Day 5 -- Ignoring Battle

I hope the gals got their differences worked out and that Miss Jane's is back in business. I can think of few worse things than the EPJ not getting her coffee. If only there was a coffee machine and someone who knew how to operate it in the courthouse. Oh wait.

Also, to Christopher. I knew I was setting myself up for that by leaving it out. However, in my defence the very statement was, of course, said by Andy and myself several times before, during and after. As it has been/will be everytime we go by Big Ben/Parliment. Remember when Chevy Chase was funny?

It appears the beeb (BBC) is replaying the shadow prime minister's speech to the Tories this afternoon in Birmingham. I think he's called the shadow prime minister, the leader of the opposition regardless. And possibly the next PM of Britain. Unfortunately, I can remember his name right now. Furthermore, I've probably already lost whatever audience I may have had wondering about such matters. The point being: this is a good time to update things.

The big news of the day was that, much like yesterday, I fulfilled an unknown lifelong dream. Today's entry into the history books involved visiting Battle, the battleground there and scarcely leaving the gift shop. Whee. By his own admission, this was one of Andy's more esoteric trips. True, it's not that out of the way and to a major British history buff is one of the more significant places, but I highly suspect the average tourist knows little nor cares of it's existence. If I hadn't learned of it through osmosis from Andy, I wouldn't know all that much myself.

So what happened? Long story short, it's where William the Conqueror defeated Harold in 1066 to essentially start England as we know it. An oversimplification, yes, but that should be good enough to get you a couple of grand on Jeopardy. You're welcome.

It was a typical English day: rainy, cold, windy and just miserable. I admit to having little interest in the sight but this was Andy's big day for the trip so I was glad to go along. However, my shoes were beginning to soak through and there was a lot of walking ahead so I told Andy and my Dad to carry. And like the trooper I am legged it back to the gift shop for the remainder of their tour. Figuring the best place to be out of the way would be to block a fire exit, I proceeded to do just that. The workers didn't seem to mind so I set up camp with my ipod and the latest issue of The Wire.

The only real observation made during this time being that the young, hip and beautiful generally don't come to 11th century battlefields. Judging solely on the basis of the people I had to move my legs for, the median age of visitors there is 82. Maybe 76 on a particularly youthful day. I saw/heard no children though the gift shops was filled with various plastic swords/helmets/shields collecting dust. A hunch that even in the squarest of households the question of "Hey kids, you wanna go look at some really old buildings and a field or you wanna go see if we can drive through this brick wall" is still somewhat of a no-brainer. Somewhat.

So there I sat. And sat. And sat.

Andy said they'd be about 45 minutes. After making it all the way through Supersister's Pudding End Gistern and Neil Young's Arc (about 90 minutes), I was starting to wonder if perhaps a straggler still fighting the battle had taken the two of them hostage. Since I'd finished The Wire and gotten over the disappointment that we wouldn't be in town for the big movie night this weekend--feature presentation Grease, come dressed as your favorite character--I decided I'd go look for them. And then the phone rang. Apparently they had been looking for me for the last hour and had even made 3 trips to the gift shop. The very same shop, I hasten to add, where I had been the entire time and told them I would be. We laughed and then I kicked them both in the shins and we headed back to the train station.

Since it was such a pissy day, we didn't really want to bum around outside a lot so we took in Harrod's and picked up souvenirs for Millicent, Meena (fake name of Millicent's real daughter), Marisol, Madeline, Maureen and the EPJ. I know they'll be excited. Less so when they see what they've got. For any that don't know, I guess Harrod's could best be described as what Macy's in NYC is/was/forever will be. Or perhaps a really big (6 or 7 floors), swank Wal-Mart that sells $30K antique maps and snazzy jewelery that the above mentioned gals needn't get their hopes up that they are getting. Getting into the spirit of things I picked up four magazines and two books for myself. Awesome.

We started out together but somehow or another a sales lady mistook Andy and my Dad as being interested in how cartogriffic their antique map selection was and started in on a 30-minute dissertation of all things mappy. A police mouse was not mentioned. Beforehand, we had decided if any of us got into trouble the others should break away and head for the relative safety of the comparatively small Harrod's magazine rack. So upon realizing she had mistook their smell of disinterest for blood, i.e. money, I wandered off in search of our safe haven. I found it and stayed there until I remembered I was supposed to meet them 10 minutes earlier. Oh, what a laugh we had and then they kicked me in the shins.

That left us with Piccadilly Circus as the only 'tourist' sight we still had to visit. Admittedly, not really anything any of us cared about, but Andy's filming various bits and pieces for Millicent and well, this is one of the biggies. It is London's Times Square which means it is a bright, crowded, noisy, sensory overload that seemed to have a rather large contingent of teenagers out on a school night. Tsk, tsk. Perhaps, as Andy surmised, they were just there to get a first hand look at the road crews on their jobs. If so, they should be well informed.

I had hoped maybe we could go see a movie but the cinemas let us down as nothing of interest was playing. We were tempted by the promise of "London's No. 1 hit comedy, The 39 Steps". It's presumably based on the Hitchcock flick that most definitely wasn't a comedy, but I could find no evidence of such nor any list of stars that would warrant my time, i.e. no Frank Stallone.

Disappointed, we decided that we'd rather go back and watch some dude on the telly tell us how to survive crossing the desert on foot. His crack team of experts working overtime to come up with tips such as: seek shelter, don't taunt a cobra and dig down to see if you can find water. Surprisingly, he didn't suggest running as fast as you can so you'll get out quicker or screaming "Help" until camel-riding nomad comes along.

Moral of the story: don't go to the desert unless you're pretending to be stranded but have a camera crew and all the supplies you need.

Day 4 -- We shall never surrender

Being as I'm the sole proprietor of this blog, I guess I'm the ombudsman by default. As a result, more housecleaning to start off with. Re: Madeline/Maureen and who's who. Ultimately, this is a choice I will allow the respective parties to make because cat fights are always interesting if not necessary worthwhile. Though one would be hard pressed to come up with a better reason to throw down than an alias on some obscure blog. Nevertheless, I believe Madeline should be this one and Maureen should be that one. Fair enough.

The above nonsense was due to a comment left in the, er, comment section presenting a perfect opportunity to advertise just that. As many already have, feel free to leave a comment if you want. You don't have an account and can leave it anonymously. Moving on...

We left the hotel this morning about 9 and got to the train station and settled in for the Eurostar a little after 10. It was fun to have spent more time in Paris and not feel so rushed. Of course, I could have stayed another 2 weeks or longer in France just roaming, but I must admit that from a language standpoint I was not up to the level I had hoped to be. I suppose I did about as I expected which is to say not great but enough to get by. I certainly wouldn't want to try it, but I would think it entirely possible to speak not a word of French and survive pretty easy there.

I had been looking forward to taking that train because I did enjoy it so much last time. Zooming through the countryside and marveling at, not unlike Georgia, once you get out of the city you are in the absolute middle of nowhere. Just a guess, but I would figure that 30 minutes in any direction from Paris, one would find acres and acres of farm land. Anyway, I didn't see a whole lot of the countryside this time as I decided I'd attempt to resume my interrupted nap. That didn't work too well either, but I tried nonetheless.

We were supposed to arrive in London around 11 but for some reason the train was delayed so it was actually after 12. This had no real effect on my day or the days of countless Londoners but is merely included in the interest of being thorough. Currently and for the rest of the trip we'll be residing in room 500 of the Hotel Montana, located in the Kensington District. I've no idea where the name comes from. Apologies to the good folk of the Treasure State but its hardly what I think of when I think of posh, urban and British. I'm fairly certain our concierge and presumably any/all power players in the Hotel Montana global corporate structure do not come from there either unless there's Bombay suburb named Montana. The concierge was of Indian descent and the hotel restaurant is Indian cuisine. Perhaps I'll ask at some point though I suspect not.

The important thing is that there's a Burger King and a KFC right down from our hotel as well as several pubs and a Tesco (supermarket). Yay, yay and yay. And free wireless internet. So that means instead of exploring the city and country, we'll probably just stick around here all week watch the reruns of American shows and play on the internet. In short, it will be just like home. If people talked funny and drove on the wrong side of the road and had a farcical system of government established by a sword-throwing tart in a lake. I keed and feel free to correct that quote. You know who you are.

Andy's plan was to go Greenwich and stand on the prime meridian. Again. Maybe even take a picture. Alas, the tube route to Greenwich was down for the day so that will have to wait until Wed. or Thurs. So yes, dear reader, we get to London and our first intended destination isn't Buckingham Palace or the Tower. Oh no. It's where he can stand a 0 degrees longitude and imagine what it feels like to be God or something. Sorry ladies, he's taken.

Instead after our delightful Whopper lunch, we decided to go from tube stop to tube stop just because. Eventually, we ended up by the Tower of London and then on to Westminster Abbey and all that. On to the Churchill Museum which, contrary to what Andy thinks, I actually found rather interesting and given our trip to Normandy, I suppose helped give things even more of a WWII bend this time around. I learned that Churchill lit and went through about 12 cigars a day though he never actually smoked them. It will make the museum folks proud to know that was the ultimate fun fact I left with. That plus he and Hitler never met.

Actually, I really was surprised to know that he was voted out of office in 1945. I found this shocking considering his role in modern world history. I would have definitely voted for him so he did have that going for him.

The first and sometimes only question I was asked about our trip in 1997 was, "Did you go to Buckingham Palace." Unaware that this was tantamount to not seeing the stable in Bethlehem, I always answered, "No." Which was then met with an exasperated, "You didn't" without fail. I explained then as now that it never came up but none of us had any particular inclination. Not out of malice towards the delightful queen and her oh so silly family, but just because we'd rather do other things. Like go record store and the prime meridian. Therefore, it is with great joy, excitement, relief and all around something that I announce the following:

"WE WENT TO BUCKINGHAM PALACE!!!!"

Not unlike that stable in Bethlehem, it was life-changing. I am a better person for it. If only I'd known the previous 11 years could have been like the past few hours of my life, I would have flown over here just to go. In fact, I think I'll go again tomorrow and probably the next day. I would suggest that any and all stop whatever they are doing right now and hop the next plane or boat, hell, swim the Atlantic if you have to. Just get over here and experience it.

I suspect every remaining moment of this trip will be a complete and total letdown.

Since we've been gone since Thursday and Andy packed light, it was time to do a bit of laundry this evening. Being a logical fellow, he did just that and washed his delicates in the sink. They now are hanging over the shower curtain rail drying. I do not know if he used hotel soap, a box of Tide he smuggled on to the plane or just ran water over them to get the germs off. Those details are quite inconsequential to the overriding fact that he decided he would rather do laundry by hand at some point than bear the extra weight of 2,3 or perhaps 4 more pairs of socks and underwear. Millicent was aghast when he told her of his own housecleaning. I must side with her on this one. She may not know how to interweb but by gum she can wash a mean cloth.

I think that's why Andy married her.

Day 3 -- The search for Superman II

A little housecleaning before I get going. First off, it has been brought to my attention courtesy of my two travelling companions that some of my comments re: the esteemed probate judge could be interpreted as negative, i.e. she and I don't get along and I'm talking behind her back. Andy's said he didn't realize that she reads this and thought I was just unloading on her. Well she does and I'm not. For the record, I get along great with her. Don't tell, but I actually enjoy working with her and think we may a darn good team. I do all the work, she gets all the credit. Kidding. I guess I shouldn't have assumed the world knows how we operate; there's a lot of playful digs at one another. One of her favorite things to tell me: "Jerms, don't be a smart ass." I'm pretty sure Madeline and Maureen (the fake names of the real duo across the hall in the courthouse--how's that for a mention ladies?) would know that also were I ever to mention them.

Currently, we're back in Paris in room 507 of the Hotel Elysees Ceramic, which as you may have guessed is somewhat near the famed Champs-Elysees. The Arc du Triumph is right down the street; were I to walk out into the street right now, I could even see it. But being as I've got my Mickey Mouse pj's (yeah, what of it) on and have settled in for the evening, I think I shall not. Far from enjoying the Parisian nightlife, we came in, ate our Subway sandwiches and plopped down to watch some good ol' CNN International. The channel selection this evening being 3 French stations, 1 German, 1 Italian and CNNI. I don't expect much better the rest of the week, but most of the channels should at least be in English.

After taking the train back to Paris from Bayeux this morning we got here around noon. Stopped by our hotel to drop off our bags and I was yet again amazed at the ability of some of those in these parts to carry on two conversations in two different languages simultaneously. An ability, I must admit, I only wish I possessed.

Since we only had today, our touring plans were pretty much limited to the biggies and some general roaming. So that meant the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame Cathedral, the aforementioned Arc and whatever was interesting on the way to/from these places. While I was glad to spend a little time at these places and actually see them rather than zoom by them as we did before, I just enjoyed walking around and taking everything in, experiencing a different city and all that jazz. I've always been interested in observing more than interacting. (wallflowers of the world, unite) A trait which some probably mistake for arrogance but is in fact borne from extreme shyness, but this is hardly the place for self-analysis. Herein a few observations from a day in Paris.

1. If you want to find the Americans in Paris, head directly to the Eiffel Tower. Whilst this is probably somewhat true of all the local biggies, the ET seemed to have the highest concentration of Yanks I've yet seen. In fact, we got our tickets for the elevator because a group from St. Louis recognized Andy's Cardinals t-shirt and mistook him for a fan. Andy was all jazzed to go up, but Daddy wasn't that keen and I had no desire at all. Heights being yet another of my phobias though unlike Monk I've yet to take the time to rank them all. Nevertheless, I'm a trooper and after our new friends insisted we were going anyway, we did. A side note, if I look a tad uncomfortable in any Eiffel photos I can assure you it's most accurate. Another side note, yes Chris I did make a Superman II reference whilst there and after so doing offered to go jump in front of a bus as penance. Thankfully, Andy said that wouldn't be necessary. As for the tower, it's massive. Be assured as big as it looks in pictures, the reality is much larger. Whether this will delight or disappoint is a choice best left to the individual.

2. Scarves are the in thing for the ladies. Young and old, fashionista and whatever the opposite of fashionista is. It seems to be the great uniter here, the Obama if you will. Like most trends, the first two or three hundred times one sees it, one thinks, "Zounds, there goes a really hip person. I wonder if he/she likes peanut butter." After a while, however, the whole thing gets a bit fishy and one wonders if anybody actually likes the trend or that's all the store had. I should point out these scarves aren't the typical winter deal that most sensible folk have always worn. Nope. These are the kind that I would best describe as looking like something the PLO used to wear. Or maybe they still do--The PLO have sort of fallen off my radar lately. These are clearly intended to be fashion accessory and are not worn cause there's a slight nip in the air. Being as I don't really follow fashion, particularly women's, apologies if some of the more so inclined readers are screaming at me via their computers that these trend has been around for years.

3. Notre Dame Cathedral has a giant underground magnet that draws peoples of all nations. Per square area, I'd wager there was a larger crowd there than the ET. We had to stand in line to enter. Though the line moved very quickly, the fact remained that we were standing in line to get into a church. Famous. Beautiful. Etc. But a church nonetheless. And as always, no disrespect intended to Notre Dame but I couldn't help but think of the King Crimson lyric, "Cigarettes, ice cream, figurines of the Virgin Mary" in regards to the area around it. It's all one huge tacky gift shop.

4. The Champs-Elysses is the Paris equivalent of Times Square. Once again, this is probably not a shock to most but I was quite surprised at the sheer number of people walking along. Should I have decided I was sick of walking I could have popped in to the a)Merc dealer, b)Peugot dealer, c)Renault dealer and spent various amounts of money on a suitably sleek and eggy European car. Along the route we also got to see the new Picasso which judging by the line to get in was a terribly big deal. Apparently, it's some sort of new vehicle, perhaps it flies or comes equipped with an ejector seat like a Bond car. Maybe you get a book of coupons good for the cinema. Dunno. Just know that this was big news for the Parisians. Not so big that we were intrigued though. Well, actually I was but Andy was on a mission to get back to the hotel so we didn't stop. I guess I'll never know. If only there was some way to search worldwide on items that are unknown to me.

5. A Quarter Pounder at a French McDonald's actually is a Royal Cheese so kudos to Quentin Tarrantino for doing a brief bit of actual research in between ripping off various obscure films. And the french fries and coke is indeed better. Sorry for little else but the Eurostar is arriving at the station and I must go. On to London.

Apologies if this post doesn't end to well. Andy's standing over ready to go to Greenwich.

Day 2 -- The risk of buying pizza in Bayeux. Going to Normandy

Another night in Bayeux, our last. A Saturday night as I type and like last night we're in for an early evening. Andy's talking to Millicent on the phone telling her how to work the interwebs from 3000 miles away. There's probably some irony/stupidity in making a $2 a minute international call to delve into such matters. I suspect the major obstacle being her never-ending search for the anykey. I guess I'll give her the benefit of the doubt in turning the computer on. Oh, wait. Andy left it on before we left.

While I've yet to find any cheese-making documentaries on the telly, I have determined that in addition to their graffiti the French do enjoy their news bloopers and funny home videos. For some reason the show that's been on for seemingly the last 3 hours has French celebs (I presume) sitting around a table discovering YouTube together. In between occasionally promoting their latest product they laugh as they watch all the videos that you, dear reader, have seen a gazillion times through your own searches or have been sent upwards of 82 times by various well meaning mass emails. Which is not to say the language barrier dulls the hilarity of a newscaster being run over by a car, but well, even after three hours it can all get a bit same-y. Since we only have 3 English channels, all news ,and 2 German, including MTV (!) and maybe 5 other French ones, there's not been a whole lot of boobtubing in this particular room of the Churchill Hotel.


I'm not really sure if it's the region or the desire to cater to the predominately American tourist industry here, but there's an awful lot of pizza joints around. Or at least joints that sell pizza in addition to whatever local delicacy they offer. In other words, you can get an omelet or pizza on every corner and some places that sell both together. What do I know about haute cuisine?

Wishing to broaden our palettes, tonight Andy and my Dad got some form of pork in a pear sauce that got mixed reviews from the two of them. Not wanting to feel left out, I lived on the edge and allegedly got a 4 cheese pizza (Mozzarella, Gorgonzola, Roquefort and Goat Cheese) that was among the worst things I have ever attempted to eat. Beforehand I though, "How bad could it be?" I found out though I suppose, the upside is I now have a new taste nadir.

Sorry MB. I tried. A weak effort perhaps, but I tried nonetheless.

And in fairness, so did the restaurant. The had Toto's greatest hits on repeat during our entire stay. Since I really had nothing to do while Andy and Daddy enjoyed their meals to varying degrees of satisfaction, I amused myself imagining how the conversation to start up said restaurant went. Xenophobia is fun.

Owner: "I want to start new restaurant to cater to American but still be French. We've got big American dollar here." (Please ignore the fact that almost to a person every French dude/dudette I've met has spoken better English than most of the good folk I deal with each day. Given who I deal with, this is more of compliment than it sounds.)


Would-be garcon: "How you do that?"

O: "By giving what Americans like, no?" (I've yet to hear anyone actually add "no" to the end of sentence thus forming a question but that always a trait every non-native English-speaking character has in the movies.

WbG: "Oui, oui. They like pizza."

O: "Pizza, yes, good. When come to France they also want to feel French but not too much, no."

WbG: "You could offer French dish but garnish with French Fries and serve Coca-Cola. But make restaurant look nice and French."

O: "Brilliant. Do not they also like the rock and roll?"

WbG: "D'accord. I have Toto greatest hits cd. I bring and you play on endless. They will not want exit."

O: "What is this Toto?"

WbG: "You know. Singers of Africa and Hold the Line. They very big in U.S." (This much is true. Or was. In 1982. Nevertheless, in a semi-classy looking French joint that served pizza in addition to some semi-classy looking French dishes, we were treated to the four hits of Toto on for the duration of our hour+ meal. I'm sure Toto were/is a great group of super crack musicians to record with but I didn't need to hear Rosanna in 1983 and I sure don't need to hear it in 2008 on vacation in France. Needless to say, that I actually would hear them has amused me to no end.)

Most of the day, however, was spent visiting various D-Day sights as part of a 9-hour tour. As Andy well knows, me and most of his historical sights don't jibe but Normandy was different. I'm not sure if it's because unlike cathedrals and castle ruins, D-Day is something that directly affected my family and not something I know of from the brief history lesson I get on the way to said sight (we're not content with hitting the major sights, you know), but this was not of the dreaded grin-and-bear it-we'll-find-a-record-store-next category.

I was rather looking forward to it.


Truthfully, I suspect it will be the highlight of the entire trip for all of us. As most reading this may or may not know, my grandfather a.k.a Poppie, was involved in the D-Day invasion, driving a truck onto Utah Beach as part of the 4th Infantry. We don't talk all that much about what went on, though certainly more than we used to, but I've more admiration for him and his service to his country than I do for just about anything. To walk those beaches and see/hear how he and tens of thousands of men just like him simply did their duty knowing all too well the possible cost but still without hesitation was beyond words. I wonder if my generation would have that same will.


I suspect not.


In a world of instant gratification and "all about me"-ness, it seems hard to believe that, in numbers that large, we could put the well being of others and future generations ahead of our own. Let our power/cable go out for 30 minutes and see if we don't begin to go slightly insane. Let us find out our neighbor has it while we don't and be surprised thoughts of justifiable homicide don't appear. Believe me, I know. I'm no different.

Honestly, it was a lot to take in both physically and emotionally. Far more than I could accurately describe here. The town of St Mère Eglise has been more or less rebuilt as it was at the time; Utah Beach is exactly as it was that day. Omaha Beach is still a solemn place but now has a row of houses that are as out of place as they are unfortunate. I can't imagine why anyone would want the location of a vacation home to overlook the sight of such carnage; I couldn't have built there in good conscience. Maybe I'm just weird.

Our guide (hi Stuart) was most knowledgeable and added several layers to various well-known battles and stories. I got the feeling from him that, in addition to being a subject he was fascinated by, he also felt it was his duty to make sure those brave men's stories are told and never forgotten. Not as an obligation, mind, but as the least he could do for those who gave so much. His personal insights as well the stories he told from men who were actually there honestly did give me a better understanding of exactly what Poppie went through on that day and the days after. For that I am most grateful.

Day 1 -- We're here. Eventually.

8:30 pm -- I have no idea where we are right now besides somewhere between Atlanta and Paris. My guess would be somewhere near Maine. Andy just looked out the window and confirmed, "Yes, we are in fact near Maine." After tiring of Learning French by Podcast after about 6 lessons, I switched over to music. Currently the lovely Neko Case is playing for me whilst the rest of the cabin pretends to watch The Visitor. Haven't seen it but glancing up every now and then, it looks like one of those movies you'd only see on an airplane. That is to say, one would watch it unless there was nothing better to do. Perhaps I'm wrong and offer my apologies to the fine folks who made it.

We got to PTC (that's Peachtree City for the unhip), pretty much on schedule to find Andy wondering where we were. I didn't tell him but I stopped as we went by Hartsfield on the way to his house just so I could wave and tell the boys we'd be back as soon as we could go to PTC and turn around. A slight crisis averted with my luggage as we realized that it wouldn't fit overhead and would have to be checked. Because the nature of our schedule, we didn't want to do this so after measuring my bag to make sure and then 'working through' our differences, we headed out with an empty suitcase for me to swap my stuff into. A word in my defense, I merely backed my bag as I would to be taking an 8 day trip overseas, i.e. I had the gall to pack 4 pair of pants, the necessary amount of under garments/shirts to wear clean each day and a sweater. All of which fit just fine thank you. Nevertheless, I had more pants by myself than Andy/Daddy brought between them not to mention their 3 shirts each. I have this weird thing about wearing clean clothes.

So after unpacking my bag, I swapped everything into a much smaller suitcase and for the most part it fit because I am awesome...

4:52 am (U.S.) 10:52 am (France) -- We arrived a couple hours ago. Didn't have too much trouble though I did have to ask,(badly) if we were on the right train and the line for the train to Bayeux. That's where we are right now in fact. I suspect that will not be the case by the time this actually gets posted and read. I strongly suspect the jet lag will kick in shortly and since this is a 2 hour train ride perhaps I can get back a couple of those hours. In my brief stay in Paris I have determined that Parisians do like their graffiti. Maybe the train from de Galle to the center of Paris just took us through the Parisian hood. Or perhaps they don't want to stifle creativity. Dunno. I do know that it looked more like NYC circa 1977 than the cultural center of Europe circa now. Though we passed by a Peugot factory, I've yet to see a Le Car. Fingers crossed though.

5:15 pm (France) 11:15 am (U.S.) -- Did the Bayeux thing this afternoon as the jet lag really started to kick in. Andy has this silly notion of pressing on until total collapse because otherwise "your biorhythms will be screwed up." It's easy for him to press on since he/Daddy at least got some sleep on the plane. I didn't. So factoring in getting up yesterday morning in the 9:30 am range, I'm looking at 26 straight hours awake in which time I've driven to PTC, back to Atlanta, fly to Paris, rode the train 2 hours to Bayeux, walked around for about 6 hours so yeah, I'm a bit tired. Too tired to even be witty about things so here's what we saw, the Bayeux Tapestry and the cathedral here. I don't remember the name because I was zoning in/out but I'm guessing it was Our Lady or Blessed Mother or St. Somebody. Apologies and no disrespect intended to God and all his peoples of the world. I think even He rested occasionally.

I suspect day 2 will have me in more a return to normal. Check back and be surprised or disappointed.

Packed my bags last night. Pre-flight, must have been somewhere about 9 am

Even though we've still got a day before departure, last night we had a little farewell meal with Marisol, Buster (the fake name of Marisol's real little boy), the other MB and the one and only Poppie -- or Gramps as Buster insisted on calling him for some reason. The only location requirement being somewhere with a playground.

So the Ritz-Carlton was out.

We ended up at McDonald's.

My Dad had to settle for a McRib rather than prime rib. Just as well, he's the only person I know whose world gets a little bit brighter when he sees "McRib is back" on the marquee. He's not a simple man but he do enjoy the simple pleasures. (A favorite old joke of mine and Chris whenever we'd see roadkill: McRib is back.)

Interestingly, the trip was barely discussed save for handing out our itinerary and Buster's disbelief that I haven't left yet. He was much more interested in telling us about joining the cub scouts. A slightly tense moment as my Dad had to break the news to Buster that the scout motto is "Do a good turn daily" and not "I can do what I want" as Buster had thought. But SpongeBob came back on and he zoned back out. Buster that is. Dear old Dad's more of a Fairly Odd Parents man. Anyway, a good time was had by all.

At this point there's really nothing much left to do. Other than put about 200 more albums on the ipod. And cram as much french as I can into 24 hours. And get everything organized. Oh, and pack. Somewhat important, that.

Truthfully, I'm in a little better shape than that.

According to my itunes directory, I currently have 35 days(!!) worth of music already loaded. This trip is 8 days total. I'll pause here to give all interested a chance to do that math; by my count that's 27 extry days and about 9500 more songs that I could reasonably listen to. I'm expecting a helluva layover. Obviously.

So I probably could move ipod stuff to the back of the queue for the time being. But, but, but, says I. You never know. Riding the rails in France I may suddenly have the desire to explore that fourth Deerhoof album I bought 3 years ago but never opened.* And having a vast knowledge of arcane bands and music forms will be extremely useful in getting directions to the Eiffel Tower. Music is the universal language, etc. I think Seals & Crofts taught us that or at least they should have.

As for French, I do intend to have a cram session. However, at this point if I don't know it I probably won't. Plus, I can still 'study' on the plane. All kidding aside, I am a bit nervous about the language stuff; I really would like to have at least rudimentary communication with my hosts. I'm probably in a little better shape than I think, but I fully believe MB when she says it's a whole different ballgame when you're thrown into it.

I figured last night while this part of the world was sleeping was a decent enough time to start getting my clothes/essentials together. I resisted the urge to call the esteemed probate judge and take her up on her offer to help as needed. Though I must admit the thought of calling and waking her at 1 am to come pack for me so I could go to bed was all too tempting. I suspect she would have hung up on me after suggesting I search for a job opening in the Paris Probate Court.

So that's really about where everything stands right now.

As for a posting schedule over the next few days, I don't really know. It will probably be a catch as catch can sort of thing. Rest assured that when I'm not basking in the history of my ancestors or eating an ice cream cone that you, dear reader, will be somewhere in my thoughts. Not at the top, but probably not at the bottom either. Probably. Assuming no technical difficulties, there should be regular updates replete with photos. Therefore my advice would be to sit at the computer of your choice and hit refresh for the next 192 hours. Au revoir.


*No disrespect intended to the otherwise fine band Deerhoof. I actually like them quite a bit but get so many albums so fast that things get lost in the shuffle. A problem to which starving children worldwide can relate no doubt. This keeps me awake at night. That and global thermonuclear war.

Laziness pt. 2

Would-be basement dweller.



This has been my view for most of the last month. Truly breathtaking.



Patty Hearst still a bit mad after her claws were trimmed.

Actually, I do know the supervisor password

No. I still haven't packed. I'm proud of the esteemed probate judge though. She's resisted the urge to ask me for nigh on a week. That she wasn't here 2 of those days and I was doing 'field work' yesterday is beside the point. Furthermore, to mention that after 8 hours a day M-F, I make it a priority of every weekend to avoid any/all contact with her probably would just be splitting hairs. So let's just I'm proud of her. Which, I suppose, I already did.

But this morning, under the combined weight of her extreme fear of silence, routine, desire to see me test my eye-rolling skills and, perhaps, a smidgen of actual, genuine interest, she caved. Said weight so crushing, her interrogative was barely above a whisper. I responded in kind. It was a touching moment in an otherwise humdrum start to the workday.

I did, however, have a dream about that very subject last night. Packing for the trip, that is. Not the esteemed probate judge. That would just be weird. One of my fave Built To Spill songs says "No one wants to hear what you dreamt about/Unless you dreamt about them." Fair enough. The lyric goes on to say "Don't let that stop you/Tell them anyway and you can make it up as you go." Sorry blogosphere, Dug's given me permission.

Herewith a recap. It's all true except for the parts that are not. As is the previous sentence. The time/location of the following would be the trip to Hartsfield prior to departure.

I spent countless hours putting thousands of songs I'll never listen to on my ipod. When not doing that it was French lessons with Rosetta Stone, each subsequent lesson reminding me just how much trouble we wuz in if I'm the liaison:

French Custom Dude: Quel est le but de votre visite?/What
is the purpose of your visit?

Me to Andy/Daddy: He wants to know why we're here.

Me to FCD: Bonjour, FCD. Nous voulons acheter une échelle et des jeans
bleus. Elle est triste./We want to buy a ladder and blue jeans. She is
sad.

FCD: Sont tous les Américains aussi muet que vous trois?/Are all Americans as dumb as you three?

Me to A/D: I think he says all Americans are awesome but particularly us three.

So anyway we're bebopping along toward the airport and it suddenly occurs to me that I have brought nothing along. No bag, no ipod or perrier. Nor did the thought cross my mind to pack. So in a mild state of panic we decide Andy should continue the journey. I call Merisol to come pick up me and my Dad post-haste and figure I'll throw all my stuff quickly in a bag. If the timing works out right we should be OK. We pull over and Andy leaves us on the side of the interstate. We did not find this cruel or particularly odd. For reasons known only the dream weaver, there happens to be a whole bunch of other people milling around apparently waiting for something as well. Godot or the Supernatural Anesthetist, I presume. Maybe even the man though I didn't see Lou Reed.

Tiring of making references one or two people will get I tell my traveling companion we should just go home now. And after a brief scene in a Dairy Queen with Jerry Lewis playing Dean Martin that is unexplainable even for a dream and irrelevant, we are immediately back home. I throw some stuff in a bag and we're back off, driving a choice ride from our vast fleet. After acknowledging to someone (I've no idea whom, make up someone on yr own) that I will be driving at a constant, but nevertheless rapid, velocity, we set off. And suddenly I'm on a plane that may or may not be going to Paris.

Though I can place most of the particulars from my actual day yesterday, there seemed to be no purpose.

Much like this post.

P.S. That was my actual dream. No really. That's as good as it got. I had nothing to write about and thought the dream would be more interesting. I was wrong. Perhaps you can reread the above and put in the occasional explosion or shootout. Maybe even a dude on fire running by and jumping through a plate glass window for no apparent reason. Consider this homework.

These just seem to get longer and longer

As we're closing in on about 10 days from departure one would presume that our itinerary has gathered moss it has been set in stone so long. One would be wrong. That's all right. Many people also think we landed on the moon and that the world is not controlled by the Freemasons. I guess these people have never seen Capricorn One or The Da Vinci Code and are no doubt all the better for it. I think I have digressed again.

So, no. The specifics are still being ironed out by our resident Magellan, Andy. Hence last night's phone convo about exactly when should we leave Paris. Of course, the snide American response would be immediately so the Germans can have it back.

I'm actually very much looking forward to spending as much time as we can there. Of course, I'd also like to spend more time out in the country proper seeing all the places I see on TV every year with the Tour de France and in all those movies that lack explosions and bore most. Sadly, this just ain't a months long trip. On the bright side, it has provided the realization that a longer, exclusively France trip simply must be scheduled. Preferably when I have a firmer grasp on the native language thereof and can therefore fire back the appropriate rude remark when necessary. And also scheduled around the above mentioned super duper bicycle race. This would be where the kids say, "Hint, hint". Or for the comedy geeks, Eric Idle gives the ol' "nudge, nudge, wink, wink, say no more." Targets of said hint/nudge know who they am.

Anyway...

Minor details such as a posh hotel for me to lay my head in Paris and arriving/departing the city are still influx. It now appears that we'll basically have all day Sunday in Paris to do whatever. Admittedly not that much time but we zoomed by most of the big names there 10 years ago on a literal 3 hour tour so in some regards we're retracing steps. One of the highlights of that particular excursion being stepping off our tour bus in front of the Eiffel Tower, standing there long enough to snap the picture that all tourists are legally required to and immediately getting back on the bus.

The other highpoint being there's a mall in the Louvre. I found this fact très amusant: the epitome of french culture would have something as déclassé and American on its premises. I did my part in buying a hamburger in its food court. Vive le France.

Aside from a couple of places MB said we MUST see, I think our day is pretty open just to roam. Andy will be more interested in the history and the bitchin' architecture; I'll probably try to find some record stores. I imagine dear old Dad will just wander aimlessly until he falls asleep in some cafe, is mistaken for a street urchin and hauled off to the Parisian pokey where he will be beaten somewhat painlessly and pointlessly with baguettes and forced to smell cheese for having a son who continues to spout cultural clichés even though he's far more cultured and erudite than that it would appear. Alas, erudition will never trump cheap jokes. Thankfully. Compare Mad Magazine readership/cultural relevance to that of The New Yorker. QED.

More digression.

We will leave Paris on Monday probably around lunch but possibly earlier. Or maybe later. But we will leave on Monday of this I am sure. I think. Thus giving us at least some portion of Monday in London to do the requisite stuff and the remaining 3 days to venture to various points of interest (to us but not to you, dear reader) around England's green and pleasant land.

Aside from the day trip to Paris, our previous trip was exclusively in the UK and longer to boot.
Actually, most of the must-sees have already been seen. Come to think of it, I'm not even sure this trip is necessary anymore. Maybe we should just stay home, look at pictures of that trip and watch BBC America on the telly. It would be way cheaper and oh, what memories we would then have...

Remember that time when we were looking at the picture of those sheep in Scotland and you got up to get a refreshing beverage? Or when we saw that episode of Newsnight and Jeremy Paxman asked that politician those hard-hitting questions?

Truly memories that would last a lifetime. Travel is overrated.

Plus, I can eat at McDonald's just as easy here as I can there.

Who doesn't like fashion?

Not really sure why but it occurred to me a little after 8 last night that exactly 2 weeks from then I'd be somewhere over the Atlantic. Assuming the flight gods and other powers that be at Hartsfield, Charles de Gaulle and all points in between decide to run everything on schedule. Admittedly, that's somewhat of a leap. Meanwhile, this time last week I was making my way through the concourse at Logan in Boston. All this is long-winded way of saying nothing much.

Other than I'm suddenly quite the jet setter, of course.

In fairness, aside from the annual trips to Disney World, I've done more traveling the past 3 months than I have the previous 3 years. Financial considerations be damned, I'm hopeful that a new leaf/page/chapter or whichever cliché one prefers has been turned over/turned/begun or however one's chosen cliché is achieved, i.e. it's a great big world that is more than occasionally interesting, I'd like to see more of it. Let's hop to it.

As mentioned previously, flying is something I'd rather not do but I've come to accept it as a necessary evil. That doesn't mean I don't have my own rituals/quirks/compulsions before, during and after. I do; none of which I will go into here, there or anywhere. As one who's borderline OCD, suffice to say I ramp things up during the stressful moments. Beyond that, the whole flight is spent trying to forget that I'm 30K feet off the ground in a giant missile piloted by someone who may or may not have rituals/quirks/compulsions of his/her own that I may not be all that keen on. Hence, the near constant distraction of groovy tunes as soon as permission is granted from the all-mighty cockpit.

One aspect of air travel that has improved since last flying is the addition of noise-cancelling headphones. For those unaware, flying is somewhat noisy: a constant drone of white noise, engine noise and general clatter resulting from +/-150 people being in a v. enclosed space. This makes listening to anything other than one's neighbor's conversation or various internal/external rumblings a tad difficult. Provided, of course, one tends not to exclusively listen to Black Sabbath or prefer the volume thereof somewhat north of eleven. Both of these options are absolutely wonderful and highly recommended occasionally, perhaps even frequently, but even the most ardent, unrepentant noisenik needs a respite.

Hence, the new plugs.

Not entirely sure how they work nor do I particularly care. I just know they do. Completely. As in one hears next to nothing in between songs. John Cage would be proud.

I no longer need to use all my faculties to subdue the urge to tell the cabin to silence.

"Shush! It is very difficult to appreciate the intricacies of Robert Fripp's cross-picking technique with you cretins running on about how funny last night's Two and a Half Men was. A notion in and of itself that I find highly suspect I hasten to add. Jon Cryer would be better off sticking to bad 80's movies whilst Charlie Sheen with his hookers and blow." My internal monologues being as pretentious as they are long-winded, natch.

Oh, no. Now I can fully appreciate Mr. Fripp's blistering white hot rock guitar god skill at an otherwise noisy 30K feet as easily as I could in an anechoic chamber. Huzzah.

Of course, it is a bit disconcerting at first when the usual airplane noise is removed. One gets accustomed to such sounds and their almost calming reassuring that everything is A-OK.

"We're still in the air cause they're now talking about how George Clooney must know a lot about politics cause he's in movies and stuff. Plus he's sooooo dreamy." Yes, I'm always seated near females 18-34.

To hear next to nothing does not bring this reassurance. Instead...

"OMG, the engines have stopped and we're just gliding ever so gently, peacefully, um...DOWN. I can't believe I'm the only one who notices this. Why did I take this trip? Travel is stupid. I'm scared of people in general and strangers in particular; I certainly didn't need to see more of them."

Thankfully, in times of stress, however brief, the human brain goes into overdrive and those synapses fire just a little quicker bringing the above monologue about 1/10 of a second before its more rational conclusion.

"We're still aloft moron and everything's A-OK. It's just your super snazzy headphones doing their job. What's next on the ipod? Ooh. D.O.A. by Bloodrock. Goody."

How to properly return phone calls

A nice side effect of the Boston trip has been that my back has been hurting since Sunday. Not sure if it was due to hurriedly walking up what we presume was Chestnut Hill after the BC game with my 30 lbs pack trying its best to pound me into the ground. Or maybe it was just walking the seemingly 82 miles the previous day with a slightly lighter pack. Or maybe it was jarred on the not-as-bumpy-as-expected flight home. Or perhaps some enemy in the far reaches of nowhere (I'm very unpopular there) is sadistically shoving pins into a voodoo doll likeness of me. Beats me. I just know that every morning this week I've felt nearly 3 x my 34 years. Aging at this rate, I suspect I'll be moaning about bathroom problems and how I've been abandoned by my children by the end of the week. I know you, dear reader, can hardly wait.

Because of my back I haven't been able to run this week. Luckily my marathon training doesn't start for another couple of weeks. For the third year in a row, I'm doing the Disney marathon, January 11, 2009 because it's fun and I'm stupid. (I suspect that will become the focus of my blog post-trip) For marathon preparation I use an 18-week training schedule. If you'll do the math (go ahead, I'll wait), you'll find January 11 is not yet 18 weeks away but I started building my mileage up the past few weeks to get ahead. Therefore, I wouldn't think a few extra days off will set me back. I'd already decided I wasn't going to start the 'real' training until after we get back. Still, running has become such a part of my routine that I feel sedimentary if I miss more than a couple of days.

However.

The lack of running has opened up a bit more time for French and ipod ripping. I suspect the effect will be minimal but it makes me feel good at least. And feeling is what's important or so life in the modern world would have me believe.

I'm currently halfway through the 2nd of the 3 Rosetta Stone levels. I really didn't figure I would have time to work through all of them and was prepared to focus just on level 1. At my current rate, however, I should finish up right before we leave. That's probably good since it will not give me too much time to start the inevitable forgetting of all I have learned.

So in addition to telling the kind French man/woman my name and that I am cold, I can also ask directions to the hardware store which will no doubt be extremely useful to three Americans simply looking for the Arc de Triomphe. It's just as well that I probably wouldn't understand said directions. I assume that's covered in lesson 4 along with the proper syntax for how evil/awful Home Depot is and its responsibility for the collapse of goodwill among most would-be DIY-ers.

I could be wrong.

Laziness pt. 1

I think the above is what I'll call posts that are primarily pictures. Until I change my mind. Therefore here's exactly one picture from Boston. Perhaps they'll be more when Andy sends them to me. Perhaps not.

Your beloved correspondent in front of a Dunkin' Donuts cleverly disguised as a record store.

Celebrity sighting: Fred Newman

Survived the Boston trip and actually rather enjoyed it. True, the weather was a bit hotter than I expected. However, given the choice of humidity or sitting in the rain for a few hours on Saturday from TS Hanna, I'll go with the humidity if it means an otherwise pleasant day.

Officially the trip was for the Tech-Boston College game, which Tech won 19-16 (yay) but my real purpose was to knock another record store off my list, Twisted Village. Yes, I actually keep such lists; Aquarius Records in San Francisco being #'s 1-5 on it in case you were wondering. Not to get sentimental or sound old, but record shopping is something I fear young whippersnappers will never get to appreciate. Much like total silence. Or patience.

While TV stocks hardly anything most of this audience would be interested in unless you're hip to the joys of noise, prog, avant-garde, free jazz and all manner of terribly interesting sounds---"It's not a place for us squares." sayeth Andy---I could have spent all day in that tiny basement store. Football's dumb and I'd much rather hear discussion on the merits of the West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band or whether Kim Fowley's a creep than yet another blowhard debating whether the triple option is going to work.

Sometimes anyway.

Seriously, when you live (by choice) in the middle of nowhere and are into hopelessly obscure music that most sensible people would/do run screaming from, it's nice to find sympathetic ears and leave the world to the "squares" if just for a bit.

Andy snapped my picture digging through the racks, perhaps as a joke, but I quite like it; it's me in my element. The thought of lugging vinyl to a football game and then back on to a plane meant I stuck with cds; I still found enough to sate and provide TV with September's rent. For this daily bread, they were no doubt grateful. Through his amazing powers of persuasion, Andy was able to get my Dad to follow him across the street to Harvard and the awesomely old football stadium therein whilst I bought records. That site held as much interest to me as Twisted Village did them, if somewhat less noisy.

From the I-should-have-been-informed-earlier-dept., I learned that Harvard Stadium is "one of only three stadiums designated a national landmark" and "the world's first massive reinforced-concrete structure". It was all I could do to keep from jumping in front of a bus.

Nevertheless, Andy was blown away to be breathing in the rarefied air of such Harvard football greats as...um...uh...and the dude what pressure washes the stands. Oh yeah, they won the Ivy League last year. That and $2.50 will get the Crimson a cup of coffee at one of the myriad local Dunkin' Donuts. Awesome.

Afterwards, relaxing with a water (me)--Bostonians apparently prefer their beverages lukewarm, that whole refrigeration thing being best left to preserving meats or Kennedy jokes--ginger ale (Andy) and nothing (our Dad) we plotted our next move. It seemed as though our little hearts could scarcely take more excitement. Risk-takers that we are though we hit the Freedom Trail after a brief subway ride and took in most, not all, of the historic sites along the way. The trail, that is, not the subway. Aside from the aforementioned Dunkin' Donuts and some old concrete/steel there's very little in the underground that Lonely Planet recommends.

It's just a guess but I think we walked about 82 miles total. Interesting and gave us a chance to see quite a bit of the city including 352 Italian eateries in a 5-block radius. I kept my earphones in and my ipod on shuffle most of the time; you know how city sounds frighten me.

We also saw: the Old North Church, Paul Revere's house, a cemetery, tourists, the horse's ass on Paul Revere's statue, actual Bostonians doing actual Bostonians things mostly involving ipods, cell phones or blackberrys, more churches that probably have historical significance but whose markers required to much of an effort by me to read, a dude enjoying a smoke (as one does) after shooting some hoops, the laundromat where Paul Revere washed his pantaloons, some cars, trucks and things that go, breakdancers, a guy/girl duo doing a completely unnecessary and far too intense version of the already gawful "Love the One You're With", a Ferrari with a parking ticket, a Maserati with a parking ticket, the Old Courthouse which is brought to you now by Ruth's Chris Steakhouse.

Oh, and Andy was mistaken for a Pakistani by an insane, but friendly, street person who welcomed us to his country.

We did not see: the British, Paul Revere's outhouse, the Samuel Adams brewery, Bunker Hill, circus performers with any dignity, the left hand on the St. Francis statue, a massacre, Brad Whitford, the harbour, a Kennedy, Independence Hall, Ted Danson, a strangler, the old Boston Garden, the new Boston Garden (apparently we did, since the old was practically built on the new and the new was that big arena I saw in the distance and conveniently forgot) or the only Celtic that matters, Robert "The Chief" Parrish. Bummer.

Generally, I've found the demeanour of denizens of northern cities (NYC, Philadelphia in particular) to range from disinterested to downright rude and probably other "D" words, but I was rather impressed by Bostonians. I did not find that they talk funny nor was I told I talked funny, of course I had headphones in 90% of the time and said nothing the other 10%. We were only honked at by one cab and to the best of my knowledge the victim of no fingers, middle or otherwise or shook fists. My experience was that overall Bostonians are (whisper it) nice. I hope they don't get kicked out of the north for my saying so.

It's a great place to throw a revolution.

I still hate the Sox.

P.S. I really did see Fred Newman at Logan Airport. This made a great trip more greater.

Coming up on tonight's Mannix

Various people, some who actually read this thing, keep asking if I'm getting excited, etc. about the trip. Well, yeah, but it generally doesn't change from day to day. Not content with just being the above's prime offender, the esteemed probate judge asks at least once a week if I'm packed. We're still three weeks out, mind. This line of questioning from her started, oh, about two minutes after I announced everything bringing her inquiry total to somewhere near 228. In fairness, she's already packed for a trip that has yet to planned. Just in case, you know. I guess trip questions are better than the other one she asks me frequently: Well, do you hear wedding bells? Erm...moving on.

While I'm not quite as giddy as a school boy (eh, Chris), there is some level of anticipation for the trip. If 10 is Disney World and 1 is the dentist, I guess I'm about a 3. Maybe 3.5. OK, fine. 4. I keed.

Since I'm an optimistic pessimist, maybe even a pessimistic optimist on good days, I tend to dwell on the facts. The facts be thus: I've got three more weeks before being thrown to a French populace, numbed with an ennui that even the exploits of Sarkozy's wife cannot trump, all to ready to laugh at my feeble Americanisms. Urgh.

Therefore, I have gone into overdrive, swerving my mental moped onto the linguistic autobahn. Cultural mixed metaphors be damned.

Previously, I've either been ripping my record collection to my ipod or Rosetta Stone-ing. Generally a couple of hours on both daily. Fun. This would probably suck if I had much of a life. I don't. As Marisol (the fake name of my real gf) can attest. Now, whilst ipod ripping, I have my head buried in my old French textbook and notes or, thanks to MB, have the Learn French By Podcast, um, podcast going on in my headphones. Equally fun.

Regarding the latter, the gulp factor has been quite high i.e., gulp, they sure do talk fast. Having tossed delusions of fluency long ago, I'm stoked if I can pick up enough words to get the gist of a sentence. Details such as whether one loves/hates one's subject are irrelevant to me. I'm sure they are to the speaker as well. As for the former, it's been quite comforting to know that I can remember the exact circumstances 15 years ago under which an insignificant doodle in the margin of my notebook was created. Less comforting, however, is that these memories have taken the space of real, actual, useful French grammar in my brain. Figures.

Tomorrow brings a warm-up of sorts for my transatlantic flight; we'll be heading to Boston for the Tech game. Fortunately so will TS Hannah. While my fear of flying is not so great as to prohibit me from doing it, I much prefer the railway. Alas, the magnificence of several tons of metal snaking through a picturesque countryside was defeated by speed, convenience and economics. Hard to rationalize paying more to get there slower.

Unless you're the U.S. government.

C'est la vie.

Consider mediation

A pleasant holiday weekend passed into the books yesterday. Little progress was made in the way of either of my major projects before the trip (French and ripping to my ipod) but life was decent enough still. Got the chance to see the W's on Sunday night which was an unexpected treat. I was surprised to learn that Bonnie has fallen in with a crowd of exiles from various countries including...France.

Weird.

I suspect I will not get the opportunity to use this to my advantage before we leave but, like the sun, I appreciate knowing it's there. Of course as has been stated previously, unless they wanted to talk about getting a new ladder because theirs is broken I don't know what we could talk about.

Actually, I'm doing OK with French on a basic level. The problem is getting the mental processing down to an acceptable time for a conversation. In my American experience, most exchanges are short and to the point because we're very busy people living very busy lives. I suspect my would be French friends are no different.

Here's a sample exchange. Enjoy.

"Would you like a hamburger? Yes, I would. Hamburgers are awesome."

I don't have to think: Okay, a hamburger. That's a bun with something that at one point was probably a cow in between. Yes, I do like them. Quite a bit.

My current level of French would stretch this 5 second exchange into roughly 5 minutes and into a matter that would require assistance from the United Nations. Par example, assume each sentence is another 10 seconds or so.

"Voudriez-vous un hamurger?"

Hmm. Let's see. Voudriez that's sounds like voudrais which means 'would like'. Hamurger, a guess that's hamburger. Hopefully. So I guess I'm being asked, Would...I...like...a...hamburger.

Why yes. Yes, I believe I would like a hamburger.

"Oui." Phew. Hand it over, Jacques and don't forget the freedom fries.

"Pourquoi voulez-vous en hamurger?

Huh? I wasn't expecting the Spanish inquisition which I guess nobody ever really does. I think that's one of their chief tactics.

Pourquoi. That means why. I guess I'm being asked why do I want a hamburger. An odd question but since I'm a stranger in a strange land I should probably play by their rules. Americans get a bad enough rap as it is.

Um...how do I answer. Let's see because is...parce que. I'll just repeat hamurger and put a le on it so it will sound French. I've no idea what awesome is so I'll just use the English. They'll understand.

Therefore...

"Parce que les hamurgers sont awesome (stupéfiants)!"

Unfortunately, Jacques left five minutes ago muttering about Americans, their big cars and little brains.

And scene.

Figuring using a day off to catch up on sleep or incidentals was pointless, I spent the earliest part of Labor Day running a 10K up Cobb Parkway. And I do mean up; these were probably the longest, steepest hills I've run. It went well. Though it wasn't anywhere close to a personal best, I was quite pleased with my 58 minute time and finished strong while most of the sensible world slept.

Overall it was a good event and well organized. I think the whole shebang was called the US 10K though I'm not certain. Nor am I sure what the race benefited. Perhaps us. Kids, world peace and/or the environment probably too. Definitely something to make us all feel good about being good people. Whatever, I enjoyed reflecting on this good feeling as I rode the diesel powered shuttle back to the starting line whilst enjoying some refreshing bottled water. Yay, us.