Greece is no longer the center of the Western World, and hasn’t been for quite a long time. I’m having trouble reconciling the ancient and the modern, I suppose – thrown off by the predatory tourism, ut also unable to resist the clarion call of ruined marble and the ancient world; the entire basis of the modern tourism industry. I think I wanted Greece to be as I read about it in my old books – deserted, old in every way. I’m finding it to be an unfortunately normal country.
Paros was our first stop. As we pulled back into the sea the sun briefly poked through the clouds before the sky returned to an obscure gray. I would have liked to explore, but there was no time – and even from the boat, it looked less interesting than some of the other islands.
Knossos, our second stop, seemed far more mysterious. Probably because there’s an ancient arch on a hill in the water as you come into the harbor, and the hillsides are sharper and steeper, more mysterious than those on Paros. It’s cold now; I’ve had to put on a second sweater, and the wind is still blowing. I hope I get some nice weather during my visit, but I also wouldn’t mind a violent rain.
Woke up broke free drove a long time, didn’t purge you from my mind
Early Morning
As the Blue Star Ferry Paros rumbles away from Piraias and slips out into open water, I’m struck again by relative anonymity of the landscape around Athens. Low, rolling hills and a crush of urbanism fade into brown, dry mounds and, to the South, the Mediterranean. I don’t know whether it’s the scenery itself, or because I know I’m in Greece, but there’s still a romance to the landscape; a stark, desolate epicness that is only augmented by the images of gods and heroes that dance in front of my eyes.
The sun’s shining hazily through the early morning clouds, illuminating the small sailboats that dot the coastline. Poetry lives thick every where in Greece, in old, crumbled ruins and in the bustling modern ferries. People of all nationalities laugh and chat (and many sleep), and almost uniformly, everyone seems to snap a picture on departure.
*
On the boat
This morning I woke up half an hour later than I intended, resulting in a mad dash to the metro, a realization that I wouldn’t make it to the port in time, and an equally mad dash to a taxi, which I shared with two other Greeks. The driver was very helpful, although I’m fairly certain that I overpaid for the eight minute drive to the docks. Maybe someday I’ll be able to take a cab without getting strung along like a show pony.
All the French are in Greece, enjoying a break from the endless train to sun their faces in the Mediterranean. Their accents are smooth and familiar; a comfortable, mellifluous sound against the slightly harsher Greek. There are plenty of Americans as well, and I swear that every other person I saw last night was speaking German. I suppose everyone needs a little bit of Greek exuberance, which so far has not been hard to come by. Even the dourest of Greeks does something to affirm the Hellenic mythos.
Groups of young American backpackers are already forming; flirtatious young men and women who are happy to find a familiar face and a recognizable accent. They’re all short shorts and muscle shirts, their Oakleys and baseball caps making them easy to spot.
It’s not as if I’m doing the best job blending in myself, however, my large backpack and homemade cloak duffel make sure of that – not to mention my shorts and deck shoes. But everyone on the ferry has a relaxed air about them, everyone’s been bitten by the Yiati Ohi that seems to grab you like a hydra’s head as soon as you set foot on Greek soil. I ought to have brought a book with me; more and more I realize how headphones cut you off from the world. I’m hit by the urge to keep my eyes and ears open, to take in the microcosm of this floating melting-pot.
Still, Santorini lies ahead, somewhere out in the water. Islands loom out of the Mediterranean like sleeping titans, giving the already hazy, thick air a further does of enigmatic romance. It’s hard not to believe in the old gods in the face of such an ancient place. Every cliff-face I see, I think: That is where Aeolus kept his winds; or That must be the island of the Cyclops. It makes me wish we were sailing instead of chugging through the water – my constant love for all things ancient has, quite possibly, reached its epicenter. A part of me wants to put on a pair of Greek sandals, strip down to a tunic, and spend the next five days sleeping on the beaches and the rocks underneath the cypress trees. And then I think: Jasper, you don’t wear sandals. And who would ever want to see your nasty feet?
*
Reflections
Reading over my previous entries, it’s obvious to me that my pilgrimage to Greece is long overdue. For the most part, my anxious Parisian prickliness has already been replaced by a wary smile and what I hope will turn into real relaxation. I’ve got a ways to go, though, before I am home again. I’m hoping that a regimen of sun, ouzo, feta and olives will be a viable cure for what’s been ailing me.
*
A Person, and a short stream-of-consciousness observation:
A couple of real, honest-to-god douchebags are sitting at the tables on the other side of the deck from me, wearing long shorts, a baseball cap, two leather choker necklaces, a silver wrist chain, and a cut-off tee-shirt that says “Football club Barcelona” on the chest; his head replete with buzzed hair, soul-patch and miniature chin-strip. His friend is equally ridiculous, wearing a long-sleeve “Wrestling champion tee” (and I don’t think it’s ironic), board shorts, ear studs and shield sunglasses. Along with a less offensive companion, the two of them are shamelessly chatting up two American girls, who giggle and sip their frappés coquettishly, eating their pastries with pinkies upturned. A part of me wants to make some friends while I’m here (not with these people, of course), but a bigger part of me wants to spend the week in solitary, introspective silence. I have a feeling I’m going to be doing a lot of writing, which can only be a good thing.
There’s a Greek woman smoking a pack of Pall-Malls, and I have the desperate urge to roll them up in my t-shirt sleeve. My hair is suitably greased-back, in the best of fifties fashion – my uncontrollable cowlick transforming into a rockabilly-meets-21st- century pompadour.
I’m amazed that my sunglasses are still going. It’s been over a year now, and they’re scratched, bent, broken, falling apart; the frame is cracked and the lenses fall out occasionally, but they’re clinging to life with admirable tenacity. I’ve grown fond of them, despite the fact that they make me look ridiculous (like a drug dealer, said Linzy).
The wind’s picking up now, blowing across the stern with insistence. The islands continue to roll by, obscured by cigarette smoke and the same persistent haze, which is beginning to turn darker and cloudier. I’m three hours into an eight-hour trip, and the sea is stretching out in every direction, not fast and blue but deep and dark, the wake of the ferry leaving a bubbly, bright azure that’s slowly reclaimed by the relentless march of the waves. The sun is hidden now, and I’ve put on a light sweater. I have half a mind to move over to one of the tables closest to the railing, but based on the fact that they’ve all been vacated by jacketed travelers, I would guess that it’s much chillier over there.
As soon as I hit Santorini I’m buying toothpaste – I forgot to bring any, and my mouth feels like an ashtray.
And it is windy now, cold and blowing. All of a sudden I’m glad I brought my raincoat. It’s Monday. Tuesday is coming – did you bring your coat? Chin-Patch is staring at the girls with the hungry eyes of a snake-oil salesman, his biceps on prominent display.
End of the trip
In a way, Greece makes me sad. What place does it have in the modern world? The Greek people are proud, and it’s easy to see why – but Greece is no longer the center of the Western World, and hasn’t been for quite a long time. I’m having trouble reconciling the ancient and the modern, I suppose – thrown off by the predatory tourism, ut also unable to resist the clarion call of ruined marble and the ancient world; the entire basis of the modern tourism industry. I think I wanted Greece to be as I read about it in my old books – deserted, old in every way. I’m finding it to be an unfortunately normal country.
Paros was our first stop. As we pulled back into the sea the sun briefly poked through the clouds before the sky returned to an obscure gray. I would have liked to explore, but there was no time – and even from the boat, it looked less interesting than some of the other islands.
Knossos, our second stop, seemed far more mysterious. Probably because there’s an ancient arch on a hill in the water as you come into the harbor, and the hillsides are sharper and steeper, more mysterious than those on Paros. It’s cold now; I’ve had to put on a second sweater, and the wind is still blowing. I hope I get some nice weather during my visit, but I also wouldn’t mind a violent rain.
Woke up broke free drove a long time, didn’t purge you from my mind
Saturday, May 16, 2009
γιατί όχι
The trip to Greece was a nightmare. I left my apartment at 3:50 (getting to bed at about two), and hurried towards Avenue Villiers, the closest main street. From there, I took a taxi to Gare du Nord, which was closed. So, I waited for twenty minutes at Gare du Nord until 4:30, when it opened, and I made my way to the RER. None of the ticket kiosks accepted bills, and the ticket counters don’t open until seven, so I snuck through the RER gate with a zone 2 metro ticket. Anyone who knows me probably realizes how anxious something like that makes me – but I was already worried I was going to miss my train, which was supposed to leave at five of five. In reality, of the four RER’s that were supposed to arrive at Gare du Nord in between 4:30 and 5:30, two of them did. Apparently the five AM RER just didn’t exist, and I had to wait until five thirty to catch the next one. By that time I was, as you can imagine, even more nervous – missing my plane to Greece would be a fine way to start my trip. When I arrived, I snuck through the exit (thankfully there were no controllers) and bolted to the ROISSYVAL and took the shuttle to terminal one – where there was no line at the SwissAir desk, and I got to the gate with plenty of time to spare. Then our plane left half an hour late – which seems to be the trend at CDG these days – and I was convinced I was going to miss my connecting flight. Thankfully, I realized I had my stopover times confused, and I slept all the way to Switzerland in relative comfort. My transferring gate was literally next door to my arrival, and so all I had to do was kill about an hour before boarding. Somehow I managed to convince myself that my plane had already boarded, or that I had missed it, so I was a nervous wreck walking up in down in front of the doors until we boarded, fifteen minutes late. I slept the entire two hours and forty-five minutes to Greece, and only woke up (feeling disgusting) when the plane touched down.
When I exited the airport and got my first glimpse of Greece, my initial thought was: This looks a lot like eastern Washington. And in a way it does; arid, stark, and desolate – this is, of course, before you begin the drive towards Athens. My taxi driver spoke two words of English – Yes and No. The only directions I had were written on a scrap of paper – an address, in Greek and Anglicized Greek – and when the driver began asking me questions, all I could do was stammer and point confusedly at “Fedrou 9. Pangrati.” I don’t think I’ve ever felt so helpless in another country before. It’s one thing not to speak the language, but another altogether to not be able to read the alphabet, which is made up of hieroglyphs so archetypically mysterious that putting them to use naming streets and bus stops seems almost sacrilegious. Thankfully, Lizzie’s friend Vladi was somehow nearby, and he managed to communicate the destination. I was under the impression that it was Lizzie speaking Greek with the grumpy cabbie and was incredibly impressed – and equally let down when I learned the truth. I met her and Julie in front of their apartment in Pangrati, which they tell me is some sort of immigrant neighborhood, and put my things down. Our first act was to order gyros, which are a uniform 1.90 here, as opposed to 4.50 in St.Michel. However, they’re far smaller, and don’t contain French fries. The verdict is still out on which sandwich rains supreme: The pitas and tzatziki in Greece are infinitely superior to pretenders in Paris, but the meat in both of the gyros I’ve had has been drier than and not as tender as the Parisian meats. I’m a huge proponent of the belief that food tastes better in the country of its origin – and I maintain that, at least subjectively. When Lizzie and Julie took me to their local taverna for dinner, I learned that the rule does indeed hold true with tzatziki, calamari, souvlaki, and whatever their word is for “fried cheese.” For fifteen euros, I got far more food than I could eat, and far more liquor than I could drink. It was satisfying to be that incredibly full after a day of nibbling on SwissAir’s miserable excuse for a brioche (Although you can’t really blame the Swiss, since they’re basically German – and they did give everyone a little piece of Swiss chocolate by way of apology).
The best-fitting description for Athens that I can come up with is “urban sprawl.” The city goes on for miles in all directions, flooding out over the landscape, dotted here and there by steep hills. The most famous, of course, is the acropolis – and I can assure you, it is just as impressive as you could ever hope it to be.
I got my first view of the Acropolis as we walked towards Plaka (the neighborhood where I’m now sitting, which is very nice and lively), towering above the faceless apartments like a miniature Olympus. It’s stunning in reality, the sheer walls of the retaining wall jutting up out of the rocky hillside, the marble columns glittering at the top – and the closer you get, the more impressive it becomes. We walked up a nearby hill (which is also capped by some sort of monument) where we drank wine and watched the sun set over the arid hills. At night, the whole Acropolis is lit up, shaming the Eiffel tower and creating an unavoidable reminder of the city’s history.
I explored further today, walking up to the top of the Acropolis and poking around among the marble ruins with a girl named Devon, who introduced herself to me at the ticket window (everything is free with a French student ID) after she heard me tell the lady at the window that I was from Paris. It turned out that she had just finished a semester in Bordeaux, and we spent an hour and a half at the Parthenon discussing France and Greece.
I can’t begin to describe the effect that the city has had on me. It’s almost the definition of my aesthetic – by which, you all know, I mean the Epic. There are ruins everywhere, crumbled pillars and exposed roads hidden in the waving grasses, all of which are grossly juxtaposed with the explosive growth of modern Athens around them. The city has certainly not forgotten its roots, and the people are proud, but the metropolis grows and grows with unbelievable speed, giving a sense of what I can only describe as “suspension” to the surroundings. The old Athens, or what’s left of it, is frozen, preserved, unchanging – while all around the ruins at the birth of civilization society grows and expands like an anthill. From the top of the hills, Athens, far below, spreads out for what seems like an eternity, up into the hills and all the way to the hazy Mediterranean, an unending sea of high-rise apartments and small, claustrophobic streets.
After cold shower (Greece is HOT) at the “Hotel Byron” (Byron’s a popular guy here for his involvement in the Greek revolution), I made my way back in the same direction, and toured the Theater of Dionysus, which is almost as incredible as the Acropolis. Here, I was treated to more of my favorite landscape; hidden columns and quarried stone grown over with dry scrub and thistles that pop out from behind cypress trees at every turn. There’s a small theater on the side of the hill, run down and crumbling, where I sat and stared at the city beyond the low fence of the archeological park. Then I walked up an old Grecian rode to the real theater, a gigantic thing that’s been completely renovated. There was a rehearsal happening, and I spent a good hour looking at the gigantic Egyptian props and costumed dancers before I walked back down to the Hotel. After a brief repose and a bite of chocolate, I went out again, getting myself lost in Plaka and the neighboring flea market. On my way back, I stopped for dinner - ouzo and Greek salad – and sat on the side of the busy walkway to people-watch. I dropped my bag off at the Byron, put on a pair of pants, and walked next door to the open-air rooftop cinema, where I took in an 8:30 showing of Angels and Demons, which is like National Treasure, only supposedly more meaningful, or something. It’s not. It’s just stupid. Well, it was better than the Da Vinci Code movie I suppose – but that’s hardly an accomplishment. Now I’m back in the sitting room of the hotel, writing. My ferry for Santorini leaves tomorrow morning at 7:30, so I’ve got to be up early to try to take the metro to Piraias, the port, to try to find my boat. The metro worries me. It’s the same system as in Paris, but with everything in Greek, and two changes to make, I’m going to leave on the early side to give myself time to correct any errors.
Traveling alone is going to be an interesting experience. I’m well-versed in keeping myself company for a day or two, but a week is going to be a much more telling experiment. You learn things about yourself; that much is apparent. Within a day I’ve learned that, despite all my Alpha-male posturing, I’m essentially scared of everything. What’s nice (and damning) about being alone is that you don’t really have a choice – you have to go take care of things, you have to get things done yourself – or else you can curl up and decide to go home. I’m excited to get to Santorini, almost excited by the inevitable chaos of the Grecian ferry system – I want to see if I can manage. If I can’t; well, that’s something I guess, but at the very least it will be interesting to find out.
Alice told me about γιατί όχι(Yati Ohi?), which basically means something like “why not” in Greek. Sucker as I am for meaning 9and all things Metanarrative and Greek), I’ve assigned far deeper meaning to it. “Why not” has become my motto for the trip; an excuse to act as I please and not worry so much about consequences. Ironically, this directly opposes my mantra of Concis-based Eleutheria, which propounds freedom but only in the recognition of consequences. I suppose the two aren’t mutually exclusive – I’ll just have to do a bit of considering. At any rate, despite the fact that I’d blown off dinner, when I passed a taverna and an old Greek man took me by the shoulder, pointed to his restaurant, and said “Why not?” all I could do was smile to myself and follow him to a table. I’m feeling a being-shift coming on. After two days, Greece has already begun to work its magic on me, forcing me to wax poetic under the shadow of the mountain where western civilization was born, in front of the crumbling pillars of the Temple of Zeus, and perched atop the Theater of Dionysus. Santorini calls like Prospero’s island, a storm of personal mystery swirling around its exploded caldera - no doubt with its own dark magician at the center. I have five days to learn all I can about myself; to see if my bloated ego has any reason for existence or if, like Nicholas Urfe, I’ll be blasted, torn apart by reality, and return to Paris a broken, but grown, man.
When I exited the airport and got my first glimpse of Greece, my initial thought was: This looks a lot like eastern Washington. And in a way it does; arid, stark, and desolate – this is, of course, before you begin the drive towards Athens. My taxi driver spoke two words of English – Yes and No. The only directions I had were written on a scrap of paper – an address, in Greek and Anglicized Greek – and when the driver began asking me questions, all I could do was stammer and point confusedly at “Fedrou 9. Pangrati.” I don’t think I’ve ever felt so helpless in another country before. It’s one thing not to speak the language, but another altogether to not be able to read the alphabet, which is made up of hieroglyphs so archetypically mysterious that putting them to use naming streets and bus stops seems almost sacrilegious. Thankfully, Lizzie’s friend Vladi was somehow nearby, and he managed to communicate the destination. I was under the impression that it was Lizzie speaking Greek with the grumpy cabbie and was incredibly impressed – and equally let down when I learned the truth. I met her and Julie in front of their apartment in Pangrati, which they tell me is some sort of immigrant neighborhood, and put my things down. Our first act was to order gyros, which are a uniform 1.90 here, as opposed to 4.50 in St.Michel. However, they’re far smaller, and don’t contain French fries. The verdict is still out on which sandwich rains supreme: The pitas and tzatziki in Greece are infinitely superior to pretenders in Paris, but the meat in both of the gyros I’ve had has been drier than and not as tender as the Parisian meats. I’m a huge proponent of the belief that food tastes better in the country of its origin – and I maintain that, at least subjectively. When Lizzie and Julie took me to their local taverna for dinner, I learned that the rule does indeed hold true with tzatziki, calamari, souvlaki, and whatever their word is for “fried cheese.” For fifteen euros, I got far more food than I could eat, and far more liquor than I could drink. It was satisfying to be that incredibly full after a day of nibbling on SwissAir’s miserable excuse for a brioche (Although you can’t really blame the Swiss, since they’re basically German – and they did give everyone a little piece of Swiss chocolate by way of apology).
The best-fitting description for Athens that I can come up with is “urban sprawl.” The city goes on for miles in all directions, flooding out over the landscape, dotted here and there by steep hills. The most famous, of course, is the acropolis – and I can assure you, it is just as impressive as you could ever hope it to be.
I got my first view of the Acropolis as we walked towards Plaka (the neighborhood where I’m now sitting, which is very nice and lively), towering above the faceless apartments like a miniature Olympus. It’s stunning in reality, the sheer walls of the retaining wall jutting up out of the rocky hillside, the marble columns glittering at the top – and the closer you get, the more impressive it becomes. We walked up a nearby hill (which is also capped by some sort of monument) where we drank wine and watched the sun set over the arid hills. At night, the whole Acropolis is lit up, shaming the Eiffel tower and creating an unavoidable reminder of the city’s history.
I explored further today, walking up to the top of the Acropolis and poking around among the marble ruins with a girl named Devon, who introduced herself to me at the ticket window (everything is free with a French student ID) after she heard me tell the lady at the window that I was from Paris. It turned out that she had just finished a semester in Bordeaux, and we spent an hour and a half at the Parthenon discussing France and Greece.
I can’t begin to describe the effect that the city has had on me. It’s almost the definition of my aesthetic – by which, you all know, I mean the Epic. There are ruins everywhere, crumbled pillars and exposed roads hidden in the waving grasses, all of which are grossly juxtaposed with the explosive growth of modern Athens around them. The city has certainly not forgotten its roots, and the people are proud, but the metropolis grows and grows with unbelievable speed, giving a sense of what I can only describe as “suspension” to the surroundings. The old Athens, or what’s left of it, is frozen, preserved, unchanging – while all around the ruins at the birth of civilization society grows and expands like an anthill. From the top of the hills, Athens, far below, spreads out for what seems like an eternity, up into the hills and all the way to the hazy Mediterranean, an unending sea of high-rise apartments and small, claustrophobic streets.
After cold shower (Greece is HOT) at the “Hotel Byron” (Byron’s a popular guy here for his involvement in the Greek revolution), I made my way back in the same direction, and toured the Theater of Dionysus, which is almost as incredible as the Acropolis. Here, I was treated to more of my favorite landscape; hidden columns and quarried stone grown over with dry scrub and thistles that pop out from behind cypress trees at every turn. There’s a small theater on the side of the hill, run down and crumbling, where I sat and stared at the city beyond the low fence of the archeological park. Then I walked up an old Grecian rode to the real theater, a gigantic thing that’s been completely renovated. There was a rehearsal happening, and I spent a good hour looking at the gigantic Egyptian props and costumed dancers before I walked back down to the Hotel. After a brief repose and a bite of chocolate, I went out again, getting myself lost in Plaka and the neighboring flea market. On my way back, I stopped for dinner - ouzo and Greek salad – and sat on the side of the busy walkway to people-watch. I dropped my bag off at the Byron, put on a pair of pants, and walked next door to the open-air rooftop cinema, where I took in an 8:30 showing of Angels and Demons, which is like National Treasure, only supposedly more meaningful, or something. It’s not. It’s just stupid. Well, it was better than the Da Vinci Code movie I suppose – but that’s hardly an accomplishment. Now I’m back in the sitting room of the hotel, writing. My ferry for Santorini leaves tomorrow morning at 7:30, so I’ve got to be up early to try to take the metro to Piraias, the port, to try to find my boat. The metro worries me. It’s the same system as in Paris, but with everything in Greek, and two changes to make, I’m going to leave on the early side to give myself time to correct any errors.
Traveling alone is going to be an interesting experience. I’m well-versed in keeping myself company for a day or two, but a week is going to be a much more telling experiment. You learn things about yourself; that much is apparent. Within a day I’ve learned that, despite all my Alpha-male posturing, I’m essentially scared of everything. What’s nice (and damning) about being alone is that you don’t really have a choice – you have to go take care of things, you have to get things done yourself – or else you can curl up and decide to go home. I’m excited to get to Santorini, almost excited by the inevitable chaos of the Grecian ferry system – I want to see if I can manage. If I can’t; well, that’s something I guess, but at the very least it will be interesting to find out.
Alice told me about γιατί όχι(Yati Ohi?), which basically means something like “why not” in Greek. Sucker as I am for meaning 9and all things Metanarrative and Greek), I’ve assigned far deeper meaning to it. “Why not” has become my motto for the trip; an excuse to act as I please and not worry so much about consequences. Ironically, this directly opposes my mantra of Concis-based Eleutheria, which propounds freedom but only in the recognition of consequences. I suppose the two aren’t mutually exclusive – I’ll just have to do a bit of considering. At any rate, despite the fact that I’d blown off dinner, when I passed a taverna and an old Greek man took me by the shoulder, pointed to his restaurant, and said “Why not?” all I could do was smile to myself and follow him to a table. I’m feeling a being-shift coming on. After two days, Greece has already begun to work its magic on me, forcing me to wax poetic under the shadow of the mountain where western civilization was born, in front of the crumbling pillars of the Temple of Zeus, and perched atop the Theater of Dionysus. Santorini calls like Prospero’s island, a storm of personal mystery swirling around its exploded caldera - no doubt with its own dark magician at the center. I have five days to learn all I can about myself; to see if my bloated ego has any reason for existence or if, like Nicholas Urfe, I’ll be blasted, torn apart by reality, and return to Paris a broken, but grown, man.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Waxing Operatic amidst the Deluge
What a fancy title, no?
Having finished a six-page "research" paper in a couple hours, I've decided to take a short break to do that which I detest the most: an "update" blog. I'm not going to tell you anything of consequence; instead, I'm going to mention some petty things:
1) I have to write two more papers tonight. It is currently 23:13.
2) I have not decided on the topics of those two papers.
3) The paper I just finished is a mockery of all but the most impossibly maudit of intellects.
4) Said paper might not have a thesis.
Speaking of which, what's the point of history/sociology papers? Don't you just regurgitate information until you reach your minimum page limit? Especially in the case of a "5-7 page case study." I just don't get it, really. All I ever read are descriptions; all I could ever want to say has already been written a thousand times by people who care more than I do. What we should really be graded on is how well we can search the internet for pertinent case studies that have already been done. I found well over twenty, and I only spent, like, two hours.
5) I have an art history test tomorrow morning, and I'm realizing that art history is something one has to "study" for. I'm not worried about the essay component, but those pesky facts tend to upset my tender sensibilities. In my very highly-regarded opinion, facts are much overrated.
6) I have to "present" the findings of my research paper to my sociology teacher tomorrow, after my art history test. I'd rather throw it at her, run, and forget all about it. I hope she doesn't read any of it until I'm well outside the country.
7) Following my presentation, there is a "Luncheon" at IES, at which I will be forced to sit through a student theater production. What's worse is that I'm not sure there are any bars nearby.
8) It is now 23:30 and I am not working on my art history papers. To remedy #2, I have now chosen two pleasant paintings to describe at length: The Sea of Ice, by Caspar David Friedritch - which really just makes me want to read At the Mountains of Madness; and The Nightmare, by John Henry Fuseli - which makes me want to read Faust.
9) I just watched the trailer for the second Transformers movie. I hate the fact that I want to see it. They're so bad - but they have GIANT FIGHTING ROBOTS, which I simply cannot resist. I'm furious that I'm going to give that bastard Michael Bay like eight bucks. I also want to see the new Terminator movie, which - believe it or not - ALSO HAS FIGHTING ROBOTS. Star Trek is out, I guess, and I want to see that too. I just watched the leaked version of that terrible Wolverine movie, and it's terrible.
10) I should go work on my papers.
Having finished a six-page "research" paper in a couple hours, I've decided to take a short break to do that which I detest the most: an "update" blog. I'm not going to tell you anything of consequence; instead, I'm going to mention some petty things:
1) I have to write two more papers tonight. It is currently 23:13.
2) I have not decided on the topics of those two papers.
3) The paper I just finished is a mockery of all but the most impossibly maudit of intellects.
4) Said paper might not have a thesis.
Speaking of which, what's the point of history/sociology papers? Don't you just regurgitate information until you reach your minimum page limit? Especially in the case of a "5-7 page case study." I just don't get it, really. All I ever read are descriptions; all I could ever want to say has already been written a thousand times by people who care more than I do. What we should really be graded on is how well we can search the internet for pertinent case studies that have already been done. I found well over twenty, and I only spent, like, two hours.
5) I have an art history test tomorrow morning, and I'm realizing that art history is something one has to "study" for. I'm not worried about the essay component, but those pesky facts tend to upset my tender sensibilities. In my very highly-regarded opinion, facts are much overrated.
6) I have to "present" the findings of my research paper to my sociology teacher tomorrow, after my art history test. I'd rather throw it at her, run, and forget all about it. I hope she doesn't read any of it until I'm well outside the country.
7) Following my presentation, there is a "Luncheon" at IES, at which I will be forced to sit through a student theater production. What's worse is that I'm not sure there are any bars nearby.
8) It is now 23:30 and I am not working on my art history papers. To remedy #2, I have now chosen two pleasant paintings to describe at length: The Sea of Ice, by Caspar David Friedritch - which really just makes me want to read At the Mountains of Madness; and The Nightmare, by John Henry Fuseli - which makes me want to read Faust.
9) I just watched the trailer for the second Transformers movie. I hate the fact that I want to see it. They're so bad - but they have GIANT FIGHTING ROBOTS, which I simply cannot resist. I'm furious that I'm going to give that bastard Michael Bay like eight bucks. I also want to see the new Terminator movie, which - believe it or not - ALSO HAS FIGHTING ROBOTS. Star Trek is out, I guess, and I want to see that too. I just watched the leaked version of that terrible Wolverine movie, and it's terrible.
10) I should go work on my papers.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Greek Sandwiches
I know that people talk about how good French “cuisine” is all the time; but let me tell you - the cuisine pretty decent, but the whole approach to food is what’s really bangin’. No matter what you’re eating, you can rest assured that love, tenderness, and at least half a stick of butter have gone into it, and the result, for the most part, is street food and po’-boy cuisine that is almost tragically delicious. Imagine your favorite taco truck, and then extend that concept to almost every food – be it sandwiches, poultries, bizarre Belgian sauerkrauts, crepes, or the humblest of fondues. Everything except, strangely, Chinese food – which has let me down, hard, on several occasions. There is an attitude about food here that just doesn’t exist in the states, and never could.
Allow me to give an example: There is a place in the Saint-Michel district that makes the best Greek sandwiches I have ever tasted (for those of you that don’t know, a Greek sandwich is a pita into which is stuffed about a pound of mystery meat that has been roasted on a spit – and as far as I can tell, never been refrigerated. This is shaved off of the spit, as it is cooking, with a small, hand-held power saw. Talk about savage. Lettuce, tomato, and delicious tzatziki sauce are added to this, along with – and this is the coup de grace – French (freedom) fries. Let me say that again: French fries and meat inside the same pita. Now, you might say, “But Jasper, there are French fries in the burritos here!” No. No, there are not. Burritos have their place, certainly – and those with French fries and avocado chunks hidden within are, sans aucun doute exemplary – but the Greek sandwich is the King of the Street Foods. I mean, these babies are fantastically, gut-wrenchingly, grease-drippingly good – and one Greek sandwich is basically all you can eat in the course of a day. To boot, they’re quite cheap –about €4.50, which is only like a million and a half dollars these days. Not bad, considering they weight about half as much as I do.
As I was saying before I got distracted, the best Greek sandwich I’ve had is in Saint-Michel, at a place called the “Maison de Gyros. Their meat is only rarely too salty, and always perfectly spiced. The lettuce is fresh and crisp, the tomatoes are juicy, and the tzatziki is as refreshing as one could ever hope. Plus – and this is how you know you’re at a good joint – they rub your pita on the meat-spit and warm it up before they fill it with strange Mediterranean delicacies. But it’s the ambience of the place that really makes the experience. Downstairs, there is a small, semi-open-to-the-air sit-down area; excellent, as the sandwiches are big, messy, and enjoyed more easily when seated. The proprietors constantly dump salt all over the floor – to soak up the grease – and neither the downstairs or upstairs dining areas (I suggest avoiding the upstairs) appear as though they have ever been cleaned.
The last time I visited, a pigeon joined us for dinner. It flew in, and proceeded to wander unchallenged amongst the diners, picking here and there at kebab tidbits, its single swollen, oversized, disgusting foot in prominent display, until finally it decided it had had enough, and vanished in a swirl of feathers. As my lady-friend and I rose to leave, she pointed out the stray cat that was lounging, as nonchalant as Baudelaire’s dandy, in the corner. We wandered into the beautiful Paris twilight, the bells of Notre Dame ringing clearly in the crisp air, as the toothless sandwich men waved us goodbye, grunting unintelligibly and wiping their unwashed fingers on their grease-coated aprons. Au revoir, my friends. And next time, cook the pigeon.
Allow me to give an example: There is a place in the Saint-Michel district that makes the best Greek sandwiches I have ever tasted (for those of you that don’t know, a Greek sandwich is a pita into which is stuffed about a pound of mystery meat that has been roasted on a spit – and as far as I can tell, never been refrigerated. This is shaved off of the spit, as it is cooking, with a small, hand-held power saw. Talk about savage. Lettuce, tomato, and delicious tzatziki sauce are added to this, along with – and this is the coup de grace – French (freedom) fries. Let me say that again: French fries and meat inside the same pita. Now, you might say, “But Jasper, there are French fries in the burritos here!” No. No, there are not. Burritos have their place, certainly – and those with French fries and avocado chunks hidden within are, sans aucun doute exemplary – but the Greek sandwich is the King of the Street Foods. I mean, these babies are fantastically, gut-wrenchingly, grease-drippingly good – and one Greek sandwich is basically all you can eat in the course of a day. To boot, they’re quite cheap –about €4.50, which is only like a million and a half dollars these days. Not bad, considering they weight about half as much as I do.
As I was saying before I got distracted, the best Greek sandwich I’ve had is in Saint-Michel, at a place called the “Maison de Gyros. Their meat is only rarely too salty, and always perfectly spiced. The lettuce is fresh and crisp, the tomatoes are juicy, and the tzatziki is as refreshing as one could ever hope. Plus – and this is how you know you’re at a good joint – they rub your pita on the meat-spit and warm it up before they fill it with strange Mediterranean delicacies. But it’s the ambience of the place that really makes the experience. Downstairs, there is a small, semi-open-to-the-air sit-down area; excellent, as the sandwiches are big, messy, and enjoyed more easily when seated. The proprietors constantly dump salt all over the floor – to soak up the grease – and neither the downstairs or upstairs dining areas (I suggest avoiding the upstairs) appear as though they have ever been cleaned.
The last time I visited, a pigeon joined us for dinner. It flew in, and proceeded to wander unchallenged amongst the diners, picking here and there at kebab tidbits, its single swollen, oversized, disgusting foot in prominent display, until finally it decided it had had enough, and vanished in a swirl of feathers. As my lady-friend and I rose to leave, she pointed out the stray cat that was lounging, as nonchalant as Baudelaire’s dandy, in the corner. We wandered into the beautiful Paris twilight, the bells of Notre Dame ringing clearly in the crisp air, as the toothless sandwich men waved us goodbye, grunting unintelligibly and wiping their unwashed fingers on their grease-coated aprons. Au revoir, my friends. And next time, cook the pigeon.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
This is not about Corsica
But it should be. I'll get to Corsica eventually. Anyway, I'm easing myself into posting, and I'm starting with my daily ab routine. It works.
The key is to do each set without resting; i.e. as quickly as possible.
30 elevated pushups (legs on bed)
30 squats
30 elevated pushups
30 lunges (each leg)
30 russian twists
30 leg-on-bed crunches
30 leg lifts
30 elevated pushups
30 cross-leg crunches (legs on bed, crunch left elbow towards right knee)
30 candlestick press-up things
quick break, and then:
30 knee-up crunches
30 leg lifts
30 reverse crunches
30 elevated pushups
30 leg on bed crunches
30 cycles
30 cross-leg crunches
30 elevated pushups
30 cross-leg crunches
30 leg-on-bed reach-and-touches
Not a lot of science in there. Mostly just reps. Anyway, you can feel it afterward.
That's all for now, I guess.
The key is to do each set without resting; i.e. as quickly as possible.
30 elevated pushups (legs on bed)
30 squats
30 elevated pushups
30 lunges (each leg)
30 russian twists
30 leg-on-bed crunches
30 leg lifts
30 elevated pushups
30 cross-leg crunches (legs on bed, crunch left elbow towards right knee)
30 candlestick press-up things
quick break, and then:
30 knee-up crunches
30 leg lifts
30 reverse crunches
30 elevated pushups
30 leg on bed crunches
30 cycles
30 cross-leg crunches
30 elevated pushups
30 cross-leg crunches
30 leg-on-bed reach-and-touches
Not a lot of science in there. Mostly just reps. Anyway, you can feel it afterward.
That's all for now, I guess.
Friday, April 10, 2009
A Lighter Note
In an effort to reduce a bit of flab, I've started working out for real again - not that what I was doing before was wishy-washy, per se - as in, sort of taking it seriously. I'm currently thinner than I usually am (as evidenced by the fact that non of my pants fit me), but I've decided I want to be leaner. I mean, I've been doing abs every day and running every other day, but I've decided to step it up a notch to this, my daily workout (in a row, without stoppping. It's pretty good, I think) :
30 elevated pushups
30 squats
30 elevated pushups
30 lunges (each leg)
30 russian twists
30 leg-on-bed crunches
30 leg lifts
30 dive bombers (a.k.a. hindu pushups)
30 cross-leg crunches (right ankle on top of left knee, crunch left elbow towards right knee)
30 candlestick press-up things
Then go running. Two days of sprints a week, one day off.
The thing is, it's never going to work. It's not that I won't follow it - I will - the problem is the food. I eat less food now, but it's also less healthy. It's tough to find healthy food when you don't really have a kitchen (theoretically I do, but I don't like using it) and your host family essentially serves you salt garnished with various things for dinner three times a week. When I eat by myself, I get cheap things - sandwiches, chips, what have you - essentially, I eat far too many carbs, and far too little protein. For example, I bought myself dinner tonight, and it consists of:
One baguette
One small Caprice des Dieux
One pack Salami
One pack Speck
One bag Chips, gout fromage
Two packs of Haribo gummies
One large Leffe
This is not healthy, but it is so delicious. Speaking of delicious, in the French language, thoughts can be delicieux. Metatastual, indeed, when the idea itself is delicious.
Sunday I leave for Corsica. Linzy is apparently the most amazing travel partner in the world, and has already found tons of stuff to do. She called me today to ask if I knew how to ride a horse. Thankfully the answer's yes, so we're going horseback riding on Monday (?), which I'm honestly looking forward to. The weather in Corse isn't much warmer than here, but hopefully I can at least put on my swimsuit and stare at the ocean once or twice.
Linzy's even found restaurants to try; I'm excited at the prospect of Corsican fare. Although to be honest, all I'm imagining (and all I'm hoping for, really) is wild boar and seafood.
I think we leave from Orly at like 7:00AM or something; that should be fun. We also leave from Corsica at something like 7:00AM, which should be even more fun.
Honestly, that's all I can think up right now. I assume I'll have loads to share after we return from our wild Corsican odyssey.
30 elevated pushups
30 squats
30 elevated pushups
30 lunges (each leg)
30 russian twists
30 leg-on-bed crunches
30 leg lifts
30 dive bombers (a.k.a. hindu pushups)
30 cross-leg crunches (right ankle on top of left knee, crunch left elbow towards right knee)
30 candlestick press-up things
Then go running. Two days of sprints a week, one day off.
The thing is, it's never going to work. It's not that I won't follow it - I will - the problem is the food. I eat less food now, but it's also less healthy. It's tough to find healthy food when you don't really have a kitchen (theoretically I do, but I don't like using it) and your host family essentially serves you salt garnished with various things for dinner three times a week. When I eat by myself, I get cheap things - sandwiches, chips, what have you - essentially, I eat far too many carbs, and far too little protein. For example, I bought myself dinner tonight, and it consists of:
One baguette
One small Caprice des Dieux
One pack Salami
One pack Speck
One bag Chips, gout fromage
Two packs of Haribo gummies
One large Leffe
This is not healthy, but it is so delicious. Speaking of delicious, in the French language, thoughts can be delicieux. Metatastual, indeed, when the idea itself is delicious.
Sunday I leave for Corsica. Linzy is apparently the most amazing travel partner in the world, and has already found tons of stuff to do. She called me today to ask if I knew how to ride a horse. Thankfully the answer's yes, so we're going horseback riding on Monday (?), which I'm honestly looking forward to. The weather in Corse isn't much warmer than here, but hopefully I can at least put on my swimsuit and stare at the ocean once or twice.
Linzy's even found restaurants to try; I'm excited at the prospect of Corsican fare. Although to be honest, all I'm imagining (and all I'm hoping for, really) is wild boar and seafood.
I think we leave from Orly at like 7:00AM or something; that should be fun. We also leave from Corsica at something like 7:00AM, which should be even more fun.
Honestly, that's all I can think up right now. I assume I'll have loads to share after we return from our wild Corsican odyssey.
Friday, March 27, 2009
And down we go..Personal much?
I think it's safe to say I'm in a rut. Or a slump. Or whatever. Let me resume:
First of all, I feel like crap. My skin is awful, my hair is greasy, I haven't showered in two days, I feel fat, and I've chewed my nails down to stubs.
IES is worthless. It is a complete and utter waste of my time. I can't remember the last time I even listened to an interesting discussion during one of my mind-breaking, hour-and-a-half-long courses. It's torment. I would rather be at Whitman getting my ass kicked by ridiculous reading schedules and lit papers than here, banging my head against a wall for no reason. The pain is physical; I can feel myself dying as I sit in class and stare at my mocking watch-face as an eternity of suffering passes every minute. I tell myself, "Art history is fun! You like art! You find aesthetics and the artistic movements of the 19th century interesting!" And then I show up at nine A.M. on Monday and Wednesday mornings and fall asleep - that kind of guilty half-sleep where you have to keep pinching yourself, and the teacher is giving you dirty looks anyway, and all you want to do is get out of your desk and lie down on the floor and pass out.
My "Women in Conflicts" class is less painful, because the teacher is interested and occasionally interesting. However, no one speaks French, and listening to that shit for an hour and a half really is pure torture. Perhaps as a function of the language level, no one ever says anything interesting.
And then there's translation. I find it hard to care even slightly about this class, despite the fact that it would probably be the most useful for me if I did. However, it's completely useless as well. All we ever do is translate things - which in theory is fine. However, the only way I ever know whether my translation is correct is when she gives it back to me and I learn that everything is wrong. Seriously, if I just read a goddamned English-French dictionary and a grammar book cover to cover, I could skip an entire semester of torment. I don't know how people know things - I consistently get the worst grades in the class on tests and translations, despite the fact that half the class doesn't fucking speak French. Once again, I'm getting screwed by assholes who know, and play by, the rules; whereas I do shit that I think "sounds right." Well, it's been that way since 7th grade, so I don't see why things should change now.
Basically, I spend 9 hours a week in IES classes wishing I were dead. It is really difficult to explain to people (well, it's easy to explain, but I sound like a prick) that I go to a really good school, and that classes here don't interest me, that the people are unintelligent and unimaginitive, and that my brain has not been this underworked in I don't know how long. Probably ever. Thank god for Rachel and Linzy; if not for them this sea of mouth-breathing heathens would be unbearable.
And then there's my exterior courses. This is where it gets even better.
It is halfway through the semester, and I have been to exactly one of each of my classes at the ICP (Institut Catholique de Paris). I went to one "Epistemology in/of/on History" class, and one "Contemporary Art" class. History was fine; I planned on going back to that. And then it got nice out, so I haven't been in two weeks. Art History was literally the exact same class as my IES art history class. Same paintings, practically the same lecture. I was less than thrilled, and since class is cancelled every other week, I haven't been since. The problem is that I haven't been to the TD either (that's the art history class where you, I don't know, do homework and discuss things, or something). Not one time. I have no idea what's even required of me for the class. This is not a good thing, as another student, Brittany, who is in the same class, told me that three weeks ago when she introduced herself as an American student and whatnot, the TD prof was the opposite of thrilled to learn about her presence. Well, Brittany actually just said she was a huge bitch - to everyone. She had to give an oral presentation last Friday, and the professor wouldn't tell her how. She told me it did not go well.
The problem is that I think I need to, you know, actually do things for these classes if I want to get credit for them. Which, honestly, I don't really care about. It's the IES classes I need the credit from; a sociology class, an art class, and a french class. The situation is likely not a good one. I don't really know how I'm going to explain to the "dean" here that I haven't been to any of my exterior classes. I'm thinking about lying, and blaming my lack of grades on evil French profs.
Well, that's classes.
As far as Paris goes, j'en ai marre. Things go up and down, but mostly I'm sick of the weather, the people, and speaking french. Nothing interests me; I'm bored all the time. I don't know what I'm doing here. Wasting money, probably - I could be working and living here or something, but for some reason I'm in school. The French don't even take school seriously. I don't understand how they turn into human beings; there is chatter throughout every single class, and almost no one shows any interest in anything remotely scholarly. It is the land of the self-motivated; it's not like the teachers give a shit (they tell you as much). And going to the ICP, which is supposed to be better than the Sorbonne, is like being in high school (granted, I've been to two classes, so I'm no expert). I have no interest in going to classes, or doing much of anything else. I wouldn't mind eating really good food all day or something.
What really bums me out is that I have no idea what to even look forward to. The end of the semester? Then what? Back to Walla Walla, to find a job. Definitely not Colorado. Live in a house that I'll rent for a year while I struggle through classes and try to think of things to do with my life. Another semester of English and French? I don't know what to do with either. More school, I suppose. What a thrilling prospect.
I think that everyone, at some point, dreams of dropping out and being a rock star. I'm definitely there right now. Unfortunately, I don't even know how to play the guitar. Which is why I'm going to buy one at a pawn shop this summer, along with a sewing machine. I might as well teach myself some shit.
I wish I could think things into existence. I have all these fucking fantastic ideas for books, comics, operas, movies, songs, and every other thing ever. The thing is, I have no idea how to do anything. I haven't got a single useful skill. What am I supposed to do with a brain that never shuts off, and a body that won't turn on?
Speaking of which, as soon as I get back to the states I'm getting on anti-anxiety meds. There are some days I can barely even function from invisible stress, and I can't remember the last time I relaxed. Even my friends here have noticed it. I'm sure I'm terrible to be around - in an awful mood all the time, constantly bored but unwilling to do anything - I'm a peach. All I really want to do is ride motorcycles, sword fight, fly spaceships and listen to metal. You know, have adventures. Like, if I were a steampunk assassin in a dystopian victorian neo-past and got caught up in some grand, fantastical conspiracy. Or a rough-and-tumble space pilot disovering new planets and saving the universe. Or a knight. Or anything. Back in the 1840's, Baudelaire called for a portrayal of the Heroism of modern life (somehow he ended up with Delacroix, who, while suitably romantic [read: epic], was hardly a portrayor of the vie quotidienne. There's a definite disconnect between Baudelaire's later poetry and his continued championing of Delacroix. I suppose his endorsement of Constantin Guys does something to remedy that, but Guys wasn't all that heroic. But none of that's neither here nor there), and I think that's what I'm looking for. There's no romance in life any more; no heroism, no grandeur. Nietszhe killed god, and the Author was dead by the seventies. What else is left? I know I'm not supposed to complain about the lack of the sacred, but then where do you turn for refuge? I don't know if any of this will ever make any sense to anyone else, but that's alright. There's no mysticism. All the corners of the map have been filled in. There's no excitement. I haven't been excited for anything in ages. I think people mistake excitement for anxiety. Either that, or I have way more problems than I thought I did.
This is why I don't think I should be allowed to read or watch anything, or even listen to music, because inevitably I end up comparing my life to fictions. Like, I couldn't sleep tonight (probably because I slept from ten in the morning to six thirty at night. Now it's six AM, and no signs of crashing), and so I stayed up and thought. That can't be healthy. I'm tempted to reference Baudelaire again, and wander out into the pre-dawn rain looking for the fleurs du mal. I'm always lured by the thought of taking on a second personality that only comes out at night - like Jekyll and Hyde. I want to go out and be evil. Not street-thug evil, more like passively evil - Not helping old ladies, picking up people's dropped items and keeping them for myself, not reporting thefts. You know, being evil in the Silent Observer's capacity.
Maybe I'll go into the sewers and look for the elder gods; try to get involved in the arcane arts and summon a demon. Stumble into a cult meeting and fight off mindless hordes with a manhole cover. Really, I'm up for anything at this point. I play out bizarre daydreams in my head almost constantly ; I zone out on the phone and even in the middle of conversations.
Something else I'd like to mention: I am constantly terrified of/thinking about knife fights and getting stabbed. I think I've mentioned this before. It's not really even a fear, it's more of an expectation. I lie awake in bed and image what I would do if someone attacked me with a knife. When I'm walking around at night, I'm always expecting that someone's going to come at me with a dagger.
On what I hope is a final note, I hate accordions. What I hate even more is when people play them directly in my ears while I'm on the metro, and then want me to give them money. They should be giving me money for putting up with their shit. Seriously, I don't even care if they're the fucking Mozart of the accordion, I can't stand it.
First of all, I feel like crap. My skin is awful, my hair is greasy, I haven't showered in two days, I feel fat, and I've chewed my nails down to stubs.
IES is worthless. It is a complete and utter waste of my time. I can't remember the last time I even listened to an interesting discussion during one of my mind-breaking, hour-and-a-half-long courses. It's torment. I would rather be at Whitman getting my ass kicked by ridiculous reading schedules and lit papers than here, banging my head against a wall for no reason. The pain is physical; I can feel myself dying as I sit in class and stare at my mocking watch-face as an eternity of suffering passes every minute. I tell myself, "Art history is fun! You like art! You find aesthetics and the artistic movements of the 19th century interesting!" And then I show up at nine A.M. on Monday and Wednesday mornings and fall asleep - that kind of guilty half-sleep where you have to keep pinching yourself, and the teacher is giving you dirty looks anyway, and all you want to do is get out of your desk and lie down on the floor and pass out.
My "Women in Conflicts" class is less painful, because the teacher is interested and occasionally interesting. However, no one speaks French, and listening to that shit for an hour and a half really is pure torture. Perhaps as a function of the language level, no one ever says anything interesting.
And then there's translation. I find it hard to care even slightly about this class, despite the fact that it would probably be the most useful for me if I did. However, it's completely useless as well. All we ever do is translate things - which in theory is fine. However, the only way I ever know whether my translation is correct is when she gives it back to me and I learn that everything is wrong. Seriously, if I just read a goddamned English-French dictionary and a grammar book cover to cover, I could skip an entire semester of torment. I don't know how people know things - I consistently get the worst grades in the class on tests and translations, despite the fact that half the class doesn't fucking speak French. Once again, I'm getting screwed by assholes who know, and play by, the rules; whereas I do shit that I think "sounds right." Well, it's been that way since 7th grade, so I don't see why things should change now.
Basically, I spend 9 hours a week in IES classes wishing I were dead. It is really difficult to explain to people (well, it's easy to explain, but I sound like a prick) that I go to a really good school, and that classes here don't interest me, that the people are unintelligent and unimaginitive, and that my brain has not been this underworked in I don't know how long. Probably ever. Thank god for Rachel and Linzy; if not for them this sea of mouth-breathing heathens would be unbearable.
And then there's my exterior courses. This is where it gets even better.
It is halfway through the semester, and I have been to exactly one of each of my classes at the ICP (Institut Catholique de Paris). I went to one "Epistemology in/of/on History" class, and one "Contemporary Art" class. History was fine; I planned on going back to that. And then it got nice out, so I haven't been in two weeks. Art History was literally the exact same class as my IES art history class. Same paintings, practically the same lecture. I was less than thrilled, and since class is cancelled every other week, I haven't been since. The problem is that I haven't been to the TD either (that's the art history class where you, I don't know, do homework and discuss things, or something). Not one time. I have no idea what's even required of me for the class. This is not a good thing, as another student, Brittany, who is in the same class, told me that three weeks ago when she introduced herself as an American student and whatnot, the TD prof was the opposite of thrilled to learn about her presence. Well, Brittany actually just said she was a huge bitch - to everyone. She had to give an oral presentation last Friday, and the professor wouldn't tell her how. She told me it did not go well.
The problem is that I think I need to, you know, actually do things for these classes if I want to get credit for them. Which, honestly, I don't really care about. It's the IES classes I need the credit from; a sociology class, an art class, and a french class. The situation is likely not a good one. I don't really know how I'm going to explain to the "dean" here that I haven't been to any of my exterior classes. I'm thinking about lying, and blaming my lack of grades on evil French profs.
Well, that's classes.
As far as Paris goes, j'en ai marre. Things go up and down, but mostly I'm sick of the weather, the people, and speaking french. Nothing interests me; I'm bored all the time. I don't know what I'm doing here. Wasting money, probably - I could be working and living here or something, but for some reason I'm in school. The French don't even take school seriously. I don't understand how they turn into human beings; there is chatter throughout every single class, and almost no one shows any interest in anything remotely scholarly. It is the land of the self-motivated; it's not like the teachers give a shit (they tell you as much). And going to the ICP, which is supposed to be better than the Sorbonne, is like being in high school (granted, I've been to two classes, so I'm no expert). I have no interest in going to classes, or doing much of anything else. I wouldn't mind eating really good food all day or something.
What really bums me out is that I have no idea what to even look forward to. The end of the semester? Then what? Back to Walla Walla, to find a job. Definitely not Colorado. Live in a house that I'll rent for a year while I struggle through classes and try to think of things to do with my life. Another semester of English and French? I don't know what to do with either. More school, I suppose. What a thrilling prospect.
I think that everyone, at some point, dreams of dropping out and being a rock star. I'm definitely there right now. Unfortunately, I don't even know how to play the guitar. Which is why I'm going to buy one at a pawn shop this summer, along with a sewing machine. I might as well teach myself some shit.
I wish I could think things into existence. I have all these fucking fantastic ideas for books, comics, operas, movies, songs, and every other thing ever. The thing is, I have no idea how to do anything. I haven't got a single useful skill. What am I supposed to do with a brain that never shuts off, and a body that won't turn on?
Speaking of which, as soon as I get back to the states I'm getting on anti-anxiety meds. There are some days I can barely even function from invisible stress, and I can't remember the last time I relaxed. Even my friends here have noticed it. I'm sure I'm terrible to be around - in an awful mood all the time, constantly bored but unwilling to do anything - I'm a peach. All I really want to do is ride motorcycles, sword fight, fly spaceships and listen to metal. You know, have adventures. Like, if I were a steampunk assassin in a dystopian victorian neo-past and got caught up in some grand, fantastical conspiracy. Or a rough-and-tumble space pilot disovering new planets and saving the universe. Or a knight. Or anything. Back in the 1840's, Baudelaire called for a portrayal of the Heroism of modern life (somehow he ended up with Delacroix, who, while suitably romantic [read: epic], was hardly a portrayor of the vie quotidienne. There's a definite disconnect between Baudelaire's later poetry and his continued championing of Delacroix. I suppose his endorsement of Constantin Guys does something to remedy that, but Guys wasn't all that heroic. But none of that's neither here nor there), and I think that's what I'm looking for. There's no romance in life any more; no heroism, no grandeur. Nietszhe killed god, and the Author was dead by the seventies. What else is left? I know I'm not supposed to complain about the lack of the sacred, but then where do you turn for refuge? I don't know if any of this will ever make any sense to anyone else, but that's alright. There's no mysticism. All the corners of the map have been filled in. There's no excitement. I haven't been excited for anything in ages. I think people mistake excitement for anxiety. Either that, or I have way more problems than I thought I did.
This is why I don't think I should be allowed to read or watch anything, or even listen to music, because inevitably I end up comparing my life to fictions. Like, I couldn't sleep tonight (probably because I slept from ten in the morning to six thirty at night. Now it's six AM, and no signs of crashing), and so I stayed up and thought. That can't be healthy. I'm tempted to reference Baudelaire again, and wander out into the pre-dawn rain looking for the fleurs du mal. I'm always lured by the thought of taking on a second personality that only comes out at night - like Jekyll and Hyde. I want to go out and be evil. Not street-thug evil, more like passively evil - Not helping old ladies, picking up people's dropped items and keeping them for myself, not reporting thefts. You know, being evil in the Silent Observer's capacity.
Maybe I'll go into the sewers and look for the elder gods; try to get involved in the arcane arts and summon a demon. Stumble into a cult meeting and fight off mindless hordes with a manhole cover. Really, I'm up for anything at this point. I play out bizarre daydreams in my head almost constantly ; I zone out on the phone and even in the middle of conversations.
Something else I'd like to mention: I am constantly terrified of/thinking about knife fights and getting stabbed. I think I've mentioned this before. It's not really even a fear, it's more of an expectation. I lie awake in bed and image what I would do if someone attacked me with a knife. When I'm walking around at night, I'm always expecting that someone's going to come at me with a dagger.
On what I hope is a final note, I hate accordions. What I hate even more is when people play them directly in my ears while I'm on the metro, and then want me to give them money. They should be giving me money for putting up with their shit. Seriously, I don't even care if they're the fucking Mozart of the accordion, I can't stand it.
It's Been a While...
...Since I wrote anything.
Kim left this morning (yesterday morning?) at 9:20, so we were out of the hotel at 5:30 AM. The RER was uneventful and the airport was empty, so we had time to "enjoy" the greasiest quiche lorraine either of us had ever eaten before she headed off to her gate.
It was a fun two weeks. Upon arrival, Kim fell in love with the Greek sandwich. And she fell hard. I think we had six in two weeks. That's a lot of greasy meat.
We decided on a favorite: The pita at "Maison de Gyros" in St. Michel hits all the right notes: the spicing on the juicy meetz is delicious, the tzatziki is thick and rich and legit, the salad and tomatoes are generally crisp, and the fries are hotter and more satisfying that the fries of the competitors - although the last pita we ate was quite a bit saltier than usual. The "restaurant" is also comfortingly filthy. There's salt all over the floors so that you don't slip in grease, the upstairs seating area hasn't been cleaned in...ever...and on Thursday we were accompanied by a stray cat AND a deformed pigeon as we ate.
Kim didn't want to see most of the touristy schtick - of course, you end up seeing most of it anyway - just the Eiffel tower and the Sacre Coeur, which were both duly admired - as were the Arenes de Lutece, where we ate - believe it or not - a Greek Sandwich. We spent most of our time rambling about and eating. I forget how much Kim eats; it's terrifying, especially given she's 5'6" and 113. I ate more in the last two weeks than I did the first month I was here, easy. It was good, actually - I never eat anything more gourmet than a panini; so hanging out with Kim was an excuse to eat food that I actually wanted. She discovered the joys of the pre-dinner kir, the three-course meal, and the Confit de Canard - I think she was more upset to leave the Foie Gras than she was to be leaving me.
The first weekend she was here, we headed over to Linzy's to eat dinner with Rachel and Katie. Rachel and Linzy had been in Amiens that day, and had picked up veggies and whatnot - Rachel also bought Bar for us all to eat, and I'm proud to say I didn't fuck it up. I cooked it in a pan with butter, oil, and white wine, then made a wine/garlic/shallot sauce. It tasted really, really good, if I do say so myself. We all had a great time; the only casualty Linzy's white tablecloth, victim of an energetic Kim and an unstable candlestick.
We did make it to La Duree, the macaron house on the Champs Elysees. I can safely say that the Rose Macaron is one of the most delicious things I have ever eaten in my entire life. It tastes like love. It is incredible. If everyone ate rose macaroons every day, there would be no war and no hate, the economy would be back on track, and we would have a settlement on Mars. It is that good. I crave more; I fiend after them like a crack addict.
Those are the first things that come to mind. I should have done a better job keeping up with posting, but as Kim was very fond of saying, c'est la vie. I'll probably add more as it comes back to me - a busy two weeks is a lot to fit into a single post.
Kim left this morning (yesterday morning?) at 9:20, so we were out of the hotel at 5:30 AM. The RER was uneventful and the airport was empty, so we had time to "enjoy" the greasiest quiche lorraine either of us had ever eaten before she headed off to her gate.
It was a fun two weeks. Upon arrival, Kim fell in love with the Greek sandwich. And she fell hard. I think we had six in two weeks. That's a lot of greasy meat.
We decided on a favorite: The pita at "Maison de Gyros" in St. Michel hits all the right notes: the spicing on the juicy meetz is delicious, the tzatziki is thick and rich and legit, the salad and tomatoes are generally crisp, and the fries are hotter and more satisfying that the fries of the competitors - although the last pita we ate was quite a bit saltier than usual. The "restaurant" is also comfortingly filthy. There's salt all over the floors so that you don't slip in grease, the upstairs seating area hasn't been cleaned in...ever...and on Thursday we were accompanied by a stray cat AND a deformed pigeon as we ate.
Kim didn't want to see most of the touristy schtick - of course, you end up seeing most of it anyway - just the Eiffel tower and the Sacre Coeur, which were both duly admired - as were the Arenes de Lutece, where we ate - believe it or not - a Greek Sandwich. We spent most of our time rambling about and eating. I forget how much Kim eats; it's terrifying, especially given she's 5'6" and 113. I ate more in the last two weeks than I did the first month I was here, easy. It was good, actually - I never eat anything more gourmet than a panini; so hanging out with Kim was an excuse to eat food that I actually wanted. She discovered the joys of the pre-dinner kir, the three-course meal, and the Confit de Canard - I think she was more upset to leave the Foie Gras than she was to be leaving me.
The first weekend she was here, we headed over to Linzy's to eat dinner with Rachel and Katie. Rachel and Linzy had been in Amiens that day, and had picked up veggies and whatnot - Rachel also bought Bar for us all to eat, and I'm proud to say I didn't fuck it up. I cooked it in a pan with butter, oil, and white wine, then made a wine/garlic/shallot sauce. It tasted really, really good, if I do say so myself. We all had a great time; the only casualty Linzy's white tablecloth, victim of an energetic Kim and an unstable candlestick.
We did make it to La Duree, the macaron house on the Champs Elysees. I can safely say that the Rose Macaron is one of the most delicious things I have ever eaten in my entire life. It tastes like love. It is incredible. If everyone ate rose macaroons every day, there would be no war and no hate, the economy would be back on track, and we would have a settlement on Mars. It is that good. I crave more; I fiend after them like a crack addict.
Those are the first things that come to mind. I should have done a better job keeping up with posting, but as Kim was very fond of saying, c'est la vie. I'll probably add more as it comes back to me - a busy two weeks is a lot to fit into a single post.
Friday, March 13, 2009
More Snips
I was under the impression that I spoke pretty good French; that I was past the point of being unable to communicate and well into the land of the annoying but inconsequential grammar mistakes. It turns out that getting your hair cut in a foreign country is really difficult.
I found "Celine for Rachel Benaicht: RB2" on the internet through the bumble&bumble "salon locator" doohickey. Since I know absolutely nothing about salons in Paris, I figured that would be the safest thing to do. Anyway, after I made my appointment (over the phone, which encouraged me) I sat down to look up haircut terminology. I made a great big list, with words like "thinned out," "faded in," "split ends," and "It's too poofy, could you flatten it out?" Of course, as soon as I got on the metro I realized I had forgotten it on my desk. So I showed up at "RB2" with naught but hope.
When I walked in, I was put in my robe and made to sit around uncomfortably for half an hour (they had to move me once or twice to less in-the-way locations) while they finished their current coiffs. Finally, after feeling incredibly out of place for a very long time, my hairdresser walked over and asked me what I wanted. My hair, after two months without a cut and about a week and a half without a wash (I decided not to wash it until I got it cut, as some way of motivating myself to make an appointment or something - I ended up with really nasty hair), was frizzy and ratty and disgusting. Embarassingly so. I tried to stick to terms I knew, but basically everything I said boiled down to these two sentiments: "Shorter, but not too short," and "longer, but not too long." At one point I tried to bring up David Beckham as a reference, but that was unfortunately a bust. I guess he changes his hair too much. Celine, the salon owner, came over to try to translate, but she didn't do any better than I did. "You 'ave a lot of 'air," she finally said, and walked away. Anyway, I just told the girl to start cutting. I did manage to transmit that I wanted my hair thinned out as well as the sort of basic style I was going for - and she definitely came through.
Making small talk during the haircut was much easier than describing the haircut itself. My hairdresser was a very nice, younger French girl in her mid-twenties who was part Cantonese. She asked how much university cost in the States (answer: a lot) and other things of that sort of vapid nature. The salon was uncomfortably silent - no music, and basically no talking. It was fairly odd. I'm used to the Beehive (and to my homie Shelly, who basically just starts cutting as soon as I walk in - ask for her if you're in WW), which is very young and trendy and loud.
All in all, I was at the salon for an hour and a half, which is long even by Beehive standards. I think we were both glad when it was finished, even though I have to give props to the girl -whose name I never learned - she definitely performed admirably for having no direction other than "no, shorter," and "yes, good." It was definitely a humbling experience, and I encourage everyone to try it some time; thankfully now if I ever need a haircut again I don't think it will be quite so traumatic.
I found "Celine for Rachel Benaicht: RB2" on the internet through the bumble&bumble "salon locator" doohickey. Since I know absolutely nothing about salons in Paris, I figured that would be the safest thing to do. Anyway, after I made my appointment (over the phone, which encouraged me) I sat down to look up haircut terminology. I made a great big list, with words like "thinned out," "faded in," "split ends," and "It's too poofy, could you flatten it out?" Of course, as soon as I got on the metro I realized I had forgotten it on my desk. So I showed up at "RB2" with naught but hope.
When I walked in, I was put in my robe and made to sit around uncomfortably for half an hour (they had to move me once or twice to less in-the-way locations) while they finished their current coiffs. Finally, after feeling incredibly out of place for a very long time, my hairdresser walked over and asked me what I wanted. My hair, after two months without a cut and about a week and a half without a wash (I decided not to wash it until I got it cut, as some way of motivating myself to make an appointment or something - I ended up with really nasty hair), was frizzy and ratty and disgusting. Embarassingly so. I tried to stick to terms I knew, but basically everything I said boiled down to these two sentiments: "Shorter, but not too short," and "longer, but not too long." At one point I tried to bring up David Beckham as a reference, but that was unfortunately a bust. I guess he changes his hair too much. Celine, the salon owner, came over to try to translate, but she didn't do any better than I did. "You 'ave a lot of 'air," she finally said, and walked away. Anyway, I just told the girl to start cutting. I did manage to transmit that I wanted my hair thinned out as well as the sort of basic style I was going for - and she definitely came through.
Making small talk during the haircut was much easier than describing the haircut itself. My hairdresser was a very nice, younger French girl in her mid-twenties who was part Cantonese. She asked how much university cost in the States (answer: a lot) and other things of that sort of vapid nature. The salon was uncomfortably silent - no music, and basically no talking. It was fairly odd. I'm used to the Beehive (and to my homie Shelly, who basically just starts cutting as soon as I walk in - ask for her if you're in WW), which is very young and trendy and loud.
All in all, I was at the salon for an hour and a half, which is long even by Beehive standards. I think we were both glad when it was finished, even though I have to give props to the girl -whose name I never learned - she definitely performed admirably for having no direction other than "no, shorter," and "yes, good." It was definitely a humbling experience, and I encourage everyone to try it some time; thankfully now if I ever need a haircut again I don't think it will be quite so traumatic.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Snips and Snails
I seem destined to never be able to wake up for class. I set two alarms every night: one in my phone, and one on my computer that's generally loud enough to wake the entire apartment building, if it goes off.
Today, neither did. I'm sure I'm losing credit in my translation class or something - I've never missed my 9:00AM class, but somehow waking up at 10:00 on Tuesdays and Thursdays is incredibly difficult.
Classes have been getting more and more painful. Each class is an hour and a half long - which is only ten minutes longer than the twice-a-week classes at Whitman - but somehow that hour and a half seems to drag on for eternity. I have to restock my gum supplies this weekend - it's sometimes the only thing that keeps be going.
I finally went to my courses at the ICP this week - they're both fine. Epistemology of History meets once a week for an hour - I'm amazed they can get away with giving it a 3-credit status. Art history turned out to be essentially the same art history course that I'm taking at IES - so on Tuesday night we looked at the very same paintings that we had been staring at on Monday morning. Apparently, the teacher is putting together make-up classes on upcoming Saturdays to account for...something. Brittany (the other IES student in the class) and I have decided that we'll be unavailable on Saturdays. The grades they give us at the university (or at IES for that matter) don't actually count towards our GPAs, so essentially we're just trying to get credit for completing them. And the only ones I technically need to complete are my IES courses, which is hardly a problem - so yes, it's turning out to be what amounts to a semester off.
This past week was Fashion Week in Paris, so everyone was out in their most interesting plumage. Linzy somehow made it into the Gareth Pugh show, and hence the Gareth Pugh after-party, which sort of blows my mind a little bit. Anyway, it was sort of amusing to see the metro fill up with models for the weekend - even if they're terrifyingly skinny and sickly-looking. Rachel also just managed to pick up some internship at Vivian Westwood, and Linzy's working at some little dress atelier (along with another internship at a photography studio) - so I feel like I should be doing more with my life. The truth is, though, that I really like just wandering around the back streets. On Tuesday I walked from Hotel de Ville into the Marais, and got myself utterly lost. It was beautiful out, and it was probably the best lost I've ever been. I've also decided that if I ever move here I want to live in the Marais.
Tuesday night (after art history) we all showed up at Linzy's apartment to celebrate her birthday dinner with her host parents. They were a funny little couple; very French and more conservative than I'm used to (more religious, too - the mother kept calling me Gaspard and asking me if I knew what the name was from, among other things), but they made a fine dinner for Linzy, including what had to be some of the best cake I've ever eaten. According to the mother, it was essentially half butter and half chocolate, but hey - that's what birthdays are for, right?
Today I'm off to the Marais again to try to find a salon. My hair is out of control, and I'm getting incredibly sick of it. I just hope that whoever I go to doesn't absolutely ruin me. It would be nice to be incredibly rich and have a traveling stylist, but I suppose that's a dream I'll have to try to fulfill later in life.
Today, neither did. I'm sure I'm losing credit in my translation class or something - I've never missed my 9:00AM class, but somehow waking up at 10:00 on Tuesdays and Thursdays is incredibly difficult.
Classes have been getting more and more painful. Each class is an hour and a half long - which is only ten minutes longer than the twice-a-week classes at Whitman - but somehow that hour and a half seems to drag on for eternity. I have to restock my gum supplies this weekend - it's sometimes the only thing that keeps be going.
I finally went to my courses at the ICP this week - they're both fine. Epistemology of History meets once a week for an hour - I'm amazed they can get away with giving it a 3-credit status. Art history turned out to be essentially the same art history course that I'm taking at IES - so on Tuesday night we looked at the very same paintings that we had been staring at on Monday morning. Apparently, the teacher is putting together make-up classes on upcoming Saturdays to account for...something. Brittany (the other IES student in the class) and I have decided that we'll be unavailable on Saturdays. The grades they give us at the university (or at IES for that matter) don't actually count towards our GPAs, so essentially we're just trying to get credit for completing them. And the only ones I technically need to complete are my IES courses, which is hardly a problem - so yes, it's turning out to be what amounts to a semester off.
This past week was Fashion Week in Paris, so everyone was out in their most interesting plumage. Linzy somehow made it into the Gareth Pugh show, and hence the Gareth Pugh after-party, which sort of blows my mind a little bit. Anyway, it was sort of amusing to see the metro fill up with models for the weekend - even if they're terrifyingly skinny and sickly-looking. Rachel also just managed to pick up some internship at Vivian Westwood, and Linzy's working at some little dress atelier (along with another internship at a photography studio) - so I feel like I should be doing more with my life. The truth is, though, that I really like just wandering around the back streets. On Tuesday I walked from Hotel de Ville into the Marais, and got myself utterly lost. It was beautiful out, and it was probably the best lost I've ever been. I've also decided that if I ever move here I want to live in the Marais.
Tuesday night (after art history) we all showed up at Linzy's apartment to celebrate her birthday dinner with her host parents. They were a funny little couple; very French and more conservative than I'm used to (more religious, too - the mother kept calling me Gaspard and asking me if I knew what the name was from, among other things), but they made a fine dinner for Linzy, including what had to be some of the best cake I've ever eaten. According to the mother, it was essentially half butter and half chocolate, but hey - that's what birthdays are for, right?
Today I'm off to the Marais again to try to find a salon. My hair is out of control, and I'm getting incredibly sick of it. I just hope that whoever I go to doesn't absolutely ruin me. It would be nice to be incredibly rich and have a traveling stylist, but I suppose that's a dream I'll have to try to fulfill later in life.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Photo Dump
I realized that I have not been so great at sharing photos. Here are several. I apologize in advance for being a shite photographer:
Here is the sandwich I ate this morning. It was huge. And also delicious
At the Ecole des Beaux Arts. A statue who isn't going anywhere. Linzy and I explored a lot. Rather, trespassed.
Here is a pretty fountain and tree at the Ecole de Beaux Arts
The awesome hallway at the EBA
EBA entrance
Art installation? Hallway graffiti? Really big cards? I like.
Dessert: A chocolate thing and a rasberry thing.
Scallops, foie gras, vinaigrette sauce, asparagus. BAM. It was already mostly gone by the time anyone thought to take pictures. But pictures of food never really look that appetizing, do they?
This is a cat. He is friendly.
Katie devouring a delicious Greek sandwich sometime during our first week here.
Here we have Katie and me looking adorable in aprons. Notice my choice of black and brown; it's the combination du jour here in Paris.
Here is the sandwich I ate this morning. It was huge. And also delicious
At the Ecole des Beaux Arts. A statue who isn't going anywhere. Linzy and I explored a lot. Rather, trespassed.
Here is a pretty fountain and tree at the Ecole de Beaux Arts
The awesome hallway at the EBA
EBA entrance
Art installation? Hallway graffiti? Really big cards? I like.
Dessert: A chocolate thing and a rasberry thing.
Scallops, foie gras, vinaigrette sauce, asparagus. BAM. It was already mostly gone by the time anyone thought to take pictures. But pictures of food never really look that appetizing, do they?
This is a cat. He is friendly.
Katie devouring a delicious Greek sandwich sometime during our first week here.
Here we have Katie and me looking adorable in aprons. Notice my choice of black and brown; it's the combination du jour here in Paris.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Really Good Chips
I suppose you could say that a lot has happened since that last incredibly moving entry, but mostly I've just been eating chips. They have these roast chicken-flavored chips here that are going to be the death of me. They're so good. I can't stop.
So that's why today I have to go jogging.
Friday I ended up at the gigantic agricultural salon/expo, and it was incredible. It's where all the farmers and food/cheese/meat/wine producers come to show off what they've made/grown/recently slaughtered. You pay six euros to get in, and then you basically just sample food and drink for hours on end. It was pretty great. We walked away with a couple of things - some bottles of this delicious berry/peach spritzer stuff that we figure we'll save for a spring day in a park, and we also got bullied into buying ten euro's worth of tapenade. Tasty stuff, so it's not such a waste really - plus, I think we're going to stuff it into a whole Bar and make a really good fish.
The one thing that I hate most about Paris is dealing with the coins. They're an unbelievable pain in the ass. First of all, everyone at every store expects you to have exact change for everything - something I never have. Then, when someone gives you change, they give you as many coins as possible. Yesterday, I needed 38 euros and 80 cents in change, and I got 8 euro 80 back in coins. What am I supposed to do with these? It's no wonder everyone who comes here is broke, because you walk around with 8 euros in coins and think, "Hey, this [whatever I'm about to buy] is only 2/4/5 euros!! I can just use coins!" And everything's great and easy until you realize you just spent 7 dollars on some thing you found on the street. It's an impressive scheme. So I've entered, as of Saturday, the no-spend zone. I'll see how long I can make it.
Last night, I ran into my host sister, Ann, on the very last metro from Opera. Which isn't really that weird, but the whole time I was waiting for it to come I was thinking, "Man, wouldn't it be weird if I ran into Ann sometime in the middle of the night on the metro?"
So that's why today I have to go jogging.
Friday I ended up at the gigantic agricultural salon/expo, and it was incredible. It's where all the farmers and food/cheese/meat/wine producers come to show off what they've made/grown/recently slaughtered. You pay six euros to get in, and then you basically just sample food and drink for hours on end. It was pretty great. We walked away with a couple of things - some bottles of this delicious berry/peach spritzer stuff that we figure we'll save for a spring day in a park, and we also got bullied into buying ten euro's worth of tapenade. Tasty stuff, so it's not such a waste really - plus, I think we're going to stuff it into a whole Bar and make a really good fish.
The one thing that I hate most about Paris is dealing with the coins. They're an unbelievable pain in the ass. First of all, everyone at every store expects you to have exact change for everything - something I never have. Then, when someone gives you change, they give you as many coins as possible. Yesterday, I needed 38 euros and 80 cents in change, and I got 8 euro 80 back in coins. What am I supposed to do with these? It's no wonder everyone who comes here is broke, because you walk around with 8 euros in coins and think, "Hey, this [whatever I'm about to buy] is only 2/4/5 euros!! I can just use coins!" And everything's great and easy until you realize you just spent 7 dollars on some thing you found on the street. It's an impressive scheme. So I've entered, as of Saturday, the no-spend zone. I'll see how long I can make it.
Last night, I ran into my host sister, Ann, on the very last metro from Opera. Which isn't really that weird, but the whole time I was waiting for it to come I was thinking, "Man, wouldn't it be weird if I ran into Ann sometime in the middle of the night on the metro?"
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