So having managed through Data Communications and Networking I’ve started yet another course which is Web-centric Development. My new professor is from Mexico.
He started the course talking about standards and their importance. As an example he cited a fire in Baltimore in the 1970s that could’ve been contained had the fire hydrants been compatible with the standards of hoses. Apparently the mayor of Baltimore decided to upgrade fire hydrants to a “better” system that unfortunately turned out to be incompatible with hoses of neighboring districts that were called upon to help put out the fire.
He then moved on to the next example. This time of Katrina. Apparently the United States government’s website for Katrina aid could only be used by Internet Explorer 7, preventing a substantial percentage of the victims from using the aid site.
Yes I was indeed starting to see how important standards are. I was also starting to sense a certain bias perhaps?
He began his third example. This time it was of the European Union.
Phew.
Apparently they take video streams of their important meetings and post them online using a format made available through an [wait for it] American company. He then posed the question of why the European Union would allow their video stream to only be viewed through patented technology belonging to an American company[yes he actually said “American company” and not Microsoft]. Despite being free now, what prevents Microsoft from learning about this and starting to charge for the use of their technology?
Right.
So in order to show how important standards are he decides to randomly use the examples of overzealous Americans who’s fascination with more recent technology lead to uncontrollable fire destruction, an government (that happens to be American) that only helps its citizens that are up to date on the latest web browser, and the entire content of the EU’s video streaming held hostage by a greedy company which also happens to be American and stated explicitly so.
I mean these examples do illustrate the importance of standardization. They just also happen to show that America is kind of a bumbling idiot/dick.
Just a coincidence? Je ne sais pas.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
memorial de caen
D Day Beach:
Cemetary (over 10,000 Americans were killed):
the graves:
the graves:
last but not least, the view of my future apartment (currently from inside the museum):
Friday, December 5, 2008
drago
So some people have asked me how a French University manages to have a master’s course taught entirely in English. It’s simple really. How does any country get things it doesn’t itself produce? It imports them of course.
Fo serious. Most of my teachers are from other countries (London, the States, India) and they come for about two weeks at a time. During those one or two weeks I am put through what is essentially a subject matter boot camp consisting of lectures, projects, and a do or die final all condensed into about two weeks what would normally span a semester (hence the slowing down of blog updates).
Currently I am in the middle of a data networking and communications boot camp. My professor has been imported from Slovenia and has the kind of accent and mannerisms that, given a different time and place, could easily be found working in a secretive nuclear power plant facility or consuming blood in his castle.
The guy is interesting for sure and knows his shit. The only problem is that he has the affliction I’ve encountered with other highly intelligent, eccentric people and that is that he doesn’t quite operate at the same level as normal people do. This wouldn’t be a problem except he is my professor and I need to understand him.
Par example, at the beginning of his lecture he used the word “frequency” in explaining something. This is normal since he’s an engineer and so is everyone else at my school (it is engineering school after all and not like Virginia Tech is an engineering school – in France grand ecoles are purely one thing or another).
So the engineering teacher is using engineering terms like “frequency” and everyone nods their head like “uh huh right, frequency” and then there’s me, who is in no way shape or form an engineer, wonders what the hell frequency is but I let it slide since nobody else seems to have a problem with the term. So he continues and uses the word “frequency” again. And again. And again. Hmmm… frequency seems rather important since it comes up quite frequently (haha).
Anywho so I raise my hand and shamefully ask the question: What is frequency? He looks at me like I’m on crack because I don’t know what that is. I tell him I don’t have an engineering background. I think this makes him feel better and he then proceeds to explain frequency for 20 minutes.
Graphs are drawn, equations are written, manipulated, and derived and at the end of it all I still have no idea what frequency is but I pretend like I do because he tried so hard to explain it to me and I just wasted 20 minutes of everyone’s time and it’s not their fault I’m too dumb to get it. Or so I thought.
Turns out the guy is an overcommunicater. I found this out because other people started asking questions as well to which they end up regretting. That’s because he throws a lot of information at you and then you have to shift through that information and ascertain the answer yourself.
I’ll use a layman example. Let’s say you ask what’s wine made of? His answer would be something like:
Well back in the early days of mankind they searched for an alternative beverage for merriment and in doing so came across what they later refer to ask the nectar of the gods. The origin of wine starts in mother earth herself as a seedling which over time with the help of a liquid essential to all life with the chemical makeup of one hydrogen atom and two oxygen atoms. This seeding grows into a vine which is of the genus Vitis. From this vine comes a fruit with an average circumference of less than one inch (this can be mathematically proven) and can be different colors depending on the species but is mainly usually red or green. This fruit is referred to as a grape in English speaking countries but is called le raisin here in France which can be confusing as the word raisin in English means a dried grape, which as we all know is different.
Did I answer your question?
If this is your first encounter with the man you will say something like so… grapes? To which he will reply:
Well, like I mentioned earlier back in the early days of mankind…
So yeah it’s best to say instead a definitive “Yes” and it is absolutely critical you follow that with nothing other than a period.
I have a two hour test in this course next Tuesday, open notes which means it will be killer. He told us to email him if we had any questions. I could only imagine what that would be like.
Fo serious. Most of my teachers are from other countries (London, the States, India) and they come for about two weeks at a time. During those one or two weeks I am put through what is essentially a subject matter boot camp consisting of lectures, projects, and a do or die final all condensed into about two weeks what would normally span a semester (hence the slowing down of blog updates).
Currently I am in the middle of a data networking and communications boot camp. My professor has been imported from Slovenia and has the kind of accent and mannerisms that, given a different time and place, could easily be found working in a secretive nuclear power plant facility or consuming blood in his castle.
The guy is interesting for sure and knows his shit. The only problem is that he has the affliction I’ve encountered with other highly intelligent, eccentric people and that is that he doesn’t quite operate at the same level as normal people do. This wouldn’t be a problem except he is my professor and I need to understand him.
Par example, at the beginning of his lecture he used the word “frequency” in explaining something. This is normal since he’s an engineer and so is everyone else at my school (it is engineering school after all and not like Virginia Tech is an engineering school – in France grand ecoles are purely one thing or another).
So the engineering teacher is using engineering terms like “frequency” and everyone nods their head like “uh huh right, frequency” and then there’s me, who is in no way shape or form an engineer, wonders what the hell frequency is but I let it slide since nobody else seems to have a problem with the term. So he continues and uses the word “frequency” again. And again. And again. Hmmm… frequency seems rather important since it comes up quite frequently (haha).
Anywho so I raise my hand and shamefully ask the question: What is frequency? He looks at me like I’m on crack because I don’t know what that is. I tell him I don’t have an engineering background. I think this makes him feel better and he then proceeds to explain frequency for 20 minutes.
Graphs are drawn, equations are written, manipulated, and derived and at the end of it all I still have no idea what frequency is but I pretend like I do because he tried so hard to explain it to me and I just wasted 20 minutes of everyone’s time and it’s not their fault I’m too dumb to get it. Or so I thought.
Turns out the guy is an overcommunicater. I found this out because other people started asking questions as well to which they end up regretting. That’s because he throws a lot of information at you and then you have to shift through that information and ascertain the answer yourself.
I’ll use a layman example. Let’s say you ask what’s wine made of? His answer would be something like:
Well back in the early days of mankind they searched for an alternative beverage for merriment and in doing so came across what they later refer to ask the nectar of the gods. The origin of wine starts in mother earth herself as a seedling which over time with the help of a liquid essential to all life with the chemical makeup of one hydrogen atom and two oxygen atoms. This seeding grows into a vine which is of the genus Vitis. From this vine comes a fruit with an average circumference of less than one inch (this can be mathematically proven) and can be different colors depending on the species but is mainly usually red or green. This fruit is referred to as a grape in English speaking countries but is called le raisin here in France which can be confusing as the word raisin in English means a dried grape, which as we all know is different.
Did I answer your question?
If this is your first encounter with the man you will say something like so… grapes? To which he will reply:
Well, like I mentioned earlier back in the early days of mankind…
So yeah it’s best to say instead a definitive “Yes” and it is absolutely critical you follow that with nothing other than a period.
I have a two hour test in this course next Tuesday, open notes which means it will be killer. He told us to email him if we had any questions. I could only imagine what that would be like.
Monday, December 1, 2008
un petit thanksgiving
So I confess I totally forgot about Thanksgiving.
In France Thanksgiving is not celebrated so there is no commercial reminder of the holiday which is apparently how I keep track of these things.
Alas I have friends and family to remind me I am missing out on a long weekend and good eats so I decided to hold a mini Thanksgiving celebration in my room; a room that includes a kitchen that consists of two stoves (which is really more like a bunson burner) and a microwave. Despite this I presented a Thanksgiving dinner to some of my classmates.
With limitations of an inadequate kitchen and my inability to cook I utilized the two techniques I have learned from living abroad to elevate the subpar into the extraordinary.
The first is translation of words from English into another language (preferably one that is known for what you are presenting):
Boisson: bouteille de vin rouge du bas-côté dix du supermarché
Entrée: baguettes coupées en tranches avec pâté de surplus
Plat principal: le poulet rôti a préparé par le supermarché local
Plats latéraux: maïs (spécialité du chef) et purée de pommes de terre avec la sauce au jus
Dessert: préemballé tart de pomme
The second technique (from Japan) is fancy presentation:
Voila. Bon appetite.
Friday, November 28, 2008
fall backwards
So for Friday and Saturday my friend Nomes offered to take me to the west coast town of Galway. I figured this was a good chance for me to get out of Dave’s hair for a little while after having taken over his living room for the past week so I took her up on her offer.
We arrived back in Dublin at around 6 that night where I sadly bid Nomes farewell and headed back to Dave’s where I found him curled on his couch looking like death after the fancy dress party the night before (He was a pirate and to stay in character he had to drink loads of rum). Despite his massive hangover some 14 hrs after the fact and my early flight the next morning (I had to be there around 6:30am) we headed out to one of his friends’ engagement party at a local swanky bar by the river.
We took the 2pm train there and arrived at around 6pm, set up camp at hostel near the train station and then headed into town where we had a lovely dinner of tapas and then went bar hopping amongst the locals in fancy dresses (it was Halloween). It was then that I learned Nomes actually has already won the around the world race but I disqualified her due to her unfair advantage of being kind of hott with a posh British accent at her disposal.
The next day we decided to explore the town before heading back to Dublin. Having only drank in Galway before (this was a constant theme) Nomes was at a lost for where to actually go as a tourist so we headed to the tourism office where they ignored us for 20 minutes so we just grabbed a tourism map and explored on our own.
There’s not much in terms of things to see in Galway(in some places you go for the view – in Galway you go for the bohemian vibe) but we did walk through a quaint market and took a lovely walk by the river and then the ocean on the non rainy day and chatted catching up on each other’s lives.
We arrived back in Dublin at around 6 that night where I sadly bid Nomes farewell and headed back to Dave’s where I found him curled on his couch looking like death after the fancy dress party the night before (He was a pirate and to stay in character he had to drink loads of rum). Despite his massive hangover some 14 hrs after the fact and my early flight the next morning (I had to be there around 6:30am) we headed out to one of his friends’ engagement party at a local swanky bar by the river.
We got back around 3am and both passed out. At 5:30am the small alarm Dave set for me went off and knocked on Dave’s door to wake him up so he could drive me to the airport. He looked at me with much distain and told me it was only 4:30am.
See, the day after I arrived in Dublin happen to be fall backwards so when I left France I was an hour ahead. Couple that with the fact that Ireland is an hour behind France and it gets a bit confusing to do the math on my only means of time telling which is my French cell phone.
Add to that the fact that some phones automatically switch for daylight savings and some don’t so I wasn’t quite sure if I needed to subtract one or two hours. Once I got the hang of things my phone died because Irish electrical sockets are different than French sockets. So then I had to use the clock at Dave’s place which I was sure at some point in time was not changed (subtract one hour) but maybe Dave or his roommate changed it without my knowledge so then that becomes unreliable.
So yeah during my entire stay in Dublin I suffered from slight time paranoia which wasn’t a big deal when it comes to things like going to dinner but becomes a bit more important with things like catching an early flight.
After Dave spent 10 minutes convincing me it was actually 4:30 and not 5:30 (I become super paranoid when I’m sleepy not to mention super unable to follow reason or logic) so I went back to bed but couldn’t fall back asleep because of already explained paranoia.
At the actual 5:30 Dave took me to the airport where I got on the plane and made my way back to Rouen (2 hour flight + 1 ½ hour bus from Beauvais airport to Paris + 1 hour train ride from Paris to Rouen + 30 minute metro ride back to my apartment from Rouen train station + all the overhead in between) on one hour of sleep. I got home around 4pm and was exhausted.
Oh living in a major airport hub, je tu manque.
Friday, November 14, 2008
kilkenny – first in flight?
So as it turned out, Dave had a meeting in a town close to Kilkenny Thursday and he wasn’t adverse to skipping out on work afterwards and showing me around Kilkenny and I wasn’t adverse to him skipping out on work and showing me around Kilkenny either so I came with. He dropped me off at a quaint coffee shop where I sat with a nice cup of hot coffee and homemade caramel bar while I waited until he was done with his meeting (I would’ve explored the town but, bien soir, il pleur).
An hour later we made our way into Kilkenny and walked the town where Dave kept remarking about one of three things: 1. how everything looked so different when he’s sober (alcoholic much?) 2. how everything is “older than America.” (Look Kelly, see that building? It’s older than America. And see that fire hydrant? Also older than America. And the second hand dial of that clock? Older than America. Ok, America doesn’t have a long history. I GET IT.) and 3. How he is connected to everyone and everything in Ireland.
Not in a pretentious way, it’s just in a country of about 4 million people everyone/thing is connected in some way. There’s that theory were everyone is connected by 7 degrees of separation. In Ireland it’s about 3. For example Dave is connected to this manhole we came across on the street.
All these years I had lived my life under the false notion that the Wright Brothers were the first to achieve flight. But now I know better than to the believe that Smithsonian propaganda. Thank you old house that randomly houses the propeller involved in this historical act. Next time I go to the Smithsonian I shall paste this picture I took of you by the Wright brother’s display and let the world know the truth.
The propeller of the eccentric that achieved flight (albeit for a few fleeting seconds) is a tough act to follow but the Kilkenny castle was very nice. Got to see the interior of my very first castle and learn of its history which I can’t really recall except that cousins marry first cousins and boys dressed as girls until a certain age and for some reason there were several paintings of women with their right breast exposed in an otherwise normal portrait of a lady. Not their left breast, just the right one. I found this odd but didn’t want to ask the tour guide and risk looking like a pervert to notice such things. 
Afterwards we went to Kells Priory, a site of the remains of an old monastery my guidebook recommended since Dave had a car and the place is hard to get to otherwise. Very cool mostly because it’s not a touristy area and you could just hang out by the old ruins with the sheep. 
That night we headed back to Dublin and over the Myles’ place so I could collect on my drunken promise of monkfish.
I arrived expecting to see take out menus. Instead I got an appetizer of salad with a vinaigrette sauce, entrée of monkfish baked with onions and mushrooms in a light lemon pepper sauce with a side of steamed potatoes and green beans, and fresh raspberries and yogurt for dessert. 
Myles I hardly know thee.
An hour later we made our way into Kilkenny and walked the town where Dave kept remarking about one of three things: 1. how everything looked so different when he’s sober (alcoholic much?) 2. how everything is “older than America.” (Look Kelly, see that building? It’s older than America. And see that fire hydrant? Also older than America. And the second hand dial of that clock? Older than America. Ok, America doesn’t have a long history. I GET IT.) and 3. How he is connected to everyone and everything in Ireland.
Not in a pretentious way, it’s just in a country of about 4 million people everyone/thing is connected in some way. There’s that theory were everyone is connected by 7 degrees of separation. In Ireland it’s about 3. For example Dave is connected to this manhole we came across on the street.
Dave played in a band with a guy who’s father owns the company that made the manhole.
Anywho Kilkenny is known for its castle so we headed over there to check it out. The castle is only available for group tours and the next available tour wasn’t for another hour so we had some time to kill. We decided to visit some old house (yes, also older than America).
It was in this house that the hands of fate pulled the wool from my eyes and showed me the light of truth.
If you can't read that it says:
“Kilkenny man claims prize for first flight in 1856
In 1903 the Wright brother’s achieved fame for their first flight at Kitty Hawk, Carolina. However almost 50 years earlier Lord Claringford, a Kilkenny eccentric had already succeeded – albeit for a few fleeting seconds. “
“Kilkenny man claims prize for first flight in 1856
In 1903 the Wright brother’s achieved fame for their first flight at Kitty Hawk, Carolina. However almost 50 years earlier Lord Claringford, a Kilkenny eccentric had already succeeded – albeit for a few fleeting seconds. “
All these years I had lived my life under the false notion that the Wright Brothers were the first to achieve flight. But now I know better than to the believe that Smithsonian propaganda. Thank you old house that randomly houses the propeller involved in this historical act. Next time I go to the Smithsonian I shall paste this picture I took of you by the Wright brother’s display and let the world know the truth.
The propeller of the eccentric that achieved flight (albeit for a few fleeting seconds) is a tough act to follow but the Kilkenny castle was very nice. Got to see the interior of my very first castle and learn of its history which I can’t really recall except that cousins marry first cousins and boys dressed as girls until a certain age and for some reason there were several paintings of women with their right breast exposed in an otherwise normal portrait of a lady. Not their left breast, just the right one. I found this odd but didn’t want to ask the tour guide and risk looking like a pervert to notice such things.
2008 Kelly Pham achieves flight albeit for a few fleeting seconds
Afterwards we went to Kells Priory, a site of the remains of an old monastery my guidebook recommended since Dave had a car and the place is hard to get to otherwise. Very cool mostly because it’s not a touristy area and you could just hang out by the old ruins with the sheep.
That night we headed back to Dublin and over the Myles’ place so I could collect on my drunken promise of monkfish.
I arrived expecting to see take out menus. Instead I got an appetizer of salad with a vinaigrette sauce, entrée of monkfish baked with onions and mushrooms in a light lemon pepper sauce with a side of steamed potatoes and green beans, and fresh raspberries and yogurt for dessert.
Myles I hardly know thee.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
kilmainham gaol
So Wednesday was suppose to be my “get started on my project that’s due two days after I get back to France” day but I got the idea to go to Kilmainham Gaol prison instead because 1. three different Irish people on three separate occasions recommended it to me and 2. I somehow lucked out and got people to take me to places outside Dublin for Thursday, Friday, and Saturday so this was my only free day to check it out.
I learned about the Great Hunger where you can see the number of prisoners in the prison spike to ridiculous numbers. That’s because people in prison were getting fed so people would commit petty crimes to get admitted for food. Could you imagine a time where life outside prison is worse than inside a prison? Really gives you a since of how awful things were (Hearing about how the people that were literally starving to death on the side of the road didn’t even have the strength to shoo away animals that were starting to eat their bodies before they were actually dead also gives you a sense.)
I actually had no interest in going there before people recommended it and Dave has been there several times and told me it was kind of depressing but it was either go out in the cold rain to catch a bus of which the origin point I’m unaware of to get off at a stop I’m also unaware of to pay money to see a place of suffering OR stay in a nice warm apartment in my p.j.’s doing much needed schoolwork. I think the choice is clear here.
You can only see Kilmainham gaol by group tour and I lucked out by getting a full blooded red haired Irishman with a passion for Irish history as my tour guide. He was awesome.
If Kilmainham Goal made the claim: To know the history of Kilmainham Goal is to know the history of Ireland itself, my eyes would remain unrolled. Honestly the place is fascinating.
I learned about the Great Hunger where you can see the number of prisoners in the prison spike to ridiculous numbers. That’s because people in prison were getting fed so people would commit petty crimes to get admitted for food. Could you imagine a time where life outside prison is worse than inside a prison? Really gives you a since of how awful things were (Hearing about how the people that were literally starving to death on the side of the road didn’t even have the strength to shoo away animals that were starting to eat their bodies before they were actually dead also gives you a sense.)
I also saw where the ringleaders of the 1916 Easter Uprising were imprisoned and then executed one by one turning them into martyrs thus gaining international support for Ireland’s independence from the British. The tour guide also included a story about one of the prisoners that, 24 hours before he was to be executed married his love in the prison church and afterwards was brought back to his prison cell alone for the night. The next day they were given 10 minutes together before his execution under the watchful eye of a prison guard. After 10 minutes they took him out and shot him. She never remarried.
Gore, drama, death, and romance. That prison’s got it all (Ireland’s daytime soap writers could learn a thing or two from that place). I highly recommend.
Friday, November 7, 2008
fancy dress party
An American and a European have the following conversation:
Dave: I’m going to a fancy dress party on Friday night if you want to come with.
Kelly: Sounds great I’ll pack my fancy dress.
Later the American gets a text from the European:
“Kelly, we’re going to fancy dress shopping on Monday so bring your shopping mojo!”
Kelly: [But I already told him I was packing a fancy dress. Maybe he forgot. I’ll tell him later there’s no need.]
Later they have the following conversation:
Dave: Kelly did you get my text? You’ll have to help me out, I need to find a dress for the fancy dress party. Me and some mates will be going as the girls from Sex and the City.
Kelly: [oh he wants to go fancy dress shopping for himself. Wow he’s really taking this fancy dress party seriously…]
Like really REALLY seriously. Like a little too seriously. To the point where there’s something wrong here…
Friday = Halloween :: fancy dress party = ________?
Light bulb.
Kelly: Dave, when you say fancy dress party do you mean like a costume party?
Dave: Yes of course.
Kelly: OOOHHHhhhhh.
Dave: What did you think I meant?
Kelly: A formal affair where I wear a fancy dress.
Dave: OOOHHHhhhhh. So you packed a fancy dress.
Kelly: Yes, and shoes to go with it. What do you think I meant?
Dave: That you brought a costume with you. I thought that was an odd thing to bring with you to France. I just concluded you were really keen on Halloween or something.
Ah English. The same thing happened to my British friend who invited an American to a “fancy dress” party. She went to meet him as a geisha. He showed up in a tux.
I didn’t end up going to the fancy dress party but had I gone I would’ve worn my fancy dress anyways. Had anyone asked I would’ve said:
I’m American. What I’m wearing is a fancy dress. What you’re wearing is a costume.
Dave: I’m going to a fancy dress party on Friday night if you want to come with.
Kelly: Sounds great I’ll pack my fancy dress.
Later the American gets a text from the European:
“Kelly, we’re going to fancy dress shopping on Monday so bring your shopping mojo!”
Kelly: [But I already told him I was packing a fancy dress. Maybe he forgot. I’ll tell him later there’s no need.]
Later they have the following conversation:
Dave: Kelly did you get my text? You’ll have to help me out, I need to find a dress for the fancy dress party. Me and some mates will be going as the girls from Sex and the City.
Kelly: [oh he wants to go fancy dress shopping for himself. Wow he’s really taking this fancy dress party seriously…]
Like really REALLY seriously. Like a little too seriously. To the point where there’s something wrong here…
Friday = Halloween :: fancy dress party = ________?
Light bulb.
Kelly: Dave, when you say fancy dress party do you mean like a costume party?
Dave: Yes of course.
Kelly: OOOHHHhhhhh.
Dave: What did you think I meant?
Kelly: A formal affair where I wear a fancy dress.
Dave: OOOHHHhhhhh. So you packed a fancy dress.
Kelly: Yes, and shoes to go with it. What do you think I meant?
Dave: That you brought a costume with you. I thought that was an odd thing to bring with you to France. I just concluded you were really keen on Halloween or something.
Ah English. The same thing happened to my British friend who invited an American to a “fancy dress” party. She went to meet him as a geisha. He showed up in a tux.
I didn’t end up going to the fancy dress party but had I gone I would’ve worn my fancy dress anyways. Had anyone asked I would’ve said:
I’m American. What I’m wearing is a fancy dress. What you’re wearing is a costume.
monument of light
So having lucked out on Dave having Monday off for a random holiday (what makes it random? I call any holiday we don’t celebrate in the states random – in this case it was a “Bank Holiday” whatever that means) I was on my own for Tuesday.
Armed with my guidebook and a camera to document how I got from Dave’s place into town (I get lost easily) I headed to Trinity College to look at the Book of Kells.
The line was long and it was pissing down rain and I was starting to wonder if this was going to be a constant theme for me when it came to tourist attractions in Europe. Finally I got in to see the book of Kells after a very long and elaborate introduction about the making of the book, the meaning of the book, the authors of the book, the ink of the book, etc.
In the end it was a really old book (dates back to the 800AD) behind glass that I couldn’t read because it’s written in Latin. I stood there for a while though pretending to admire it because that’s what other people were doing and if anything I did stand in line in the rain to look at this thing and by golly I was going to look at it right.
Next it was on to Christ Church Cathedral:
Armed with my guidebook and a camera to document how I got from Dave’s place into town (I get lost easily) I headed to Trinity College to look at the Book of Kells.
The line was long and it was pissing down rain and I was starting to wonder if this was going to be a constant theme for me when it came to tourist attractions in Europe. Finally I got in to see the book of Kells after a very long and elaborate introduction about the making of the book, the meaning of the book, the authors of the book, the ink of the book, etc.
In the end it was a really old book (dates back to the 800AD) behind glass that I couldn’t read because it’s written in Latin. I stood there for a while though pretending to admire it because that’s what other people were doing and if anything I did stand in line in the rain to look at this thing and by golly I was going to look at it right.
Next it was on to Christ Church Cathedral:
Then St. Patrick’s Cathedral:
By this time I was getting really cold and bored because I was by myself and my guidebook didn’t have much else in it besides museums and galleries which I really wasn’t in the mood for. And then I saw something in my guidebook called the Monument of Light which is on the touristy O’Connell Street. I decided it could be interesting so I headed over to check it out.
So I’m walking down O’Connell Street. Walking, walking and on the lookout for the Monument of Light and I don’t see much outside of cheesy souvenir shops and fast food restaurants when I pass what can only be described as a giant rod in the middle of the street.
No. Could that be it? I looked at my map. Yup. That’s it. I walked all that way to look at a giant pole sticking out of the ground.
Dejected and craving the comfort of greasy food I got a hamburger from Supermac’s and headed back to Dave’s where I curled up in a blanket and watched Irish soap operas with griping plot lines like guy thinks fiancée is cheated on him in Australia but turns out she wasn’t cheating on him she was actually *drum roll please* a beauty queen in Australia! She actually took out a tiara and put it on her head when she told him to, I don’t know, make her story seem more credible?
Sure, not great but it beats a giant rod.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
guinness smuinness
So the night before Dave requested that he be able to sleep in till at least noon since he had the day off. I woke him up at 12:30 because 1. I’m American and like to get stuff done on vacation and 2. I was hungry and he had promised me a proper fry up for breakfast the night before (I didn’t give any allowances that it was a drunken promise – when it comes to food I don’t mess around.)
Good stuff for being made of blood and pig guts.
Like a champ he got up and came through on the promise of a traditional Irish fry up complete with black pudding (it’s the black stuff in the back).
Good stuff for being made of blood and pig guts.
Afterwards we headed into Dublin where we walked around for a bit. I could tell Dave has the affliction that most people who actually live in touristy places have, and that is lack of knowledge of said touristy area outside of nightlife. Finally we decided on the Guinness Factory. Dave had to stop by a local hostel to ask for directions. You may judge him. The British guy who gave us directions did.
Now people who know me well know I don’t like beer. And it’s not for lack of trying. Especially in Asia where beer is 30 cents and wine is 2 dollars. You do the math. Add to that the beer drinking culture (Hey everyone, let’s get a pitcher! – oh sorry Kelly why don’t you get a separate check) and it’s actually really annoying not to like beer. So I’m not a beer hater ; I just don’t pretend it tastes like anything other than ass.
So don’t think I am biased when I say that the Guinness Factory is kind of crap. That’s because what could be communicated in one floor they stretch to seven floors and then charge you 15 euros for it (11 of you’re student).
Let’s not kid ourselves people. Beer is beer. You brew it, money exchanges hands, and then we drink it. There’s not really much else to it. But not according to the people at Guinness. Oh no. Did you know for example that:
If you can’t read that it says “The story of transporting Guinness stout is the story of transportation itself.” You don’t say! Walk a few more steps into the “viewing room” and you see a video clip of a horse with a guy talking about how the horse was the first means of transporting Guinness stout. Really? Fascinating!
It was like this for six floors. Look! Paraphernalia with the word “Guinness” written on it! I have an ashtray just like that one only mine doesn’t have the word Guinness printed on it. Hand me my camera. And over there, it’s a record of speeches made at a Guinness fancy dinner in 1959! I have the 1952 speech but it’s not nearly as good. So glad I paid 15 Euros to see it in my lifetime (below is a picture in case you think I’m exaggerating).
And if by chance you haven’t reached yet your saturation point for all things Guinness you can sit at the media booth and watch Guinness commercials. I don’t know about Ireland but people in the states pay good money for technology to avoid commercials and here I was, spending money to watch them.
So as we ascended to the top floor to admire the view from the rooftop bar (which in all fairness was very nice) I was pretty disappointed to have paid 15 Euros to see a beer suffer from delusions of grandeur. We made our way to the bar to get our complimentary pints of Guinness or, in my shameful case, a coke.
As I watched Dave take a sip of his pint I asked him eagerly if it was the best Guinness he’s ever had.
"Meh, I’ve had better.”
I felt my heart break, just a little.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
the (tiny) heart of ireland
So despite the fact that we were out till 5 the night before, Dave had to drive to his hometown of Longford (located right dab smack in the middle of Ireland, hence the heart of Ireland) for his parent’s wedding anniversary the next day at around noon and he was taking me with him. Armed with some strong coffee we headed out on the 1 ½ drive where I experienced great Ireland weather in all her fickle glory.
The next:
And then back to sunny/rain/sunny/rain at the drop of a hat.
Alas I was still so full from lunch I couldn’t manage a drink there so we left and headed back to Dublin where I met up with a couple more people I knew from JET for another pretty heavy session. So heavy in fact that Dave’s cousin Myles promised to cook me a grand dinner of monkfish later in the week. Dave countered with promise of a proper fry up the next morning with the Irish staple black pudding.
These two men are some of the biggest drinkers I knew in Japan to which the only culinary skill I’ve seen from them is the opening of beer cans. I couldn’t wait to see how they were going to pull off these drunken promises.
One minute:
The next:
And then back to sunny/rain/sunny/rain at the drop of a hat.
When we finally arrive in Longford I realized that Dave is actually a country bumpkin. His town is seriously small. Below is a picture of the road we took to get to his house as proof:
I was a little nervous about having a family lunch with a family not my own but it turned out to be quite lovely where I ate way too much, engaged in the great national pastime of chatting (behind drinking that is), and got to witness uncle Dave handle his 1 year old niece more gently than he would a pint of Guinness filled to the brim.
After lunch Dave and I decided to walk off our huge lunch through his small town which basically consists of a street. In the middle of the tour it started raining (of course) so we went a bar/grocery store/funeral home (I’m not kidding – had it also been a hospital you could spend your entire life in the building and never have to leave) in the town.
The bar was quaint and filled with old men who you could tell spent nearly every Sunday of their lives sitting in the same stool drinking the same beer and watching football. There was a random young black guy sitting at the bar like he owned the place that I kept looking at cause he was so out of place but karmatically it was ok because everyone was staring at me in the same manner. One guy even shook my hand, welcomed me to Ireland and then asked me if I was Dave’s wife which should have been fine but in the context made me feel like he thought I came from a catalog of the mail order bride variety.
Alas I was still so full from lunch I couldn’t manage a drink there so we left and headed back to Dublin where I met up with a couple more people I knew from JET for another pretty heavy session. So heavy in fact that Dave’s cousin Myles promised to cook me a grand dinner of monkfish later in the week. Dave countered with promise of a proper fry up the next morning with the Irish staple black pudding.
These two men are some of the biggest drinkers I knew in Japan to which the only culinary skill I’ve seen from them is the opening of beer cans. I couldn’t wait to see how they were going to pull off these drunken promises.
Monday, November 3, 2008
dublin or bust
So I had a random week off at my school last week so I decided to visit Irish Dave in Dublin for it. But first I had to satisfy certain conditions. 1. Irish Dave was ok with me coming to visit. 2. it was financially feasible to go since I am a broke as hoe, and 3. I was allowed to travel on my student visa before getting my residence card.
1. I emailed Irish Dave letting him know of my decision and he said it was ok as long as I was ok with coming with him to two functions. His parent’s wedding anniversary lunch in the town of Longford where he grew up the first Sunday and a fancy dress party the following Friday. He also stipulated that he did in fact have a job and school and was all out of vacation days so I would have to entertain myself on the weekdays. I agreed and made note to pack my fancy dress. Check.
2. There’s a really cheap budget Irish airline here in Europe called Ryan Air. They are so cheap sometimes you can fly for like 2 euros (I’m not kidding, my flight back on Sunday was actually free). However, you have to pay the tax and fees which usually comes out to be more than the actual flight itself doubling your initial estimate. And Ryan Air really loves the add-ons. Like checking in at the airport is an extra 5 euros. Checking in your luggage is an extra 25 euros. Still it was pretty cheap so I wouldn't break the bank. Check.
3. I asked the international graduate coordinator if it was ok to travel before getting my carte de ce jour (residence card). She shook her head no. Leaving would be ok but getting back in might be a problem...
I booked my flight anyways.
See there's this thing I noticed in France where I feel like there's a lot of rules, but also people break the rules all the time. The French kind of run on a don't ask don't tell policy. I've learned that you kind of have to use your own decretion on weather or not to follow the rules.
So yeah, I left Saturday not really knowing if I would be able to come back. I'm such a bad ass.
Anwho Ryan Air utlizes a smaller airport called Beauvais. If you look at a map Beauvais lies between Rouen and Paris so I figured there would be a train or at least a bus that goes there directly. However, having never flown out of Beauvais before I choose a later flight on Saturday to give myself time to find the place.
I know it sounds ridiculous but I gave myself 7 hrs to get there (I wasn’t doing anything on Saturday so I figured if I was early I could just sit in a café somewhere and read my guidebook). It takes 1 hr to get to Paris by train so one would think it would take between 30 minutes and an hour to get to Beauvais. Add in a little wiggle room for the unknown factor of when the train/bus actually leaves and I’m thinking at the most it’ll take 3 hours.
Actual time it took me: 7 hrs.
How did this happen? Well, turns out there is actually no public transport that takes you from Rouen to Beauvais you have to transfer through Paris. So I basically had to get a train to Paris which takes 1 hour and then I have to switch stations and get on a train to Beauvais only to go back from which I came for another hour because the train to Beauvais isn’t an express train. Add to that wait times for trains, wait time to buy tickets on a busy holiday weekend, transferring stations and you get 7 hours. It was infuriating.
Especially when I finally got on the train to Beauvais at around 5:30 (it puts me in Beauvais at 6:30pm and my flight was at 8:50pm) and was freaking out that I would miss my flight because the train doesn’t actually take you the airport, just the train station and I was meant to take a bus from the train station to the airport. Having never been to this airport before I had no idea how far out it was of the city and it could be an hour out for all I know and if that were the case I would’ve been seriously screwed and how the hell did this even happen, I f-in gave myself SEVEN hours to go 501 kilometers.
ME.
Fortunately I made friends with a guy on the train and he was going to the airport as well so we split a cab. Only took 15 minutes so I was fine.
For those of you who don’t like reading I have illustrated what I went through below along with my accompanying mood during the trip:
Anywho I finally arrive in Dublin where I was greeted by rain and Irish Dave (I think they just call him Dave in Ireland) where I requested he take me to a pub immediately. He obliged but first we went and got the most delicious pizza ever (I was starving).
And so began my time in Ireland – filled with rain, pubs, and greasy food.
1. I emailed Irish Dave letting him know of my decision and he said it was ok as long as I was ok with coming with him to two functions. His parent’s wedding anniversary lunch in the town of Longford where he grew up the first Sunday and a fancy dress party the following Friday. He also stipulated that he did in fact have a job and school and was all out of vacation days so I would have to entertain myself on the weekdays. I agreed and made note to pack my fancy dress. Check.
2. There’s a really cheap budget Irish airline here in Europe called Ryan Air. They are so cheap sometimes you can fly for like 2 euros (I’m not kidding, my flight back on Sunday was actually free). However, you have to pay the tax and fees which usually comes out to be more than the actual flight itself doubling your initial estimate. And Ryan Air really loves the add-ons. Like checking in at the airport is an extra 5 euros. Checking in your luggage is an extra 25 euros. Still it was pretty cheap so I wouldn't break the bank. Check.
3. I asked the international graduate coordinator if it was ok to travel before getting my carte de ce jour (residence card). She shook her head no. Leaving would be ok but getting back in might be a problem...
I booked my flight anyways.
See there's this thing I noticed in France where I feel like there's a lot of rules, but also people break the rules all the time. The French kind of run on a don't ask don't tell policy. I've learned that you kind of have to use your own decretion on weather or not to follow the rules.
So yeah, I left Saturday not really knowing if I would be able to come back. I'm such a bad ass.
Anwho Ryan Air utlizes a smaller airport called Beauvais. If you look at a map Beauvais lies between Rouen and Paris so I figured there would be a train or at least a bus that goes there directly. However, having never flown out of Beauvais before I choose a later flight on Saturday to give myself time to find the place.
I know it sounds ridiculous but I gave myself 7 hrs to get there (I wasn’t doing anything on Saturday so I figured if I was early I could just sit in a café somewhere and read my guidebook). It takes 1 hr to get to Paris by train so one would think it would take between 30 minutes and an hour to get to Beauvais. Add in a little wiggle room for the unknown factor of when the train/bus actually leaves and I’m thinking at the most it’ll take 3 hours.
Actual time it took me: 7 hrs.
How did this happen? Well, turns out there is actually no public transport that takes you from Rouen to Beauvais you have to transfer through Paris. So I basically had to get a train to Paris which takes 1 hour and then I have to switch stations and get on a train to Beauvais only to go back from which I came for another hour because the train to Beauvais isn’t an express train. Add to that wait times for trains, wait time to buy tickets on a busy holiday weekend, transferring stations and you get 7 hours. It was infuriating.
Especially when I finally got on the train to Beauvais at around 5:30 (it puts me in Beauvais at 6:30pm and my flight was at 8:50pm) and was freaking out that I would miss my flight because the train doesn’t actually take you the airport, just the train station and I was meant to take a bus from the train station to the airport. Having never been to this airport before I had no idea how far out it was of the city and it could be an hour out for all I know and if that were the case I would’ve been seriously screwed and how the hell did this even happen, I f-in gave myself SEVEN hours to go 501 kilometers.
ME.
Fortunately I made friends with a guy on the train and he was going to the airport as well so we split a cab. Only took 15 minutes so I was fine.
For those of you who don’t like reading I have illustrated what I went through below along with my accompanying mood during the trip:
Anywho I finally arrive in Dublin where I was greeted by rain and Irish Dave (I think they just call him Dave in Ireland) where I requested he take me to a pub immediately. He obliged but first we went and got the most delicious pizza ever (I was starving).
And so began my time in Ireland – filled with rain, pubs, and greasy food.
Monday, October 20, 2008
angry kelly
So my new bff in Rouen is a guy from India. We’ll call him PT (perpetual talker). He is mainly my new bff because he possesses a very important quality that nobody else around me possesses. He consumes alcohol (What do you get when you cross a Hindu Brahman Priest, a devote Christian, and an extremely religious Muslim? I don’t know but whatever it is you get, it’s sober).
Being the judger that I am I have already assessed PT for what he is. A high energy alpha male with a borderline obnoxious personality and big heart. Also extremely self-centered.
How do I know this? Through observation and experience. The way that PT operates is not only does he think the world revolves around him, he demands it to. Case in point:
PT: Let’s meet tomorrow at 10am.
Me: No. That’s too early for you. Let’s do later.
PT: No. 10. I’ll be there.
Me: No. You’ll be tired from work and you’ll sleep late because you’ll be up all night drinking or something. Let’s do later.
PT: Kelly, believe me I’ll be there at 10.
Me: Are you sure?
PT: Yes.
Me: [with reluctance] Ok.
Time Kelly arrives 10.
Time PT arrives: 10:30.
One of my pet peeves is waiting for people. It annoys me and I don’t like it and I make sure those around me know this. The occasional tardiness of 5-10 minutes is ok but 30 minutes I feel is a bit much. So I look at PT like, what the hell you said 10.
His excuse? Kelly, I could hardly get up this morning I am so tired from last night. I slept at 4 because they made me drink and I had a really tiring day at work.
Sound familiar? Right.
Lesson Kelly learned: Something stated isn’t true until PT says it.
But he charms his way out of it and it’s the first offense so I let it go and we go and hang out.
Afterwards he tells to me that tomorrow he will come by my apartment at 2. I said fine and that I’ll be there.
He calls me at noon: Sorry Kelly I have to do something for a friend I’ll come by at 8pm. I tell him that’s fine.
So I make sure I’m in my apartment by 8pm because it would be really dick of me to say I’ll be somewhere and then not be there.
This time he’s not late. That’s because he doesn’t show up at all.
Lesson Kelly learned: PT values his time but not the time of others.
The next day he tells me he’s sorry but his friend broke up with his girlfriend and wanted to hang out at the beach because of the beautiful weather that day and they got back really late.
Understandable yes? Do I care at this point? Not really. It’s clear to me that this guy is self centered and all the good intentions in the world isn’t going to change that.
I did, however, lend him my jacket and now I needed it back. So I ask him to bring it to class next time. He tells me to meet him the next day at 2pm. I tell him, flat out, hells to the no.
He looks at me like, why not? So I tell him why not that he doesn’t keep his appointments and I’m tired of waiting for him.
He assures me that he will be there at 2 and requests that I call him when I leave my apartment. I still tell him no. He’s persistent until finally I agree.
I am running a bit late that day and arrive at 2:15. He arrives at 2:35. Not only that but I don’t see my jacket on his possession. So basically I am waiting around for him, AGAIN, for nothing. I am pissed.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me thrice and you better the f duck or something.
Yes I am pissed. I can feel the anger boiling in the pit of my stomach and coming hot out of my face. The feeling is familiar, it’s called my temper which is kind of nasty. I keep quiet because that’s the only way I know how to suppress it.
So I manage to calmly ask for my jacket and he says it’s in his apartment and we can go get it now but can we please have lunch first because he is hungry.
I get even more pissed because I had specifically told him I was going to eat lunch at home to save money and his plan is to eat after we meet and make me wait. Again. His schedule and nobody elses'.
So we’re walking and he’s talking asking me what’s wrong and why aren’t I talking and I just keep quiet because I need to hold it together at least until I can get my jacket.
And then he says something really really stupid. He says: I don’t understand a girl’s mind.
Oh no he didn’t.
Really PT? You want to know a girl’s mind? Well let me tell let you into this girl’s mind.
I completely rip into him. In the middle of the street. People are staring at us but I don’t care because the minute I open my mouth to “help him understand a girl’s mind” my temper comes flying out of my mouth and phrases like and “wasting other people’s time” and “world does not revolve around you” peppered by the word “bullshit” come storming out.
He looks at me bewildered. I look back at him like “What do you have to say for yourself?”
So he starts splaining himself and I systematically pick apart his excuses making he himself come to the logically conclusion that he is the scum of the earth.
It is after I get my apology a long with admission of fault signed and sealed by his genuine remorse and regret over his actions that he says to me: “This is the first time I got dominated by a girl in a conversation. I am scared of you.”
Even after this he requests to come by my apartment at 2pm the next day. I look at him like he’s someone who has a death wish or something but I say whatever he can come over and maybe I’ll be there, maybe I won’t.
At exactly 2pm the next day my doorbell rings. I am pleasantly surprised that perhaps from our confrontation yesterday will come a mutually understanding that will better our relationship. I open the door.
It’s the devote Christian coming over to give me next week’s class schedule. As I close the door I kick myself for even entertaining the possibility that PT will do as he said he would.
At 2:05 my doorbell rings again. It’s PT. He looks like death and smells like Johnny Walker.
Apparently the night before he got dragged to the disco and ended up downing two beers, a bottle of wine, and a bottle of Johnny Walker which lead to him punching a brick wall and busting up his right hand. Just got back to his friend’s apartment (same apartment complex as mine) to sleep at 9am and woke up in a panic when his alarm went off at 1:45 to meet Kelly.
And there he was. Looking and smelling like death with a swollen right hand but at my door like he said he would be.
But alas he was still 5 minutes late so I kicked him the balls and slammed the door in his face.
Just kidding. I sent him back to bed. I’m not unreasonable. Just apparently a little scary…
Being the judger that I am I have already assessed PT for what he is. A high energy alpha male with a borderline obnoxious personality and big heart. Also extremely self-centered.
How do I know this? Through observation and experience. The way that PT operates is not only does he think the world revolves around him, he demands it to. Case in point:
PT: Let’s meet tomorrow at 10am.
Me: No. That’s too early for you. Let’s do later.
PT: No. 10. I’ll be there.
Me: No. You’ll be tired from work and you’ll sleep late because you’ll be up all night drinking or something. Let’s do later.
PT: Kelly, believe me I’ll be there at 10.
Me: Are you sure?
PT: Yes.
Me: [with reluctance] Ok.
Time Kelly arrives 10.
Time PT arrives: 10:30.
One of my pet peeves is waiting for people. It annoys me and I don’t like it and I make sure those around me know this. The occasional tardiness of 5-10 minutes is ok but 30 minutes I feel is a bit much. So I look at PT like, what the hell you said 10.
His excuse? Kelly, I could hardly get up this morning I am so tired from last night. I slept at 4 because they made me drink and I had a really tiring day at work.
Sound familiar? Right.
Lesson Kelly learned: Something stated isn’t true until PT says it.
But he charms his way out of it and it’s the first offense so I let it go and we go and hang out.
Afterwards he tells to me that tomorrow he will come by my apartment at 2. I said fine and that I’ll be there.
He calls me at noon: Sorry Kelly I have to do something for a friend I’ll come by at 8pm. I tell him that’s fine.
So I make sure I’m in my apartment by 8pm because it would be really dick of me to say I’ll be somewhere and then not be there.
This time he’s not late. That’s because he doesn’t show up at all.
Lesson Kelly learned: PT values his time but not the time of others.
The next day he tells me he’s sorry but his friend broke up with his girlfriend and wanted to hang out at the beach because of the beautiful weather that day and they got back really late.
Understandable yes? Do I care at this point? Not really. It’s clear to me that this guy is self centered and all the good intentions in the world isn’t going to change that.
I did, however, lend him my jacket and now I needed it back. So I ask him to bring it to class next time. He tells me to meet him the next day at 2pm. I tell him, flat out, hells to the no.
He looks at me like, why not? So I tell him why not that he doesn’t keep his appointments and I’m tired of waiting for him.
He assures me that he will be there at 2 and requests that I call him when I leave my apartment. I still tell him no. He’s persistent until finally I agree.
I am running a bit late that day and arrive at 2:15. He arrives at 2:35. Not only that but I don’t see my jacket on his possession. So basically I am waiting around for him, AGAIN, for nothing. I am pissed.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me thrice and you better the f duck or something.
Yes I am pissed. I can feel the anger boiling in the pit of my stomach and coming hot out of my face. The feeling is familiar, it’s called my temper which is kind of nasty. I keep quiet because that’s the only way I know how to suppress it.
So I manage to calmly ask for my jacket and he says it’s in his apartment and we can go get it now but can we please have lunch first because he is hungry.
I get even more pissed because I had specifically told him I was going to eat lunch at home to save money and his plan is to eat after we meet and make me wait. Again. His schedule and nobody elses'.
So we’re walking and he’s talking asking me what’s wrong and why aren’t I talking and I just keep quiet because I need to hold it together at least until I can get my jacket.
And then he says something really really stupid. He says: I don’t understand a girl’s mind.
Oh no he didn’t.
Really PT? You want to know a girl’s mind? Well let me tell let you into this girl’s mind.
I completely rip into him. In the middle of the street. People are staring at us but I don’t care because the minute I open my mouth to “help him understand a girl’s mind” my temper comes flying out of my mouth and phrases like and “wasting other people’s time” and “world does not revolve around you” peppered by the word “bullshit” come storming out.
He looks at me bewildered. I look back at him like “What do you have to say for yourself?”
So he starts splaining himself and I systematically pick apart his excuses making he himself come to the logically conclusion that he is the scum of the earth.
It is after I get my apology a long with admission of fault signed and sealed by his genuine remorse and regret over his actions that he says to me: “This is the first time I got dominated by a girl in a conversation. I am scared of you.”
Even after this he requests to come by my apartment at 2pm the next day. I look at him like he’s someone who has a death wish or something but I say whatever he can come over and maybe I’ll be there, maybe I won’t.
At exactly 2pm the next day my doorbell rings. I am pleasantly surprised that perhaps from our confrontation yesterday will come a mutually understanding that will better our relationship. I open the door.
It’s the devote Christian coming over to give me next week’s class schedule. As I close the door I kick myself for even entertaining the possibility that PT will do as he said he would.
At 2:05 my doorbell rings again. It’s PT. He looks like death and smells like Johnny Walker.
Apparently the night before he got dragged to the disco and ended up downing two beers, a bottle of wine, and a bottle of Johnny Walker which lead to him punching a brick wall and busting up his right hand. Just got back to his friend’s apartment (same apartment complex as mine) to sleep at 9am and woke up in a panic when his alarm went off at 1:45 to meet Kelly.
And there he was. Looking and smelling like death with a swollen right hand but at my door like he said he would be.
But alas he was still 5 minutes late so I kicked him the balls and slammed the door in his face.
Just kidding. I sent him back to bed. I’m not unreasonable. Just apparently a little scary…
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
The future chef of a village in Cameroon made me a dinner of chicken and potatoes
So being the half functional, partially retarded adult that I am there is a bus that runs from my apartment complex to the nearest metro station but I don’t know quite how to read the bus schedule and I am running late (it’s a 20 minute walk) so I was asked the guy standing there. A quelle heure le bus arrive?
He looks at me confused (as most people do when I speak French) and I repeat myself only this time with monkey gestures that I hope illustrate “What time is the bus coming.” This works and he tells me “9:30”. So we stand there and wait and the bus still does not arrive at 9:45. He invites me to walk with him to the bus station.
His name is Moisse (pronounced like Maurice but with no ‘r’) and he’s from Cameroon, Africa (so he speaks French fluently and a little English) and it’s his first year at the engineering school. He has a very kind way about him and an infectious laugh so we continuing chatting on the metro. Before he departs he asks me if I had plans later on that night. I told him I did not and we make plans to meet in my apartment later that evening.
I’m running really late that night but I make it back to my apartment at 7:30 so I have just enough time to make a small dinner and eat before he arrives.
During our conversation earlier in the day I thought he told me he was making me dinner but the problem with conversing with someone of a different native tongue is that you never know if you have mis-understood them so it’s never wise to bank on important things like dinner. I wanted to have a little something in my stomach in the case he wasn’t making me dinner but I also didn’t want him to come and see me eating dinner if he has made me something. C’est difficile.
Anywho I rush and finish dinner before he comes by and we sit and chat for a while about our day and about the difficulties of French and English. And then a very odd thing happens. I teach him French.
We are talking about liaisons. See the French are really lazy and don’t pronounce the last letter of words. Like in the word ‘et’ you don’t pronounce the ‘t’. But there is an exception. You pronounce the t if the first letter of the next word is a vowel. The example I use is vingt et un (21). Because of the ‘u’ in ‘un’ you pronounce the ‘t’ in et. So actually it sounds like vin(gt) e tun. So I tell him this and he looks at me like I’m on crack.
Moisee: It’s vingt un, not vingt et un. No ‘et’.
Now I know I don’t now French from Adam but I remember that French numbers are funny. I remember you have to do a little math with them (80 is quatre vingt – 4 x 20 and 90 is quatre vingt dix – 4 x 20 + 10) and that the first number of each set (21, 31, 41, etc.) has ‘and’ in it (20 and 1 –vingt et un, 30 and 1, trente et un).
He looks at me like I am silly American girl and that he comes from a French speaking province in Africa and it's vingt un but I remain confident. so we look it up in his dictionary. Voila. Vingt et un.
Moisee: [laughs] I really did not know. I will ask the other people from my town if they know. And I will tell them I have a new French teacher. Her name is Kelly.
So we have a good laugh about and he tells me he has food waiting for me in his apartment.
We move to his apartment and I have my first authentic African meal of chicken in a bean/carrot sauce and potatoes. It was really good (J’ai tres bien mange). He tells me he learned from his mom who is a home economics teacher in Cameroon. He asks me if I want to see her picture and he takes out numerous pictures of his life in Cameroon.
So he shows me pictures of his father, his mother, his cousins, and his grandfather, the chef of his village. So I jokingly ask: So does this mean you will be chef?
He replies with all seriousness: It’s very possible.
Turns out the guy who just made me dinner in a dormitory in France could very well be the future chef of his village back in Africa. The way it works is that when the chef dies he can leave an attestation paper stating who he wants to be the new chef or a recommendation. In the case of no attestation or a recommendation the village than votes on who will be the new chef. Generally they vote for someone who is very educated (which he is) and the new chef has to be in the same family as chefs before him (which he also is). Currently his uncle is the chef but when his grandfather died people from his village started calling him chef because they knew in about a decade’s time he will be the new chef.
I ask him if he wants to be chef. He responds no. I ask him why not and he tells me he wants to be free.
The chef has a lot of power and money but he is bond to the village and its people. The chef has to marry a girl from the village and has to have a minimum of 3 wives (polygamy is widely practiced throughout the village). When the chef eats he finishes his meal first before anyone else can eat. When his wife serves him food she must place the plate down and then back out of the room backwards with her head bowed down. When someone comes to talk to the chef they must stand a distance away from the house and clap their hands where someone will then greet them (not the chef) and they must present their case for the chef’s time. Before someone becomes chef they are taken into “the bush” with the village elders and have some sort of an inauguration with spirits of dead chefs.
I find this all really wild. It’s so far removed from anything I’ve ever known that I’m hugely fascinated with it.
So as he is talking about life in Africa and how I couldn’t image such poverty, that I realize. This man is African.
A little background. During my travels my friends and I had a game in which we called the Around the World Race. Basically whoever kissed someone from all continents (excluding Antarctica), wins.
So far nobody has gotten all 5 (two of the girls got 4/5 each missing either African or South America) and I’m down by 2 (Africa and South America). I could put the race into a 3 way tie if in kiss this man. A man who could be potential chef of his village. And that’s gotta count for extra bonus points or something.
But alas I don’t play to win and decide to be culturally sensitive and refrain for exploiting my new friend. We ended the evening with Bises.
A very lovely and bizarre evening where I taught a potential future chef of a village in Cameroon French.
He looks at me confused (as most people do when I speak French) and I repeat myself only this time with monkey gestures that I hope illustrate “What time is the bus coming.” This works and he tells me “9:30”. So we stand there and wait and the bus still does not arrive at 9:45. He invites me to walk with him to the bus station.
His name is Moisse (pronounced like Maurice but with no ‘r’) and he’s from Cameroon, Africa (so he speaks French fluently and a little English) and it’s his first year at the engineering school. He has a very kind way about him and an infectious laugh so we continuing chatting on the metro. Before he departs he asks me if I had plans later on that night. I told him I did not and we make plans to meet in my apartment later that evening.
I’m running really late that night but I make it back to my apartment at 7:30 so I have just enough time to make a small dinner and eat before he arrives.
During our conversation earlier in the day I thought he told me he was making me dinner but the problem with conversing with someone of a different native tongue is that you never know if you have mis-understood them so it’s never wise to bank on important things like dinner. I wanted to have a little something in my stomach in the case he wasn’t making me dinner but I also didn’t want him to come and see me eating dinner if he has made me something. C’est difficile.
Anywho I rush and finish dinner before he comes by and we sit and chat for a while about our day and about the difficulties of French and English. And then a very odd thing happens. I teach him French.
We are talking about liaisons. See the French are really lazy and don’t pronounce the last letter of words. Like in the word ‘et’ you don’t pronounce the ‘t’. But there is an exception. You pronounce the t if the first letter of the next word is a vowel. The example I use is vingt et un (21). Because of the ‘u’ in ‘un’ you pronounce the ‘t’ in et. So actually it sounds like vin(gt) e tun. So I tell him this and he looks at me like I’m on crack.
Moisee: It’s vingt un, not vingt et un. No ‘et’.
Now I know I don’t now French from Adam but I remember that French numbers are funny. I remember you have to do a little math with them (80 is quatre vingt – 4 x 20 and 90 is quatre vingt dix – 4 x 20 + 10) and that the first number of each set (21, 31, 41, etc.) has ‘and’ in it (20 and 1 –vingt et un, 30 and 1, trente et un).
He looks at me like I am silly American girl and that he comes from a French speaking province in Africa and it's vingt un but I remain confident. so we look it up in his dictionary. Voila. Vingt et un.
Moisee: [laughs] I really did not know. I will ask the other people from my town if they know. And I will tell them I have a new French teacher. Her name is Kelly.
So we have a good laugh about and he tells me he has food waiting for me in his apartment.
We move to his apartment and I have my first authentic African meal of chicken in a bean/carrot sauce and potatoes. It was really good (J’ai tres bien mange). He tells me he learned from his mom who is a home economics teacher in Cameroon. He asks me if I want to see her picture and he takes out numerous pictures of his life in Cameroon.
So he shows me pictures of his father, his mother, his cousins, and his grandfather, the chef of his village. So I jokingly ask: So does this mean you will be chef?
He replies with all seriousness: It’s very possible.
Turns out the guy who just made me dinner in a dormitory in France could very well be the future chef of his village back in Africa. The way it works is that when the chef dies he can leave an attestation paper stating who he wants to be the new chef or a recommendation. In the case of no attestation or a recommendation the village than votes on who will be the new chef. Generally they vote for someone who is very educated (which he is) and the new chef has to be in the same family as chefs before him (which he also is). Currently his uncle is the chef but when his grandfather died people from his village started calling him chef because they knew in about a decade’s time he will be the new chef.
I ask him if he wants to be chef. He responds no. I ask him why not and he tells me he wants to be free.
The chef has a lot of power and money but he is bond to the village and its people. The chef has to marry a girl from the village and has to have a minimum of 3 wives (polygamy is widely practiced throughout the village). When the chef eats he finishes his meal first before anyone else can eat. When his wife serves him food she must place the plate down and then back out of the room backwards with her head bowed down. When someone comes to talk to the chef they must stand a distance away from the house and clap their hands where someone will then greet them (not the chef) and they must present their case for the chef’s time. Before someone becomes chef they are taken into “the bush” with the village elders and have some sort of an inauguration with spirits of dead chefs.
I find this all really wild. It’s so far removed from anything I’ve ever known that I’m hugely fascinated with it.
So as he is talking about life in Africa and how I couldn’t image such poverty, that I realize. This man is African.
A little background. During my travels my friends and I had a game in which we called the Around the World Race. Basically whoever kissed someone from all continents (excluding Antarctica), wins.
So far nobody has gotten all 5 (two of the girls got 4/5 each missing either African or South America) and I’m down by 2 (Africa and South America). I could put the race into a 3 way tie if in kiss this man. A man who could be potential chef of his village. And that’s gotta count for extra bonus points or something.
But alas I don’t play to win and decide to be culturally sensitive and refrain for exploiting my new friend. We ended the evening with Bises.
A very lovely and bizarre evening where I taught a potential future chef of a village in Cameroon French.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Friday, October 10, 2008
le cheval saute
So I get asked a lot: Do you speak French?
Answer: Non. Jamais.
Well, that’s not particularly true. For about 3 months before I left for France I religiously studied French via my free version of Rosetta Stone (I have shady Asian friends).
Rosetta stone is divided into 5 parts. Listening, speaking, reading, writing, and a general introduction part where they introduce you to the new lesson. The philosophy behind Rosetta stone is to bombard you of images while saying particular words or sentences. You are meant to figure out what the words mean through the images. Eventually you will have successfully mapped the meaning of words to its image thus helping you learn the language.
It’s good in theory. There are, however, a few problems.
Firstly they are assuming that the image and the meaning are obvious. Sometimes, they are not. For example when I first started there was a series of sentences with their accompanying pictures:
La fille porte de lunettes. (image of girl standing on the beach)
La fille ne porte pas de lunettes. (image of girl standing on a hammock)
L’homme porte de lunettes. (full body image of man leaning against a tree)
L’homme ne porte pas de lunettes. (full body image of a man in a jumpsuit in mid-air jump)
At this point in the game the only word I had successfully mapped were ‘la fille’ and ‘l’homme’ (girl and man). I had not yet been shown what ‘porte’ was, nor ‘lunettes’.
Kelly’s conclusion after looking at said pictures for a while: Porte = stand. De lunettes = ground. (The man/girl is/is not standing on the ground.)
Real meaning: the man/girl is wearing/is not wearing glasses.
Oh, they’re wearing glasses/not wearing glasses… I missed that what with all the beaches and trees and jumping and hammocks. Why they didn’t just put faces of a girl/man wearing/not wearing glasses, I’ll never know.
It was only until much later that I realized I had it all wrong when they eventually had a whole lesson on wearing things. Otherwise I would’ve gone around not making any sense at all when it comes to ground standing.
That’s another thing with Rosetta Stone. The practically of what they teach you is a bit questionable. Like they had some weird fascination with horses. And jumping.
I had many a lessons involving jumping horses. The horse jumps. The horse did jump. The horse will jump.
Why would Rosetta stone focus on such a thing? At the time I assumed there are a lot of horses in France. And they are all jumping.
So far I haven’t seen any horses jumping. But when I do, you can bet your sweet ass I’ll be ready with my ‘Le cheval saute.’
So yeah. Parlez vous le francais?
Non, jamais.
Answer: Non. Jamais.
Well, that’s not particularly true. For about 3 months before I left for France I religiously studied French via my free version of Rosetta Stone (I have shady Asian friends).
Rosetta stone is divided into 5 parts. Listening, speaking, reading, writing, and a general introduction part where they introduce you to the new lesson. The philosophy behind Rosetta stone is to bombard you of images while saying particular words or sentences. You are meant to figure out what the words mean through the images. Eventually you will have successfully mapped the meaning of words to its image thus helping you learn the language.
It’s good in theory. There are, however, a few problems.
Firstly they are assuming that the image and the meaning are obvious. Sometimes, they are not. For example when I first started there was a series of sentences with their accompanying pictures:
La fille porte de lunettes. (image of girl standing on the beach)
La fille ne porte pas de lunettes. (image of girl standing on a hammock)
L’homme porte de lunettes. (full body image of man leaning against a tree)
L’homme ne porte pas de lunettes. (full body image of a man in a jumpsuit in mid-air jump)
At this point in the game the only word I had successfully mapped were ‘la fille’ and ‘l’homme’ (girl and man). I had not yet been shown what ‘porte’ was, nor ‘lunettes’.
Kelly’s conclusion after looking at said pictures for a while: Porte = stand. De lunettes = ground. (The man/girl is/is not standing on the ground.)
Real meaning: the man/girl is wearing/is not wearing glasses.
Oh, they’re wearing glasses/not wearing glasses… I missed that what with all the beaches and trees and jumping and hammocks. Why they didn’t just put faces of a girl/man wearing/not wearing glasses, I’ll never know.
It was only until much later that I realized I had it all wrong when they eventually had a whole lesson on wearing things. Otherwise I would’ve gone around not making any sense at all when it comes to ground standing.
That’s another thing with Rosetta Stone. The practically of what they teach you is a bit questionable. Like they had some weird fascination with horses. And jumping.
I had many a lessons involving jumping horses. The horse jumps. The horse did jump. The horse will jump.
Why would Rosetta stone focus on such a thing? At the time I assumed there are a lot of horses in France. And they are all jumping.
So far I haven’t seen any horses jumping. But when I do, you can bet your sweet ass I’ll be ready with my ‘Le cheval saute.’
So yeah. Parlez vous le francais?
Non, jamais.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
bon anniversaire
So faced with the prospect of sitting alone and friendless in my room for my birthday drinking cheap wine, singing ‘All by myself’ and getting that much closer to alcoholism fueled by depression I decided to send Alex an email last minute asking him if he was busy for the weekend and that it was my birthday on Sunday. The guilt worked and I got myself invited to a party at the Bear’s Saturday night.
Unforch Alex had plans all Saturday so I had to find a way to entertain myself until then. I decided to head into Paris early and check out some of the sights. Which sights I wasn’t quite sure because the day before, just as I was about to do some internet research at the school I got kicked out of the cafeteria by some dude. The odd part about that was that after he told me to leave I packed up my stuff and when I tried the door I realized that he had, in fact, locked me in.
So the timeline goes: He sees me in the cafeteria. He asks me to leave. He knows I haven’t left. He locks the door anyways. I don’t know how that’s suppose to work but luckily he sees me frantically try to break myself out of the cafeteria, comes over, and lets me out.
Anywho armed with my dictionary and metro map of Paris I got on the train went into the city, solo. Still I had to decide where to go.
Being a cultured person only through mass media the only three things I could recall from the top of my head about Paris were the Eiffel Tower (as seen on many keychains and t-shirts), the Louvre (Da Vinci Code) and Notre Dame (of Hunchback, Disney fame). Having seen two out of the three already, Notre Dame it was.
So I use all of my life skills and bad French to traverse Paris’ extensive weblike metro system and get to the Saint Micheal stop. Tired from so much thinking I decided to sit for a while in front of the Notre Dame and take in the view.
That’s when I noticed the Birdman.
At first I thought it was common scene of a father and son feeding the birds but then I realized something peculiar. I started to notice that the boy could not feed the birds by himself. He needed the birdman’s assistance.
As in without the birdman, the boy would put out his hand full of food and the birds would ignore him. The birdman would then grab the boy’s hand, lift it up and the birds would come and eat out of his hand. If the boy should lift up his hand in the same manner as the birdman did before by himself, the birds would not come. Once the birdman touched the boy’s hand with his hand, the birds would come.
It was really odd. People would see them feeding the birds and come over and try to feed the birds themselves but they just wouldn’t eat from anyone but the birdman. I watched as person after person, standing right next to the birdman would try to feed the birds without any success.
He noticed me staring at him and beckoned me over. And with his help I got an amazing shot of the Notre Dame:
After my encounter with the birdman I got into the long line for entry into the Notre Dame.
So I’m waiting in line and halfway through I notice the sensation one should not have if one is traveling by oneself. It is the sensation of having the small of one’s back rubbed. I quickly look over to see who the hell is rubbing my back and see an older gentleman looking away from me and happily rubbing away at my back. He turns to me with a smile on his face. The smile quickly fades followed by a look of shock, and utters “You’re not my wife.”
So I look at him like "duh" and we both turn around and I see an older woman staring at us with the justifiable look of “what the fuck” on her face.
I guess when everyone was moving up in the line he must’ve taken a couple more steps more than his wife and landed next to me and decided to show his affection to the person next to him whom he thought was his wife but wasn’t and it lead to a very awkward and uncomfortable situation. Luckily we realized what had happened and were all good humored about it and laughed it off. I chatted with them a bit. They were a nice Australian couple.
Anywho the rest of the Notre Dame line moved along without incident and I got in and saw the magnificent church:
After Notre Dame I met up with Alex for a dinner of savory and sweet crepes washed down with apple cider. I told him about my Notre Dame experience (birdman, backrubbing, and all) and he told me some important information as well:
Alex: Kelly, there’s something I should tell you.
Me: Yes? Sound serious.
Alex: Well I read your blog and you spelled Baise wrong. You should drop the ‘a’.
Me: Really?
Alex: Yeah. Actually you meant Bise which is the cheek to cheek kiss. Baise means something different.
Me: What does it mean?
Alex: It means to sleep with someone.
Me: …
Alex: …
Me: So basically you’re telling me I told everyone who reads my blog that I slept with all your friends and it made me feel happy and accepted.
Alex: Well , yes.
Me: Awesome.
Ah language learning. I should stick with what I know. (Le cheval saute.)
After dinner we went to the Bear’s apartment for some drinks and good conversation. I met a very nice Swedish couple who just moved to Paris and talked their ear off because that’s what I do nowadays anytime I’m near an English speaker.
The next day I left Alex’s apartment and headed to the Musee d’Orsay as part of my brilliant plan because 1. I had a lot of time to kill since trains from Paris to Rouen run infrequently on Sundays 2. it was on the same metro line from Alex’s apartment to my train station and 3. many of Paris’ museums are free the first Sunday of every month (a fact I learned from Lonely Planet’s “Europe on a shoestring” – my birthday present to myself).
Unforch when I got there I realized that the either this museum is extremely popular or that many people know about the first Sunday of every month free thing. Oh and it was raining:
Still it was not a bad way to spend one's birthday surrounded by the great works of Manet, Monet, and lots, and lots of nudity.
Afterwards I headed back to Rouen. As soon as I got back my doorbell rang and it was my school mates coming by to wish me a happy birthday (apparently they had been waiting for me all day). One guy brought Indian wine so we opened it and we sat around for a while drinking and chatting.
I may have gotten a bit tipsy due to the fact that only 2 people drank (me and they guy who brought the wine) and I hadn’t had dinner yet when they came by.
Laurel and Justin, I don’t really remember what we talked about, but I do remembered that you called and I was really happy to talk to you and thanks for the birthday wishes. I feel the love (I just wish I felt it a little more sober). Pardon.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)