Photos de Barcelona 2, more Gaudí

Inside Casa Ametlla



El Palau de la Música Catalana


Park Güell

Photos de Barcelona 1

Some memorable photos from my trip to Barcelona (July 31-August 15)


First two pictures are me in the Parque de la Ciutadella



Me at the fountain on the Plaza Real


Me in an inner courtyard of a former monestary now an art center for the University of Barcelona.

This summer in Barcelona, there is an exhibition going on: Barcelona back then. They take old photos, blow them up huge (as you see here on the Plaza San Jaime near the cathedral) and put them on the street so you can stand behind them for an odd effect of old superimposed on new. It's better to be there. Right here is a motorcade process with Generalíssimo Franco in the 1960's.

View of the Eixemple neighborhood from the Plaza de Cataluña.


The next two photos are in the Eixemple on Manzana de la Discordia, a block where there are several famous modernist buildings by Antoni Gaudí, of which Casa Batlló and Casa Amatller.

Barcelona

Barcelona is a magnificent town well worth the visit, both for quality and price. Avoid the tourist traps like the downtown area near the Ramblas and the Plaza de Cataluña. 90% of all tourists go, stay and lodge there. The only thing you'll find there are high prices, plastic souvenirs, postcards, people begging for money, and hordes of tourists from everywhere taking pictures. No natives at all! Go far away, my pick is the neighborhood called Gracia and anything beyond in the Zona Alta or so called High Neighborhoods since as you get away from downtown you are going uphill. Here, you've got paradise, only smiling natives eager to get to know you and talk to you. Also theaters, cinemas, outdoor concerts, green parks, cheap restaurants with menú del días (starter, main course, dessert and wine) for 10 euros! There is a slow feeling to these areas as you kick back, have a sangria, take a walk, explore the farmers' markets, old bookshops. In Gracia you've got it all. As its name suggests, it has been touched by the "grace of God". By the way, real seasoned travellers to Barcelona know that you have to rent an apartment, not a hotel room. For as little as 500 euros for two weeks you can have a two bedroom apartment with equipped kitchen, bath, living room, dining room and balcony!
Yes, my friend, go up up up, to San Gervasio and Sarriá, these are the trendy new spots with hot clubs, cafés and restaurants. You'll feel a hundred miles away from that raucous port.

Top 10 list
1. Puerta del Sol, Plaza del Diamante, and other squares in Gracia
2. Parque Güell, take subway all the way up to the top and walk down
3. Take the train up San Gervasio, and then up to the top Mt. Tibidabo
4. El carrer mayor de Sarriá. Hang out there in the evening
5. The mansions on Calle Pedralbes. Walk down from the top of the hill
6. Pabellón de Gaudí, Calle Pedralbes at the bottom of the hill
7. Take a regional train to Sitges del Mar, the most beautiful beach town.
8. Check out the Gaudí houses on Paseo de Gracia (Sat. best)
9. Hang out in El Borne in the evening, the gentrified ghetto with swanky cafés and shops.
10. See a zarzuela concert at El Palau de la Música Catalana and check out the Gaudí architecture and frescos.

Personally, I'd avoid the Barceloneta and its spoiled beaches, Montjuich and its spoiled beauty and overrated museums, the Barrio Gótico during the day, the Picasso musuem (kind of small for the price), also the Sagrada Familia until its more finished. For now it's a noisy construction zone filled with tourists, cranes and policemen. Totally overrated. And get away from those Ramblas

Catalan is not preferential 2

Update:

On the street in Barcelona Spanish is the lingua franca. This is now true even in the historic Catalan neighborhoods like Gracia and Sarrià. Spanish now has the advantage despite the afforementioned laws enforcing/imposing Catalan in the government, the public and private sectors, the media and public schooling. Most of the people in Barcelona are not driven by nationalism, language or culture more than in any other city in Spain. There is ambivalence to speaking in Catalan or Spanish. I heard quite often "lo mismo da", more or less "who cares". This of course is in stark contrast to the regional parliament that promotes rigourously the language and independence of Catalonia.

As for TV, there are at least 10 spanish channels for 1 catalan. Pretty much the same for the press, books, films, video games and music.... The reason is simple: they come into Catalunya from Madrid, where there is, of course, no language rules or quotas.

All in all I have mixed feelings, indeed. I celebrate the openness of the Catalan people, the visible lack of nationalism, the solidarity with the rest of Spain, and the continued use of Spanish. I was fearing a very different scenario. However, I am sad that Catalan continues to decline. I love Catalan and speak it pretty fluently. I can certainly see how its use is diminishing. I'm sure this is the reason for the rigid laws they have passed and the calls for independence by the nationalists in parliament. This is obviously the wrong way to promote Catalan. Outside Catalonia, Catalan is seen as the agressor. In Barcelona, it also contributes to the creation of this atmosphere of "Catalan, Spanish, whatever!" In reality, there is a serious threat to Catalan's survival. A recent survey indicated that only 33% speak it daily. Find another way. Strong arming has failed.
Rontay Merquiades

Walker Evans

Today, I decided to escape from my vacation. I needed to clear my head bigtime. I guess you can't blame me if you read my SOS Parents post. So, on a whim, I went to the Cincinnati Art Museum, and discovered a wonderful exhibition on the famous American photographer, Walker Evans. His career spanned 50 years from 1928 to 1973. Strangely enough, I had actually seen many of these snapshots before even discovering the name of the artist who had made them. They have really become part of our everyday culture, especially his series on the Great Depression (1933-1936). Evans produced several series on themes which took him several years to produce: 1930's Cuba, voyage through the south sea islands, Gothic revival houses, men's fashion in the 40's, factories in America, Chicago, and color accidents just to name of few. Most of these themes were originally comissioned to him by patrons, Fortune magazine, or even the US government. As you can see, his pictures filled with searing irony convincingly give insight into the realities of the different worlds he encounters on his voyages. Personally, what touched me most, which coincides with my current sullen mood of imminent tragedy, was his expressed intention to document and freeze forever realities which could disappear at any time (lower Manhattan row houses, painted stock cars, dilapidated old barns) as well give a voiced to silenced marginalized peoples on the wrong side of history. The American archetypes he is able to capture whether they be urban squalor or the fading opulence of the rural south immortalize him. Here, I have found many of his famous photos and just simply the ones that mark me most.
If you get to Cincinnati this summer, do go to see this exhibition at the Cincinnati Art Academy





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Chapelle de François Villon

All right. Shhh! Don't tell anyone. I love to escape to this enchanting chapel in Metz Cathedral. It's so spiritual. I alway feel uplifted, mystical, moved. When I've got the blues nothing helps me overcome them more than the light peering through these magical stain glass windows. I cannot recommend the experience more highly.
I've spent most of my life fleeing religion, religious people and especially the horrible acts they commit in the name of their faith. When I heard our former president state that Jesus was his favorite philosopher I cringed. Quelle honte! That is especially true living in this Post-religious atheist society that France has become. The kind of comments coming out of America, be they from some televangelist, a Morman missionary, or reports of seeing the Virgin high on the hill somewhere are considered barbarious for a Modern, rational, educated country that should have had time to get over all this Medieval Superstition. So, I can't imagine the looks on my friends' faces if I dared to reveal that I actually do believe in something... well, I don't know what actually? but a visit to La Chapelle de François Villon really makes my day.
By the way, these pictures don´t give justice
Rontay

Catalan is not preferential

The complex love and hate relationship between Catalonia and Madrid has existed for centuries. Madrid represents Spanish language, Castilian culture, central goverment, old-fashioned magistrates, congress, business, and any type of regulation or central control. Madrid is in the exact geographic center of Spain (kilometer 0) from which all distances are measured. In short, for a Catalan nationalist, it's everything that holds Catalonia back and keeps it in check. Madrid is that lead weight that keeps Catalonia and the Catalan people from excelling. The parent with that strong hand! Of course, as with any type of nationalism, their ideas are debatable and completely subjective. Outside Catalonia, Catalans (the nationalists) are seen as cry babies, marginalized victims of nothing, knit pickers, people who say "no" when everyone else says "yes" and viceversa... all just to create chaos whenever and wherever possible, and of course, to be different. Now, truth be told, and I have thought about this for quite a long time, both sides are right. Madrid is insensitive and Catalonia/ Barcelona is often a bit senseless.

The twentieth century was not kind to Catalans. Two brutal dictators (with a civil war between them) targeted the catalans as subversive and worked hard to break their will and destroy their language and culture. For example, two anecdotes... the famous architect, Antoni Gaudi, was arrested and jailed for speaking Catalan in public and if children spoke Catalan in school they were told they were "barking like dogs" and punished. No way to overstate this people's suffering up until 1975, when democracy returned to Spain after a long absence. A legacy remains though: immigration was encouraged from other regions (nowadays countries worldwide)and ethnic Catalans became a minority in the cities. For example, 55% of Barcelona's population do not have Catalan origins. Needless to say, it's as common to dance flamenco as sardanas, eat tortilla as butifarra, and more conversations are in Castilian Spanish than Catalan.

Democracy brought back autonomy, a renaissance in Catalan culture and language occurred. Who hasn't heard of the artistic marvels in Catalonia! Similarly there is a thriving theater, literature, and music scene. Catalonia slowly but surely has won more and more autonomy from Madrid, especially during the 4 term reign of the legendary Catalan nationalist Jordi Pujol. As the legend says, give an inch take a mile, give an inch take another mile. The policy of favoring Catalan also intensified. The regional government justified imposing Catalan in the following way: Simple bilingualism favors Castilian as people feel they can choose freely one language and completely ignore the other. In the long run, Catalan cannot compete with a world language like Spanish and would have a slow bitter death due to bilingualism. Moreover, Catalan is only spoken in Catalonia, so if it's not favored there, where will it be? Therefore, Catalan has become the de-facto sole official language of Catalonia (even though officially the constitution stipulates it is co-official with Castilian Spanish). All schooling, street signs, government deliberations and publications, public services, tv, radio, etc. are in Catalan. There are language policemen enforcing this policy and issue fines against businesses and individuals who do not use Catalan. The push toward Catalan has caught the attention of other Spanish regions and political parties, reporters, and some celebraties or writers who have denounced the Catalan language policy as discriminatory against other peoples in Spain. Also such a large autonomy in general is seen as a long-term threat to Spanish unity.

Well, today the Supreme Court in Madrid has bitten back and imposed limits to the regional government. It took them four long years to debate the Catalan statute, point by point, and they finally came to an agreement to what extent they should change it and/or sanction it. So, they corrected the Catalan statute ruling that "Catalan is the normal but definitely not preferential language of Catalonia". What does that mean and how will that change the language policy? I'd like to know! Likewise, the court stated 15 times that Spain was indivisible. Also that the symbols of Catalonia (flag, emblem, song) do not have anything but symbolic meaning. Moreover, Catalonia cannot be considered a nation but just a group of people living in Spain like Castilians, Andalusians, Aragonese etc. The judicial system will also be controlled directly from Madrid. All in all 14 articles of their statute were changed or abolished.

Look for the catalan nationalists to be in an uproar! They already felt they had compromised too much and that their autonomy was not large enough. Now, technically things should change, but I am not sure how???

Just one last observation if by chance someone is reading this post, ignorant of the Catalan situation. Una última observación si la persona que lee este post ignora la situación del catalán (Spanish). Una última obervació si la persona que llegeix aquest post ignora la situació del català (Catalan). They are sister languages and any native speaker of one can learn the other easily perhaps in just a year of intense, albeit sincere study. So, on the one had, the Canada or Belgium situation is not comparable as it is possible to pick up Catalan quickly. On the other, the difference is what justifies their otherness, their nationalism, and the self-determination.

More on this when I visit Barcelona in August
Rontay

Update January 2011: Spanish courts have just interpreted the Supreme Court's ruling as meaning Catalan and Castilian should be 50%-50%, that should mean the Catalan immersion in schools and language fines should come to an end.

La Nuit de St. Jean

Here are some photos from La Nuit de St. Jean/ La fête de la musique. On this night I don't sleep. I live in the heart of downtown. The drinks, the music, the laughter, the dancing goes all night long. Might as well partake in the folly. I won't be able to sleep anyway. Here are some photos.
On this night everyone is a musician. I think the mixture of all the different types of music coming from every corner on every street can be heard on the moon. Rontay

ESL in France, j'accuse

Have you ever met someone who studied a language for 3 years in high school and doesn't remember a word? Well, in the context of France it's more like 12 years and remembering 10 words. That language, of course, tends to be English. English is now introduced as an option to 7 year-olds. Before that as early as 5, you can even find schools offering "language sensitivity", wherby pupils learn some English through osmosis. Yes, English is a BIG business in France from the cradle to the grave. A whole ministry of national education has vowed to get everyone to become bilingual or trilingual. And I guess it is crucial for talking to people from other European countries who nowadays almost always prefer English to French, German, Russian or any other European language. So literally there are millions of opportunites for ESL in France. You want a job you can find one.
Yette uuuh, een spat of old, nobadiie sames two now eat. (translation: Yet, in spite of it all, nobody seems to know it). If you don't know French no way to understand their English. But there is worse, much much worse! I teach the GOOD students in elite private colleges.

I've had a lot of time to mill this over this complete failure in language training. I've taught at university to majors and minors, and to the others who have it as a mandatory subject in their curriculum (engineers, nurses, psycholgists, literature and math majors, architects, law students... you name it). I've taught children of every age, teenagers, adults in continuing education, also night classes, day classes and those so-called seminars to professionals (bankers, lawyers, businessmen) all seemingly urgently needing to learn it. You name the group, I've had them. Soooo. What's wrong?

Well, first of all, no one takes it that seriously. Studying: well after they've done everything else they need or don't need to do; listening to English: class is good enough, if not 'dubbed movies, series' are much better! really they are!; reading: say what?; writing: well, they laugh, throw their head back and say that writing in French is hard enough; pronounciation: didn't you know- they say- strong French accents are sexy! ... English is not so discreetly seen as less important than any other subject at school (even gym): importance, or as the say coefficient, is 0, whereas math is like worth 10. Also in school, there is basically a pass/fail system, no grading like A,B,C,F or its equivalent etc... and to fail, really you need to be wrong on a test almost half of the time, missing 49% of the vocab, verbs, comprehension,...everything. Put all of this together (no grading, no worth compared to other subjects, no interest) and English really is not so crucial at all. From the age of 10, they know it... So passing notes, talking to neighbors, playing with cellphones, doing crosswords, zoning out (children as well as 40 year-old adults) is fine and dandy in English class.... It's l'exception. Finally, add the long fall, winter, spring, summer breaks, and the fact that the principals, directors,heads schedule English in 2 or 3 hour blocks usually on Friday afternoon (very pedagogical I might add) and the result is that year after year, the students are passed on to the next level knowing zilch.

Second, the methods made by the experts hired by L'éducation nationale defy, or appear not to acknowledge anything I have said in the preceding paragraph. Their methods, exercises, exams and texts for high school (so just imagine college!) are so difficult they come systematically with keys because teachers and native speakers cannot figure them out. Students consistently read 19th century British literature like the Brontë sisters, translate Shakepearian sonnets from English to French, have vocabulary lists with words I have never heard of, and fill in exercises to distinguish'--say --start from begin, and too from also... And by the way, they learn by heart transition words like "to my mind" or "evermore" but still cannot answer a simple question like "how are you?". With every poem on the traumas of the American Civil War written in dialect and essay on "how to distinguish dipthongs from tripthongs", the hatred of English grows and the vow not to learn it. Most French people say in the same sentence that learning English is important, but taking classes is pointless

Finally, everything I have stated is obvious for anyone. Nevertheless, there is no appetite to change this or anything else in France. Many of my classes have been a sham!, an silent understood entente cordiale between administration, students and myself. It goes a bit like this: to the administration: "I will apply the program you have. It really sucks and no one will learn anything with it. You know that too. However, I will apply it and smile"; to the students: "don't cause me problems and I'll give you the correct mark to pass you on to the next level, whatever that is. I know you'd rather be anywhere else, than here and doing this, but we cannot help it. I won't betray your secret that you have learnt 0. And when I pass you, the administration will celebrate it, will be acclaimed by the "beautiful people" in high up places, and you on might go on to get good jobs somewhere. Maybe if I'm lucky I'll get a raise....

Funny enough I might meet adults years later in professional seminars who have come out of this education process, and it's still the same old song: fake class, fake studies, fake method, fake knowledge, fake progress. Then... you recommend me, I'll recommend you. You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours.

The moral of our story: Beware of Frenchment with 15 years of English.

Rontay

Frenchiflyable

I've changed my name again. My blog was originally floating-in-france, which I retain on the title page, because it really summarizes the essence of my life in France and is a common denominator for most of the topics of the posts to be found in this blog. However, this name was taken and there were millions of references to youtube videos with this same exact title. Myfrenchflair was a good enough name, but a bit lame. I've also been talking more and more about other countries like Spain, and/or the U.S. So, that brings me to my new name, Frenchifyable. It's definitely original, nothing close to it on the net. It combines the terms Frenchify and Fly which are kind of close to my original blog, which I did want to keep. Frenchify also because it describes both the process of becoming a French citizen and taking on traits associated with French people. When I had my interview to become naturalized the agent asked me several times. Êtes-vous francisé? À quel point? That is such a good question I can't answer it but hope to bring it out in this blog. Fly as float because that's what I'm doing, and I'm looking to land, though the more I think about it, land but not anywhere. I just may change the name again, but until then, I'm Frenchflyable. Cheers!

By the way, for Christmas I got reviewed. Imagine that! Have a look:
http://www.atasteofgarlic.com/lorraine/floating-in-france/
Thanks a lot, Keith!

New job

Sometimes things happen for a reason, yet I'm still not sure what that reason is. I had the chance to apply for two great job opportunities that I ended up refusing. The first one was my favorite: a Romance Language and Literature professor in an affluent liberal art college in Chicago. Why did I turn it down? Well, first of all, the application requirements including a statement concerning philosophy of life and personal convictions, an extensive cover letter, a new CV written in a certain way, three letters of recommendation, and transcripts for round one, and then if were to make it on to, a telephone interview and then more and more requirements for rounds four and five. Yes, I could have probably managed to get all the requirement documents, but in the end I didn't want to. My philosophy of life was not to take part in this process. Do I actually prefer floating in France to making something of myself in life? It's daunting because this job and it's process felt like I was applying for the position of army colonel or indentured servant instead of a tenure track position as language professor. That makes me want to run away and far. I will work for a school with all my might, but it will only be a job, and no one will own me. Plus, I also hate it when schools try to sell themselves with words like, exclusive, superior, and elite. That's not at all me either. And then again, I must say I didn't want to live in Chicago or in any of its suburbs. I see myself floating further south or east actually! Nevertheless, I do feel like I let a great opportunity slip away. There are so many ways that that position would have been awesome and perfect for me, endlessly more interesting than continuing my current existence. I'm going to kick myself, I am, but c'est la vie. I'm going to have to psychoanalyse myself big time. A friend told to write for an hour on what I see myself doing, being and having in the future. I'll do that soon right here, maybe it'll shed some light on who I am and how to structure my future. Gees.

The second job wasn't hard not to apply for. It was a very specific position in teaching theater at my alma mater. In many ways it would be great to live in Cincinnati again, for family and comfort, but I don't want to go back to my alma mater. That campus is my history, and I'm glad I'm out. I want to move on, not back. I am crystal clear about that, really I am, in spite of salary and position. Besides, theater is interesting but I don't necessarily want to limit myself to that.

One thing I've learned about myself by writing this post: If getting the dream job requires sacrifice, I won't have a dream job ever, even if this has the salary, the benefits, the freedom and the responsibilities I inevitably want. Sorry. Rontay

Coccinelle

Great new French group, Dionysos, with a catchy tune and video. I highly recommend them. I can't get the song out of my head.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kiy9seAzMEY

Happy Halloween!
Rontay Merquiades

Rat in a cage...

Rat in a cage


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E96PQuIl_cQ
Bullet With Butterfly Wings by The Smashing Pumpkins



Here I am in my hometown: Harrison, Ohio population 8,917. Can't miss it. Drive southwest on I-74 about half an hour from Cincinnati and you'll get there... not far from where Ohio, Indiana and Kentucky meet. In fact, it's suburb, "West Harrison" is actually in Indiana. So, it's "great" to be home. It brings stability and continuity. Nothing has changed here in at least 20 years: well, almost nothing. The Kroger supermarket has expanded and is now a superstore... but Otherwise, the same old bowling alley, putt putt golf, Dairy Queen, McDonald's, Downtown historical area, view of the treacherous Great Miami river, the daily record newspaper and last but not least, our award winning high school.. Go wildcats! The green and the white will win over all! Oh, this is the place where the past meets the present; the place where you can raise your kids knowing they'll pick up the right All-American values.


Harrison was named for its most illustrious son, William Henry Harrison, our president of the United States of America. One of the area's tourist attractions is still visiting his tomb. You can climb all the way to the top of his grave, now in superb disrepair, and see clearly the beautiful northbend of the Ohio River where Kentucky juts up into Ohio. Poor William Henry suffered a terrible fate. Just 32 days after taking office he died of a real bad chest cold. Rumor has it he didn't dress warm enough for his Inauguration and didn't carry an umbrella despite the pouring rain. That sealed his fate, and Harrison's 32 days of fame. Yes, take that Andy Warhol, in our neck of the woods it's 32 days, not 15 minutes. Alas, Harrison has never been the same.

W.H. Harrison 1773-1841

Harrison is also unique in its great mixture of people. You've got English, Irish, German, a few Poles and a couple of Italians and maybe even a Greek too. That's about it. It's also hard to find anyone who isn't Catholic. We got a nice church, St. John the Baptist, that has a chicken dinner/gambling festival every August. The Irish brought in lots of little whiskey joints like the Mecca Cafe and the Dew Drop Inn. You can really have a good time there on Saturdy night. FYI: In our town, cafes don't serve coffee, and Inns have no beds. The Germans brought that hankering for brats, wieners, hotdogs and hamburgers all over town. The Poles, the pickles and pumpkins, and Beppo, our Italian, has an absolutely wonderful little pizzeria outside town, making a wicked extra pepperoni, extra cheese pizza. Dio christi!

As I go about town I see the same faces from those legendary dynasties of families that have always lived in town: the Stengals, the Rogers, the Dennisons, the Pruits, their offspring and their offspring's offspring. Now I understand the concept of reproduction. Literally, you reproduce yourself in all of your glory. The captain of the football team and homecoming queen's children, well you know what they are? Now they have become park ranger and PTA mom like their parents were. The bad boys who smoked dope under the bleachers beget other bad boys who knock up the daughters of the girls who were teen parents twenty years ago. I guess we could loosely divide the people into two groups: 1) the white trash, those that rhyme well with whale, pack with park, are more fans of Johnny Walker than Jesus, and do real bad things sometimes; 2) the good folks who send their children to Sunday school, have day jobs with titles, make meatloaf casserole, say Oh my gawd and who'd have thunk it all the time, and turn up their noses at the people they consider white trash... but in reality, we've all got the white so we all got the trash. A visit to that super Kroger's reveals wonders, "honey, say thank you to that nice lady". "I'm a gonna whop you but yin li'l bastard" "mommy I'm hungry" "Debra, did you hear about what happened down by the river last night" "Hey, Paul, how's it goin' bud?" My head starts spinning right round right round and I feel the urge to upchuck. Is it the discomfort of being different, of not being different, of certain uncertainty, of uncertain certainty, of returning back to point 0, the bittersweet passage of time. "Mr. T, well, I do declare, they say you went far away, they's right when they said you was most likely to get the hell out of here, you back?, gotta wife, some kids? How your parents doin'?"

Well, that's the only change. My mother shakes and spins, sleeps without wanting to wake up, cries, and spits... I guess that happens after 80 years of monotony, running around silly like a rat in a cage, having too much meatloaf, fitting in that diverse mixture of people. She comes to. Tell me what's going on in town? Well, mom. They opened the new Kroger's. Who's _____ the manager? _______ I think. Well, that boy will make something out of himself yet. I remember when he was just pushing around buggies. Yes, I'm sorry. I'm sorry too, mom.

Dad comes in. You. I wanna go home. I know you do. I want my car. I know you do. I wanna drive with your mom down to the river. I know you do. I want my money. I know you do. I wanna get out of here. I know you do. I don't deserve to end up like this. I know you don't. I'm sorry, dad. I'm angry, going from one room to the other and looking at those four walls.

Rontay

World Cup obsession

Ok. I am not a sport’s lover. I think the only thing worse than kicking around a ball is watching someone else kick it around. A waste of time! I never understood those guys who just can’t get enough. There must be something wrong with them, right? The greater the fan, the less my esteem is for them.

Needless to say, when I heard this was a world cup year, I braced myself for the worst. More French divas, righteous indignation, arrogance, all the worst things you can imagine. But to my surprise the French team melted! Yes, the higher you think you have climbed, the quicker you fall to rock bottom. Such lack of grace! Finger pointing! Public scandals. rrrruuhhha

Anyway that’s about the time I started paying attention to this cup, and discovered la Roja: Torres, Iniesta, Xavi, Villa, Puyol and the gang. I discovered for the first time that soccer can be entertaining and worthy of attention. The speed, the grace, the elegance of this Spanish team has brought art to the game. I am amazed at David Villa’s fancy footwork, also Puyol’s ability to back flip over another player and make a head butt. Mindboggling. Really.

As I was drawn into La Roja’s game, I became hooked. I didn’t miss any of their games, watched interviews on internet, and investigated their backgrounds. I wanted to know everything about them. One of the things I love about this team is they are both modest and fun loving. They don’t tend to get angry, scowl, demand privileges, and they seem to be close to their fans and grateful for the opportunity they have been given. Moreover, they are gracious to the opposing team

Tonight I realized what obsession was. I left home at 8PM to go watch the game at my neighborhood café and found that it and about every other café in town was closed. How could I have forgotten? It is Sunday in Metz, and everything is closed. Damn! I ran home, cursed the day I got rid of my TV, quickly tried to find the game on my computer or even my cellphone (to no avail), and then desperately went back out in a thunderstorm to find some/ any place open watching this game. Also I watched nervously my watch, lest I miss something important.

I did find someplace open near the station, and a whole large screen TV to myself, as the French are just not interested since their team is gone. Literally I was on the edge of my seat. Granted, I don’t understand soccer. I don’t know what yellow and red cards are and when someone gets the right to make a corner kick. Besides, that offside rule is impossible to grasp. I don't think I'll be looking up the rules either. But all in all I understood this game. Most of the time Spain was attacking and Holland was successful in thwarting their attempts to make a goal. I think in the two hours I watched, with two periods of overtime to break the tie, the Spanish tried at least 50 times to score, and every time the didn’t I got more and more nervous. Once in a while, the Dutch did get the ball and ran to the other side of the field. It seemed they would make the goal. My heart beat harder and harder. I had to use all my force to keep myself from screaming. I know the experts must say this was a good game. Such passion mixed with frustration. When Spain finally scored near the end, it was catharsis. I felt like crying. Game over, the medal and trophies given, I never felt such pride for a team and a nation. If only I were in Madrid tonight. I hope they are enjoying the win and it brings the people closer together.
Rontay

ode for another puff (2) - Summer

No, I haven’t had a smoke. Getting by without is mostly okay. I’ve been with smokers and withstood the urge to ask them for a cigarette or even a puff. I have survived the terraces, patios, sidewalk cafés, parks and my balcony by mostly avoiding them this year. All in all, it hasn’t been so difficult. Now I’m wondering if my lifelong love of these places was always linked to smoking. Did I go so often to these places because I wanted a smoke? Geeees. That’s scary. I’ve also stopped drinking alcohol. No, that one is easy. It’s just… after a few glasses of rosé, I give into impulse.

However, the desire to smoke persists, and I’ve found yet another hurdle to jump. The weather! I love summer so much. I love hot, muggy, sticky weather, and everything else associated with it: hot scalding sun, too much breeze or lack of and even lightening storms. That’s really ironic-- isn´t it? -- since I’m living in far Northern France. Well, honestly, for me, that hot, heavy sultry air is smoking weather. I crave that puff with a cold drink, under that umbrella, in that comfy deck chair. It’s sooo gd good. Whew! I have wanted to buy a pack all day. Just one! It’s Sunday! For old time sake! Blah, blah, blah.
I got by this time. I breathe so much better now. I can climb stairs without losing my breath and that wheezing cough is gone. Later! Rontay

Les sept doigts de la main

Traces - Les sept doigts de la main

Check out this circus troop that I saw last week at Jardin Fruitier de Laquenexy with my friend, Heidi. Many of them worked for Cirque de Soleil.
I have not been so amused for a real long time. I thought my circus days had long passed. The energy, the emotion, the talent, the magic.... I'm speechless. The jumps, falls, climbs, whirls, cartwheels, sprints... I'm in awe... How can people do those things with their human body? twist in two, do the splits, hold their entire weight on their finger. My God, what can't they do, really? Add to that, singing, dancing, and playing 10 musical instruments each. Definitely worth seeing again, again and again.

http://www.google.fr/images?hl=fr&q=les+sept+doigts+de+la+main+images&um=1&ie=UTF-8&source=univ&ei=APISTb3QL4Kr8AaDz42LDg&sa=X&oi=image_result_group&ct=title&resnum=1&ved=0CCwQsAQwAA


Rontay Merquiades

A ticket to France

Talking to my friend, Heidi, we reflected on what it means to be an American floating in France. Some days I really feel like a sociologist! Yes, some kind of Margaret Mead trying to understand the intracacies of this culture. How is it possible not to get the simplest task done, or spend seven days, months or years on projects and never get any further along. Heck, sometimes you can't even get the tiniest cup of coffee.

Americans grow up in a culture where we are taught that the ticket to success is hard work. The open, articulate, nice guy with a head on his shoulder usually gets what he wants, deserves, needs. Smile to that waiter and you get that coffee lickety split. Work yourself through college and you'll find that job, your reward that you justly merit... Summa Cum Laude. Phi Beta Kappa. Become partner in that firm. We also, okay this time maybe it's just the naive Midwesterner, believe that people are good and fair at heart. People are to be on an equal footing, people should have equal opportunities, people don't get turned away for unjustified reasons, your neighbor is no better off, no worse off than you are. Grrr.. that sounds so idealistic. But maybe I've been in France for too long.

In France, if you go into a café alone, where you do not know the waiter, the owner or any of the other customers, don’t expect to be served. It’s nothing personal, but why should the waiter care? He might never see you again. You are creating work for him and there is no incentive, good or bad, for him to take you serious. He can blow you off if he chooses. At the very least, he’ll attend to all the other customers who probably have some status with him or give into his desire to go smoke a cigarette, eat an olive or talk on his cellphone before taking your order. It’s cut and dry. Nothing you can say or do will change this. It’s up to him. You can try to charm him, just maybe it’ll work, but forget insistence, a sense of entitlement, or the big smile.


The worst thing about being a foreigner is you are often alone, often go into unknown stores, restaurants and cafés, and often need to rely on the kindness of strangers to find your way, get an apartment, find a job. Yes, I’m afraid our coffee metaphor extends throughout the country, adapting to every possible known context, official or unofficial, you could ever imagine. It’s flabbergasting. There are several words for it: the ticket, the piston (link), the connection, the old network. Choose your favorite. But, the foreigner is at a clear disadvantage because by nature he knows no one. Frenchmen have mothers, fathers, grandpas, uncles’ best friend’s wife’s brother’s friends, fellow first grader’s cousin’s sister, old teacher’s nephew-in-law… well, that’s the ticket. Honestly, it could be blackmail too.. also a lot of “I’ll scratch your back, you scratch mine”. A Frenchman when looking for an apartment on the Left Bank automatically thinks of who or what connection, what way, what combination can get him access to that dream pad at the cheapest price possible? Who can get him that job he’s not qualified for? Who can get him into that popular club, concert, restaurant? Maybe a discount? How can I get an appointment to see that goddam eye doctor? How can I get those designer shoes for half price? Get that authorization to do this or that? Yes, it’s unfair. Especially since everyone in France will tell you this is not the case... It’s the country of liberté, égalité, fraternité with very set rules, laws, equal opportunity and no discrimination, and you, the foreigner, have just not done something right. Honestly, someone could become bitter if they think about it too much and don’t try to use the system to their advantage. I really do understand the 2005 riots in the immigrant suburbs in Paris. Those people have no tickets and will be forever denied jobs, houses, diplomas, information, services, coffees.

Anyway, tickets have been both a blessing and a curse in my life. I’ve got 1000 euros worth of books for my thesis for 100 euros because I had a friend who had a friend whose father was manager of a big bookstore in Paris. Virtually every job I have every got in France has been through connections. Some of them weren’t even advertised. My current employer got my name through a doctor and never bothered to interview me or read my resume. At one time I was able to claim state benefits I didn’t qualify for because the husband of my friend’s sister worked there. A good word from someone important got me a permanent green card. Today, a supermarket clerk I met at a party regularly forgot to scan some of my groceries. The owner of a restaurant I regularly go to gets me the best table and doesn’t charge me for dessert. Further, another advantage has been the wonderful trips to Provence, Charente, and Paris my contacts have afforded me. To show how far a ticket can go, an acquaintance of mine managed to get a friend with connections to lay a free marble floor for him and that same guy later got a job by having someone falsify a diploma he didn’t actually get from university! Another girl, got a huge apartment overlooking the river in a swanky area of this town for 140 euros rent per month, you cannot get a closet for that in France. Know someone in a labor union also apparently opens up lots of doors. They can get you enormous benefits.

On the flip side, not having certain connections have really hurt me. For instance, I spent 10 years to become qualified for a tenured post at a university. The rules stipulate a long, long process whereby you have to move not just one, but several mountains. I’m not exaggerating here. And I’m proud I did it. I was not daunted. I achieved it through a lot of hard work and patience, and obtained the certificate to prove it. BUT, do I have that post? No. Will I ever get a post? No. 99% sure. The fact is that I’ve got no ticket whatsoever into that academic world, and I should have known better to believe that system worked otherwise. I was naïve. I’ve also been living in the same goddamn studio for too many years cause I’ve got no connection there either. And having a career and living in nice surroundings are important! Actually, part of my reticence to move to another city in France is losing all my contacts and starting over again, alone, and living even worse. That’s difficult anywhere in the world but in France, where you literally need people to vouch for you, it’s difficult.

In general, I suppose I am resigned to make the best of this system, whether I like it or not. I have an American background, so I would prefer getting things done quickly through self-resilience, skill and kindness. Will I ever get fed up? Well, just maybe… But, it’s great to get a new ticket. For me, it doesn’t happen every day, but when it does, it’s wonderful. I could probably do better but I don’t work at it. It’s against my nature. I suppose some of the mystery and charm of France comes from its weird logic it's taken me so long to unravel.

That´s the ticket!

My advise, live your life as normal, follow your instincts, maybe you’ll have a pleasant surprise, but, in general, don’t expect much from French people if you don’t have a "piston". Rontay

Bled dry

Bled Dry

For survival, gotta be tough
Another gallon's not enough
A game of give, never take
One more pint, for goodness sake.

It's a game to so long endure
And where's the glory, never sure
As the well slowly churns up dry
They say sorry, sorry, then deny

So much blood shed for la France
For this bloody, wild incessant dance
See the end, there is that prize
Of fun and folly, oh what lies!

Glamour, glamour, worth a drop
Wine and dine, make one more crop
Sing and Sting, just pour it all
On heaven's doorstep, you shall fall

As the sun sets I shall bleed
Overwhelmed by rivers filled of greed
Again a quart to forge ahead
Why. too late now, for I am dead