Spat: A covering or decorative covering worn over a shoe.
Oops. A brief argument, falling out, quarrel.
SuperK and I have had a few spats on the trip. Not too many and not too serious but spats none the less. What really happens is that a whole series of minor irritations build up to the point where one or the other of us says: "OK, restraint of tongue and pen? Fuck that," and we blast away. We've had a lot of time together in very, very close quarters with very, very little chance to get the hell away from each other all while doing a lot of traveling and touring and maneuvering through alien cultures, often stressful things in their own right.
I've taken to heading out for a long hike every other day to give my wife a break. And I've taken to going out to the town square of whatever town we happen to be in, closing my eyes and trying to meditate, enjoying the wash of sound, the foreignness of it. Mostly I'm just glad to be here, to be doing this. I miss going to meetings regularly and I miss my exercise routine and I weary occasionally of the work that travel entails but I'm glad I'm here.
I'm learning a lot about expectations. I'm disappointed by some of the things I see and I'm thrilled to make new discoveries, to be thrilled by something unexpectedly - both of these things happen almost every day.
Parking is a blood sport here. There seems to be no penalty for parking anywhere you want. But god forbid you don't plug a meter when that's required.
God forbid.
Saturday, May 3, 2014
Thursday, May 1, 2014
This and That and No Recovery
In no particular order . . .
Being in Europe makes me realize how much automobile noise that we put up with in the States, It's oddly quiet when we sit down for a meal or to enjoy the sun in a square. The downside is that parking can be a bitch.
Men in France wear a lot of scarves. I'm very, very open to different wardrobe choices but I don't know about a scarf draped around my neck when it isn't cold at all. That and the sweater tied by the arms, flung over the back. Wad it up and stuff it in your pocket like a guy.
Saw this word on a tourist marker: "Planified." An excellent word that we should introduce into the English lexicon; as in, "Did the fair get planified OK?"
French rap music is beyond ridiculous. I laugh out loud when I see a young person zip by in a teeny, tiny car with French rap music blaring. Dude, it's not intimidating. Lady GaGa has more intimidating songs.
I enjoy the pace of life as a break in my Type A routine. I can see Americans sit down for a meal or a cup of coffee, with their engines on and revved. It looks like they could be launched into space at the push of a button. It looks like the sitting is an unknown and very uncomfortable. They look like they're getting ready to go go go. We use phrases like "killing time" or "wasting time." I can't imagine people over here would do that.
The counterpoint is that sometimes I feel like I'm wading through molasses, especially when meal times come around. Often we buy a sandwich instead of going to a restaurant and enduring the glacial pace of the service and the utter disregard for getting the check in my hands as soon as possible. I mean, you have to beg to pay the bill. I don't wait for the check anymore - I head into the restaurant and confront the server directly; not in a mean-spirited way but in a get it done way. I don't want to linger too long - I got stuff to see.
I think I've taken more video of bathrooms and markets than anything else. I love going to a grocery store here and trying to decipher the food. And the bathrooms are a wild ride in a fast car. They're pretty standard in the States: accessible, usually clean-ish, unwavering in their conformity. Over here it's a experiment. Yesterday I went into another one of the self-cleaning stainless-steel space pods. I'm never sure that the self-cleaning isn't going to start when I'm in there. I can never find water or soap or towels. I'm usually just trying to get out of the thing. This one had an automatic door that reminded me of the Star Trek main cabin - push a button and it slid open with a whisper.
Packaging stuff:
Soup with pieces.
Packaging innovation!
Being in Europe makes me realize how much automobile noise that we put up with in the States, It's oddly quiet when we sit down for a meal or to enjoy the sun in a square. The downside is that parking can be a bitch.
Men in France wear a lot of scarves. I'm very, very open to different wardrobe choices but I don't know about a scarf draped around my neck when it isn't cold at all. That and the sweater tied by the arms, flung over the back. Wad it up and stuff it in your pocket like a guy.
Saw this word on a tourist marker: "Planified." An excellent word that we should introduce into the English lexicon; as in, "Did the fair get planified OK?"
French rap music is beyond ridiculous. I laugh out loud when I see a young person zip by in a teeny, tiny car with French rap music blaring. Dude, it's not intimidating. Lady GaGa has more intimidating songs.
I enjoy the pace of life as a break in my Type A routine. I can see Americans sit down for a meal or a cup of coffee, with their engines on and revved. It looks like they could be launched into space at the push of a button. It looks like the sitting is an unknown and very uncomfortable. They look like they're getting ready to go go go. We use phrases like "killing time" or "wasting time." I can't imagine people over here would do that.
The counterpoint is that sometimes I feel like I'm wading through molasses, especially when meal times come around. Often we buy a sandwich instead of going to a restaurant and enduring the glacial pace of the service and the utter disregard for getting the check in my hands as soon as possible. I mean, you have to beg to pay the bill. I don't wait for the check anymore - I head into the restaurant and confront the server directly; not in a mean-spirited way but in a get it done way. I don't want to linger too long - I got stuff to see.
I think I've taken more video of bathrooms and markets than anything else. I love going to a grocery store here and trying to decipher the food. And the bathrooms are a wild ride in a fast car. They're pretty standard in the States: accessible, usually clean-ish, unwavering in their conformity. Over here it's a experiment. Yesterday I went into another one of the self-cleaning stainless-steel space pods. I'm never sure that the self-cleaning isn't going to start when I'm in there. I can never find water or soap or towels. I'm usually just trying to get out of the thing. This one had an automatic door that reminded me of the Star Trek main cabin - push a button and it slid open with a whisper.
Packaging stuff:
Soup with pieces.
Packaging innovation!
Tuesday, April 29, 2014
The Rum Raisin Affair
I have a sweet tooth. My sweet tooth is the size of the Empire State Building, approximately. If I could eat processed sugar at the expense of all other foodstuffs I'd consider it.
I was at the local SPAR grocery store the other day, an establishment that could fit inside the dry cereal aisle at your local Wal-Mart. I decided on ice cream for dessert; the selections were limited: Vanilla, Chocolate, and Rum Raisin. I rejected the Vanilla outright as it needs a lot of shit dumped on top of it to make it a real dessert and I wasn't going to waste any valuable sugar eating time on more shopping; briefly considered Rum Raisin; and purchased the Chocolate. We ate the container over a few days, finding it middling. For a few subsequent days we took a tour of other dessert options: Milka bars, digestives, and choco-croissants.
Then I was back at the SPAR. I looked at the ice cream and purchased the Rum Raisin, without any malice of forethought. The Vanilla was still staring back at me blandly and the Chocolate sucked. The packaging for the Rum Raisin looked vaguely caramel-like, the product studded with raisins. I wasn't thinking of drinking when I bought the product. I was looking for dessert. I was looking for a processed, refined white sugar delivery system.
"Are you crazy?" SuperK asked me when I got home. "What are you thinking?"
I looked at the package.
"It's ice cream," I said. "I want something sweet."
"I don't know why you'd even mess around with something like that," she replied.
I opened the ice cream which had been in an ice cream freezer because ice cream is meant to be . . . you know . . . frozen, finding it kind of half-frozen. I took a small spoon and put a bit in my mouth. I spit it back into the sink. The taste of rum was overpowering.
"Oh, we're not eating that," I said.
I looked at the ingredients which were in French. It appeared to me that the rum content was actually 35% - I had purchased 70 proof ice cream. You gotta love the French. That additive would definitely counteract the sugar effect of small children. Here, Little Jonny, have some more ice cream.
I dumped the ice cream in the sink and started to run hot water on it - I didn't want that shit even in my house. The raisins clogged the drain and the hot water dissolved the rum-saturated ice cream. I swear it smelled like a distillery. I'm trying to spit the rum taste out of my mouth, rum fumes filling the apartment, as I try to unclog the drain.
I was a bit rattled for a while. While I wasn't pondering drinking, it did not escape my attention that this happened in an area where The Fellowship isn't present. It reminded me of the story in our literature where one of our early members convinced himself that a shot of whiskey wouldn't hurt him if he just took it in a glass of milk. The Book talks about strange mental blank spots.
I'm having a big bowl of vanilla ice cream tonight.
I was at the local SPAR grocery store the other day, an establishment that could fit inside the dry cereal aisle at your local Wal-Mart. I decided on ice cream for dessert; the selections were limited: Vanilla, Chocolate, and Rum Raisin. I rejected the Vanilla outright as it needs a lot of shit dumped on top of it to make it a real dessert and I wasn't going to waste any valuable sugar eating time on more shopping; briefly considered Rum Raisin; and purchased the Chocolate. We ate the container over a few days, finding it middling. For a few subsequent days we took a tour of other dessert options: Milka bars, digestives, and choco-croissants.
Then I was back at the SPAR. I looked at the ice cream and purchased the Rum Raisin, without any malice of forethought. The Vanilla was still staring back at me blandly and the Chocolate sucked. The packaging for the Rum Raisin looked vaguely caramel-like, the product studded with raisins. I wasn't thinking of drinking when I bought the product. I was looking for dessert. I was looking for a processed, refined white sugar delivery system.
"Are you crazy?" SuperK asked me when I got home. "What are you thinking?"
I looked at the package.
"It's ice cream," I said. "I want something sweet."
"I don't know why you'd even mess around with something like that," she replied.
I opened the ice cream which had been in an ice cream freezer because ice cream is meant to be . . . you know . . . frozen, finding it kind of half-frozen. I took a small spoon and put a bit in my mouth. I spit it back into the sink. The taste of rum was overpowering.
"Oh, we're not eating that," I said.
I looked at the ingredients which were in French. It appeared to me that the rum content was actually 35% - I had purchased 70 proof ice cream. You gotta love the French. That additive would definitely counteract the sugar effect of small children. Here, Little Jonny, have some more ice cream.
I dumped the ice cream in the sink and started to run hot water on it - I didn't want that shit even in my house. The raisins clogged the drain and the hot water dissolved the rum-saturated ice cream. I swear it smelled like a distillery. I'm trying to spit the rum taste out of my mouth, rum fumes filling the apartment, as I try to unclog the drain.
I was a bit rattled for a while. While I wasn't pondering drinking, it did not escape my attention that this happened in an area where The Fellowship isn't present. It reminded me of the story in our literature where one of our early members convinced himself that a shot of whiskey wouldn't hurt him if he just took it in a glass of milk. The Book talks about strange mental blank spots.
I'm having a big bowl of vanilla ice cream tonight.
Monday, April 28, 2014
A Square is ALWAYS a Parallelogram
Parallelogram: A convex quadrilateral in which each pair of opposite edges are parallel and of equal length.
Our little apartment doesn't have a washer and dryer. This is normally no big deal but we packed light for two months, counting on having a washer and dryer. The whole Nimes scaffolding debacle left us out in the cold - in our scramble to secure a place for 3 weeks on short notice that we could afford we couldn't afford to be too picky, and we were washer and dryer-less. I'm not overly fussy about clean clothes but after a couple of days there are a couple of items that I'd rather not put back on, if you get my drift.
Our temporary landlords allowed us to use the equipment in the more sumptuous apartment upstairs while it was between tenants. We were immediately faced with the French language controls - these were nicely translated by Google as long as you don't require your translated words to make sense in a washer-dryer fashion. I'm happy to "recharge the squeeze" and the like but it leaves me clueless in the actually getting my clothes clean department. Plus, there are graphics that just make no sense and Google doesn't offer a graphics auto-translator. What the hell is a little leaf blowing in the breeze mean? Or a little parallelogram?
We're pretty sure the first load didn't actually get any soap delivered during the washing cycle.
Our little apartment doesn't have a washer and dryer. This is normally no big deal but we packed light for two months, counting on having a washer and dryer. The whole Nimes scaffolding debacle left us out in the cold - in our scramble to secure a place for 3 weeks on short notice that we could afford we couldn't afford to be too picky, and we were washer and dryer-less. I'm not overly fussy about clean clothes but after a couple of days there are a couple of items that I'd rather not put back on, if you get my drift.
Our temporary landlords allowed us to use the equipment in the more sumptuous apartment upstairs while it was between tenants. We were immediately faced with the French language controls - these were nicely translated by Google as long as you don't require your translated words to make sense in a washer-dryer fashion. I'm happy to "recharge the squeeze" and the like but it leaves me clueless in the actually getting my clothes clean department. Plus, there are graphics that just make no sense and Google doesn't offer a graphics auto-translator. What the hell is a little leaf blowing in the breeze mean? Or a little parallelogram?
We're pretty sure the first load didn't actually get any soap delivered during the washing cycle.
Sunday, April 27, 2014
Of Ibogast and Spasmocalm
I've always liked the adder "thy will be done." It makes my praying a lot easier. I'm wary of any praying that includes a list of things that I want or don't want because what I want or don't want isn't in my best interests a lot of the time. But I've heard a lot of people talk about the power of prayer over the years and I don't want to short myself on anything that's going to help me get better. I have a history of turning up my nose when prayer is the topic and this has been to my detriment. Prayer can be powerful and I think my higher power listens to what I say and I bet he grants my wishes from time to time but never when I'm demanding things go my way. So I want the benefits of praying while avoiding the pitfalls of praying. It can be a tricky line for an ass like me.
When SuperK was suffering from her stomach virus BarcelonaK offered to accompany her to a pharmacy to seek a fix. After some back and forth we bought a product called Ibogast. It smelled kind of funky so we had a conversation about whether or not it had any . . . you know, alcohol in it.
"It can't have any alcohol," BarcelonaK proposed. "It's OK for kids."
SuperK took the medicine for 5 or 6 days - a very small dosage of 20 drops in a glass of water. It didn't really do anything to make her feel better. That's typical of most simple colds or flus - you can take medicine and it'll go away in about 2 weeks or you can do nothing and you'll be well in 14 days. SuperK - on the cusp of her 26 year sobriety anniversary, kept insisting that the smell was just too weird. Finally, we dug up some info on the internet and discovered that it's about 30% alcohol.
Not a worry - that's about the amount of alcohol that occurs in fruit that's overly ripe and it's going to make a great story for her to tell on her 27th anniversary. Plus, I think with sobriety you add up all the days you've stayed sober and that's your total - it doesn't really count if you drink a little in between or smoke some medicinal marijuana or shoot some non-addictive heroin.
I'm not gonna check that with my sponsor.
I also bought a product for her called Spasmocalm. I made the purchase after a long and spirited discussion with a couple of French pharmacy employees. The reasons for selecting this product were that I was too embarrassed to leave without buying something and how cool a name is Spasmocalm, anyway? Pretty cool.
We're trying to get some laundry done using a French-themed washing machine and a French-themed dryer, which may or may not be working. There has been a French maid bustling around the whole time throwing out helpful hints and ominous warnings as we've been doing this. It is taking a really, really long time. It makes SuperK miss her hometown washer and dryer with the English instructions and voluminous cavity that would hold all of the laundry of the People's Republic of China.
I'm staying the hell away from that operation.
When SuperK was suffering from her stomach virus BarcelonaK offered to accompany her to a pharmacy to seek a fix. After some back and forth we bought a product called Ibogast. It smelled kind of funky so we had a conversation about whether or not it had any . . . you know, alcohol in it.
"It can't have any alcohol," BarcelonaK proposed. "It's OK for kids."
SuperK took the medicine for 5 or 6 days - a very small dosage of 20 drops in a glass of water. It didn't really do anything to make her feel better. That's typical of most simple colds or flus - you can take medicine and it'll go away in about 2 weeks or you can do nothing and you'll be well in 14 days. SuperK - on the cusp of her 26 year sobriety anniversary, kept insisting that the smell was just too weird. Finally, we dug up some info on the internet and discovered that it's about 30% alcohol.
Not a worry - that's about the amount of alcohol that occurs in fruit that's overly ripe and it's going to make a great story for her to tell on her 27th anniversary. Plus, I think with sobriety you add up all the days you've stayed sober and that's your total - it doesn't really count if you drink a little in between or smoke some medicinal marijuana or shoot some non-addictive heroin.
I'm not gonna check that with my sponsor.
I also bought a product for her called Spasmocalm. I made the purchase after a long and spirited discussion with a couple of French pharmacy employees. The reasons for selecting this product were that I was too embarrassed to leave without buying something and how cool a name is Spasmocalm, anyway? Pretty cool.
We're trying to get some laundry done using a French-themed washing machine and a French-themed dryer, which may or may not be working. There has been a French maid bustling around the whole time throwing out helpful hints and ominous warnings as we've been doing this. It is taking a really, really long time. It makes SuperK miss her hometown washer and dryer with the English instructions and voluminous cavity that would hold all of the laundry of the People's Republic of China.
I'm staying the hell away from that operation.
Saturday, April 26, 2014
Please Contact Us As Soon As Possible
I received an email note a few days ago from my car rental company asking me to contact them as soon as possible. I picked up my phone with an American phone number while in France and tried to call Spain with predictably hilarious results. Finally, after a series of rejections for a wide variety of violations I got through to the agency and spoke to a guy who told me that my car needed to be exchanged for a different one. I explained that I was a few hundred miles away. His English was better than my Spanish but not by much - he relented on his request since I was so far away, assuring me that there was nothing the matter with the car, that there was some kind of internal requirement with his company.
The next day I got a f/up email asking me where in France that I was, exactly. I told them and asked what the problem was, exactly.
Well, sir, the car that I was driving had been sold and needed to be delivered to Madrid by the end of the month, a few scant days away. Madrid has to be 500 miles from my little apartment. We are now trying to figure out how to get someone from the car agency to come to St. Remy to swap my car out for a different one. And, by the way, please make sure that the tank is full of gas. I thought that was a little pushy. I explained that there is no gas station in this town - which is, technically, untrue - and told them I hope this wasn't a problem.
This is one of those situations that I would handle altogether differently if I was back at home, as in: "For this inconvenience you can stick the gas tank where the sun doesn't shine" but I'm having trouble translating this into French or Spanish or Catalan or whatever the hell language these people are speaking here. I took the opportunity to say something to an English couple who was ordering pizza at the same restaurant as me the other day because it felt so damn good to say something in English.
The next day I got a f/up email asking me where in France that I was, exactly. I told them and asked what the problem was, exactly.
Well, sir, the car that I was driving had been sold and needed to be delivered to Madrid by the end of the month, a few scant days away. Madrid has to be 500 miles from my little apartment. We are now trying to figure out how to get someone from the car agency to come to St. Remy to swap my car out for a different one. And, by the way, please make sure that the tank is full of gas. I thought that was a little pushy. I explained that there is no gas station in this town - which is, technically, untrue - and told them I hope this wasn't a problem.
This is one of those situations that I would handle altogether differently if I was back at home, as in: "For this inconvenience you can stick the gas tank where the sun doesn't shine" but I'm having trouble translating this into French or Spanish or Catalan or whatever the hell language these people are speaking here. I took the opportunity to say something to an English couple who was ordering pizza at the same restaurant as me the other day because it felt so damn good to say something in English.
Thursday, April 24, 2014
Totally Reassured
French is one of those languages that sounds smart. I walk by a group of blue collar guys eating lunch and listen in for a minute. I imagine that they're discussing Cardinal Richelieu or an obscure variety of Bordeaux when in fact they're musing over the latest football match or the most excellent cure of constipation.
One of the most interesting things about the US to EU transition is adapting to the pace of life here. At home everything is lightning fast - here it's much more deliberate. I'm always surprised when my food is made to order at the simplest places.
And back to the bathrooms . . . I talk about food a lot - being a food guy, someone who enjoys shopping for food and buying it, preparing meals, eating what I've made - because I think it's a universal language. I learn more about a culture from what they eat than anything else. The French spend a LOT on food - it's amazing.
Anyway, we toured this great old ruined castle perched on top of a sheer cliff face yesterday. On the way in I entered a bathroom. Inside, it was all stainless steel and everything was wet and dripping, dozens of nozzles protruding from every surface - a self-cleaning WC. I felt like I was in an escape pod attached to the space shuttle. As I was . . . you know, peeing . . . the whole thing began to growl and rumble a bit. I thought that it was going to go into self-cleaning mode while I was in there which would have been a GREAT travel story. I never did figure out how to flush the toilet or run the sink. I got the hell out of there.
There's a big weekly market setting up right outside my window. It is a thing of beauty. These people are professional food folks and I live in the fruit and vegetable capital of the United States. In Barcelona I passed a small shop that only sold legumes. That's one of the best shops I've ever passed.
We stopped at a little restaurant yesterday for a post-hike coffee. Two euros or about $2.60. We did, however, order large coffees which doubled the price and asked for milk which added some more. Nine euros or about $12. I believe that was the most expensive two cups of coffee I've ever ordered, ever.
Entrance fee: 5€ (reduced 4€) | School groups: 3,50 € | Free for accompanier (10 students)
One of the most interesting things about the US to EU transition is adapting to the pace of life here. At home everything is lightning fast - here it's much more deliberate. I'm always surprised when my food is made to order at the simplest places.
And back to the bathrooms . . . I talk about food a lot - being a food guy, someone who enjoys shopping for food and buying it, preparing meals, eating what I've made - because I think it's a universal language. I learn more about a culture from what they eat than anything else. The French spend a LOT on food - it's amazing.
Anyway, we toured this great old ruined castle perched on top of a sheer cliff face yesterday. On the way in I entered a bathroom. Inside, it was all stainless steel and everything was wet and dripping, dozens of nozzles protruding from every surface - a self-cleaning WC. I felt like I was in an escape pod attached to the space shuttle. As I was . . . you know, peeing . . . the whole thing began to growl and rumble a bit. I thought that it was going to go into self-cleaning mode while I was in there which would have been a GREAT travel story. I never did figure out how to flush the toilet or run the sink. I got the hell out of there.
There's a big weekly market setting up right outside my window. It is a thing of beauty. These people are professional food folks and I live in the fruit and vegetable capital of the United States. In Barcelona I passed a small shop that only sold legumes. That's one of the best shops I've ever passed.
We stopped at a little restaurant yesterday for a post-hike coffee. Two euros or about $2.60. We did, however, order large coffees which doubled the price and asked for milk which added some more. Nine euros or about $12. I believe that was the most expensive two cups of coffee I've ever ordered, ever.
Entrance fee: 5€ (reduced 4€) | School groups: 3,50 € | Free for accompanier (10 students)
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