Hola Mi Amigo

Practicing for Spain in a week.  Sorry, Bratislava and Budapest, you’ll have to speak my language at all times.

Putting “Hola Mi Amigo” in the plural form?  Don’t know how to do it.  I wanted to, because I suspect that there are gatherings at cafés to discuss my blog posts? 

It’s your lucky day; this won’t be a pack-my-stats post in which my only goal is to string you along, keep the views up, and inch towards 10,000.  Get yourself a Venti this time, ‘cause I’m about to throw some content at you.  At the end of this post, your temporal lobe will be nonplussed, and perhaps your comments will be seared with vitriolic criticism.  By the way, nobody ever comments any more, but I’m not going to harp on it. (Mad Lib nouns, adjectives, and verbs provided by R. Flinch via GChat) 

There are many tidbits about France that I have neglected to speak of in my two years as a blogger.  Ironically, but I suppose not surprisingly, I often jot down very normal, logical ideas for blog posts that then lie dormant on pieces of paper in the corner of my room (pictures to come), and when I do pick up a computer, I just felt like writin’ (Forest Gump voice) [sic:  verb tense, Forest].  A lot of times when I start a post, I don’t really know what I’m going to write about, and for that reason, it’s more fun for me.  In this post, I shall purge myself of these unspoken truths by not having any fun and telling you some nuggets about France.

Customer Dis(Service)

Among the English assistants, the limitless depths of French bureaucratic disorder is well-known and well-complained about.  So when an assistant talks about going in to check on the status of the Carte Vitale (health insurance card) that he/she applied for a month ago, only to be told that there is no record whatsoever of that person’s application in the database, I can’t muster a genuine, impassioned reaction.  I’ve become immune to the inconveniences of the system.  Put more accurately, I have become immune to a literal shock in my system regarding the inconveniences of their system.  As for my frustration, there's no immunization in sight for that.    

Examples:

1.  In late November, I sustained an impressive cut on my leg in banging it against a rail when I was at an Arcade Fire concert.  It quickly ballooned up, and it was apparent that it was infected. 

I went to the doctor, who provided me with the proper medication.  I am entitled to a partial reimbursement on this medication that I received in early December, but will I see these precious euros before my May 18^th departure?  Doubtful.  So, yes, the French are very proud of their universal insurance.  But, in terms of those handling the masses of paperwork, there’s no accountability whatsoever.

Because I have transformed into a calendar book courtesan in my two years here, I can look back and share with you my appointments with the health insurance office and the hospital.  This would be after the initial incident, when I started the pursuit of my reimbursement:

January 13^th:  I go to the hospital to ask about the process.  I am pointed in the direction of CPAM (the health insurance office), which is on the other side of Lyon.

January 18^th:  I go to CPAM.  I am told to head back to the hospital.

January 21^st:  I go to the hospital, and, despite trying to synchronize it so that I get a fresh face involved, my number is called by the same woman as the first time.  She tells me to go back to CPAM.  I tell her that they told me to come to the hospital.  She tells me that they are wrong. 

January 26^th:  I go to CPAM.  An attempt by the terse-reply-assembly machine (or “unfriendly old woman”) to turn me away is fought off.  I remain firm, explaining my tribulations.  She finally writes me a list of all the documents that I will need to present to them…at CPAM. 

You get the point.  Bureaucratic pinball.

I’m no guru of the inner workings of this country, but I’m going to chalk up the Tourette-inducing disorganization to over-the-top job security (seems to me you don’t need to produce results around these parts to keep a job) and terrible continuity of the work day/schedule (as they are always racing off for their two-hour lunch break or one-week vacation).

2.  I take the metro to work.  As an English assistant, I am entitled to a half-off reduction of the monthly public transportation rate.  Thus, every month I go to the metro office, ask for a receipt for that month’s metro use, and present it to the school that I work at.  The money is supposed to then be automatically put into my bank account.  I have not received a penny.

3.  I go to bars.  One of my favorite bars has a decent happy hour from six to eight, in which beer is half-off.  My friend and I take a seat outside to take advantage of that young spring weather.  A server comes around to take our order, and we ask to make sure the happy hour is on.  “Oui, mais faut que vous vous mettiez a l’interior.”  (“Yes, but only if you sit inside.”)  What?  Really?  You mean the table through that open window that I can reach out and touch from here?  We retreat to the dim interior.  OK, so I just threw this one on my list for the hell of it.  The first two examples are quite irritating; I got over this one quickly enough.  But space is definitely at a premium in Lyon.  You will pay for that outdoor seating.   

 

You see how these inconveniences can wear on you when you’ve been Americanized? I’m working twelve hours a week in this beautiful, expresso-on-the-terrace country, and here I am going on about bureaucracy.  It is frustrating sometimes, though, folks.  I want my money, or I could set the building on fire.   

In my opinion, universal health insurance is a great facet of life over here.  You would just think that they could have it smoothed over in this day and age…and also that one wouldn’t have to pay extra for a spritz of sunlight with that beer.

So, the grand finale of my travels is on the horizon.  Here’s the itinerary: 

April 22^nd:  Train to Paris.  Spend two nights at my buddy’s aunt’s apartment.

April 24^th:  Flight from Paris to Bratislava.

April 26^th:  Bus from Bratislava to Budapest. 

April 28^th:  Bus from Budapest to Bratislava. 

April 29^th:  Flight from Bratislava to the Spanish island of Mallorca.

May 3^rd:  Flight from Mallorca to Bratislava.

May 4^th:  Flight from Bratislava to Paris.

May 5^th:  Train from Paris to Lyon.   

“Why you do like that?”

I love the janitor, and had to link that.

Well Manolo, Sebastian and I were supposed to go to Vienna, where we were going to have a free condo left for us by friends of a family that I know.  But that plan fizzled, so we had to get creative and plan a trip around the low-cost airlines that offer limited destinations.  Should be a good time. 

Ciao    

Haircuts and Blog Posts Tomorrow

Salut,


At my childhood barbershop, there is a permanent sign that hangs above the mirror, on which is written, "Free Haircuts Tomorrow."  I remember reading it with excitement and bewilderment, until I eventually grasped the humorous ploy (or maybe my dad just explained it to me; really don't remember).


In the name of segues everywhere, tomorrow I have a haircut.  I am going to a lycée des métiers des arts de la coiffure, a rather verbose way of saying "haircutting school."  If the French had a "Hamburger University," they'd probably find at least a seven-word name for it.  Pretentious bâtards.


With my faded Illinois Wesleyan University card, I will try to pass as a university student, entitling me to a 2euro reduction and thus a 5euro haircut.  Who's pullin' fast ones now, barbershops?


So am I walking into a certain self-esteem train wreck, such as that experienced by my brother in high school when he rang up a local hottie, asked her to a dance, received a shocking reply of "Yes," only to later be told that she thought she had been speaking to a different Michael?  By putting the scissors in the hands of a student (the lycée above means "high school"... gulp), I may very well be.  But that's part of the fun.  


And tomorrow, YOU have a blog post coming, so do hurry back.  And this is no ploy.  


[Author reserves the right to dip into both time zones for his claims.  He will write it tomorrow, Wednesday, probably for final publishing my Thursday but still your Wednesday.]

"Good afternoon, Mr. Rabinowitz. Although I'm not so sure how good it is." (A Cathartic Post)

Cool Points if you understood the title above without Google.

Well, I'm writing you all from chez Sebastian (Sebastian's crib), my American friend who lives across La Saone from me.  He was polite enough to take me in this morning, after I was impolite enough to incessantly ring his doorbell until I roused him from his slumbers.

Let's take it from the top:  I woke up this morning at 10, to prepare myself for a lunch at the aforementioned doctor's house (the man who I tutor), before we were to head off for a round of golf.  I went downstairs to take the glass recycling out, which one places in a massive container that is on the corner of many streets.  The sun was shining and the quai de la Saone was bustling with an art fair.  My first French golf experience was a mere couple of hours away.  The day had some serious potential.

I re-entered, unlocked the outer door to enter the stairway leading up to the apartments, and dropped my keys, which slid ever so casually, indifferently really, into a sewer.  They now lie about three meters below, faintly visible in the dark underground, teasing me.  I tried to remove the sewer, but there was to be no child-in-danger Herculean strength (if a racquetball match was in question, I would have easily succeeded).    

With no roommates nor the landlady in the building, I had little choice but to make the pyjamaed, Adidas-sandaled trek across the river, where I could at least send an e-mail to the doctor.  The fashion-obsessed Lyonnais undoubtedly judged me for my garb.

On the bright side, I churned out a blog post [granted, it's about n'importe quoi (direct translation:  "no matter what," but in this case, "rubbish")] and relearned the French word for "sewer" (it's l'égout) as I had to write the doctor explaining my pickle.

Fortunately, we should be able to play golf next weekend.

Hope to soon recount tales of my travels in the French Riviera with my parents, or at least post pictures.

As for future travels, in two weeks, Sebastian and I are embarking on a ten-day trip to Bratislava, Budapest, and the Spanish island of Mallorca.  Giddyup.

34 minute post

Hey y'all,

We're doing a speed post here, because as the Brits like to say, I can't be arsed.

I wish I could paint even the slightest word picture of the incredible monuments that I saw in Rome, notably the Pantheon.  Scott and I initially came across it at night, as it lies unassumingly cramped in a small plaza, shielded from view by many buildings.  We visited it hastily the last day, just before catching our plane to Dublin.  I consider myself lucky to have even placed a foot inside the dome, but I easily could have taken a seat for hours and attempted to etch a more permanent memory of the splendor surrounding me.  The very center of the dome is an Oculus, allowing a circle of sunlight to traipse along its interior.  Of course, the B.C. origin of the building and the exact dimensions beg the question, "How?"

__________

This weekend, I went to Savoie, a region in the Alps.  My friend's parents have a restaurant and hotel there, catering to French people and foreigners alike.  Their house is warmly wooded on the interior, marking the successful marriage of wooden cabin, and mountains.

Skiing was on the itinerary, but sub-par conditions and late-night partying kept it at bay.  I'm okay with that, because skiing I have done.  Climbing up a muddy, somewhat rocky side path in the Alps to a mountainside bar at midnight, and descending by means of sitting on shovels four hours later, I had not done.  It was a good time.

__________

OK, that will do for tonight.

If I ever made a movie, this song would get in there one way or another.

Evolution of the Blog, with Roman Metaphors

After a hot start to the blog this year (first 3 posts in 3 weeks), my frequency had begun to dwindle, much like the decline of gladiator activity in the Colosseum in the fifth century A.D.  But like the battles that were temporarily revived soon after, the blog is back.  This may be analogy overkill, a word that could have also been used by medieval Roman intellectuals, for they feared the bloody battles had a negative impact on the values of participants and spectators.

Basically, we are at the Dublin hostel right now, counting the minutes until we can take the 3 a.m. shuttle to the airport for our flight to Paris.  We checked out at 10:30 a.m. yesterday because we are cheap and didn't want to pay for a final night, but we snuck back in to stay away from the Dublin cold and expensive pub brews.

We streamed a bunch of college basketball games and got in our recommended five fruits for the day with some delicious berry and pear Irish cider (and a banana).

The Pantheon blew my mind, and this will go down as yet another blog post in which I wanted to try to describe the awe-inspiring structure, and failed.

Until the next time...

Dublin

Scott and Dan here, reporting from Dublin as planned.  This is a very good thing, as Rome's winding, busy streets had as much killing potential as no-handed, downhill bicycling.  Worst analogy yet.  But seriously, if you go to Rome, avoid consumption of gelato while walking around.  You can easily enter an alternate universe of gelato jubilee, and get run over by motorcycle or automobile.  The locals (if you can find any in Rome, that is..) seem to have an understanding with the drivers, and simply walk onward, fearlessly, unscathed.  My crossings of the street had the feel of those coarsely-shot, rocky Any Given Sunday football scenes.

Speaking of alternate universes, START RATIONING.  BE PREPARED FOR THE END.  THE SCIENTISTS ARE NOT TELLING US EVERYTHING.

I'll fill in the gaps here.  So Scott and I were cruising around Rome a couple of days ago (he sets a torrid pace), trying to fit in the Vatican museum.  We were giving out serious tourist vibes, maps out, clothes not clinging to our bodies mercilessly (image of Scott's tree trunks in tight, European jeans...WOOF), myself donning 4euro plastic glasses purchased from the ubiquitous street peddlers.

A middle-aged woman greeted us in American English.  She kindly informed us that the Vatican museum was closed, so we would have to try again the next day.  I asked her what she was doing in Rome.  She was a tour guide, she explained, who grew up in L.A.  That's when things got weird.

She went on to say that she flew in to Europe on 06/06/06, because there were ''cheap flights'' (right...) and anyways, the devil and her had a deal worked out in which they leave each other alone.  ''I came over to connect some dots,'' she added.

My eyes remained locked to hers and I feigned open-minded interest (ok the ''interest'' part I did not have to fake... I love encounters like this) because I am a softie and I try to avoid giving off the "You are clinically insane" message, even if I am sure of the diagnosis.  However, out of the corner of my eye, I could see Scott shuffling around a bit, as well as some facial adjustments that I figured to be cynical (and merited) smirking.

Additional points from Constellation Lady:
- A ticket to the underworld can be obtained.  She did not provide more details; I would hook you guys up if I knew more, and you know that.
- All of the presidents are related.  Obama, Taft... Recessive genes make for crazy times!
- The truth is on youtube.
- I can be a servant of God.  I just have to keep my mind open, and not believe everything I hear (yes, her inclusion of this advice could be classified as this Alanis Morsette song).

Viewers wishing to know more about the truth can visit projectcamelot.org.

 The conclusion of our exchange involved us walking away slowly, and her saying that she hoped we didn't think she was crazy.  I meekly replied, "No, no.  Projectcamelot.org.  I'll check it out."
____________________

Let me just say that the countries of Japan and New Zealand are in my good graces at the moment.  In Rome, we kicked it a bit with Yoshi from Tokyo, a 23-year old who said "Wow!" to about everything we had to say.  Great kid.

And then there was Byron from New Zealand.  A slightly overweight, shaggy-haired graffic design artist, he was doing what Australians and New Zealanders tend to do:  travelling the world until no more money remained, and then heading back home.  He arrived at the hostel our last night in Rome, already drunk from dinner.  If I was making a light-hearted romance movie in which a girl brought her beau over to meet the family, I would cast Byron as the loveable but slightly abrasive little brother who manages to put the beau in uncomfortable situations.

They were two more fantastic hosteling diplomats.

Slán, my friends.  There's sleep to be slept and Guinnesses to be consumed.

From Rome

Bonjourno,

We arrived in Rome yesterday at one in the afternoon, to sunny, mild weather. Unfortunately, it was straight to the hostel beds for us, as Scott and I had gotten two hours of sleep combined our last night in Madrid. The sleep deprivation made for a most unenjoyable, head-bobbing Ryanair flight into Rome. The baby being passed back and forth over my head between two Spanish women did not help my cause.

To review our stops so far:

Lisbon is a phenomenal, vibrant city that had me at hello. It has earthy hues to it, with clay-red roofs resting on top of yellow, orange, and salmon-pink houses. These colors, with a touch of Tagus River thrown in, result in a tranquility that I haven't felt in more bustling European cities. Thin, winding streets rise and fall between apartment buildings that people are lucky enough to live in. The city offers a wonderful view across the river of lush green trees surrounding a massive, white monument commemorating Christopher Columbus.

Madrid, on the other hand, allows me to begin a new list from my European travels: Cities that I Do Not Like. I have never gone to a European city that did not stimulate me in the slightest. And then came Madrid.

OK I have to go explore Rome. Talk soon.

the ''...'' (see prior post) explained

So I came on here, at 2:40 a.m., to get in touch with you folks from Madrid.


Unfortunately, after the requisite nba.com visit, it brought me to 2:55 a.m., at which point a Spanish hombre came down and told us we had five minutes left on the computer.


Thus, this is my first five minute post.


Basically, the title of this post suggests my intention to elaborate upon my post from Lisbon, which in fact was supposed to be continued that very night, until we fell into some beer pong with some English chaps.


Probably a good thing that I'm getting the boot right now, as Scott and I are 0-for-2 in waking up for hostel free breakfasts on this trip. 

Hope to try back tomorrow.  Buenos noches.

Greetings from Lisbon

Hey all,

In the spirit of blogging comraderie, as my travel mate be bloggin' (and I hope you be bloggin' too), I'm going to go with shorter, more frequent posts on this European voyage.  We departed today, bright and early, from Lyon.  I got the recommended one and a half hours of sleep this morning, until my 5:45 a.m. alarm aggressively summoned me from my teasing slumbers.  Three eggs apiece later, Scott and I were on our way to Lyon's airport.  Rejecting my 24 years of experience with sleep, I exclaimed that I was in form, and that this would most likely continue throughout the day.  Scott, the realist, said that he was exhausted.  

We both crashed hard on the one and a half hour flight, and we rolled in to some fine, palm tree- accompanied Lisboan weather.  The sun was shining, and it had to be about 55 degrees, which is feeling pretty warm these days.  On the bus ride from the airport, the palm trees that were flanking the artsy city murals painted on the sides of buildings (all four or five stories worth, by the way) reminded me of a glorious, irresponsible Spring Break destination by the name of Panama City, and I was in my happy place.  

This month of March, 2011, bodes to be a good one... 

Untitled

Hey,

Ca fait longtemps.  It’s been a while.  It’s currently 3:15 a.m.; after a brief return to local hours, I’m back on Chicago time, as they keep telling me not to come to work.  I actually mean it when I say that I wish I had work today (Or at least I did upon starting the sentence, but I am now shaking my head back and forth.  Join me in this head-shaking, and if possible, perhaps if you are in a university library, turn your gaze upon a sorority babe who is speaking loudly about how she has just finished at/is going to go to the gym, because no, she has not earned that body pumping 4 pound dumbells), but given the counsel of Theoretical Future 9:00-5:00 Dan, I’m going to enjoy this day off.

On the program for today are four to five hours of sleep, to permit me to break out of the cycle at night.  I shall then, weather permitting, bike along the rivers of Lyon.  “What are the Rhone and the Saone?”  Very good.  I shall perhaps stop at a café, where I will read the free Lyonnais newspapers and keep hammering away at those sudokus (I’m obsessed).  A beautiful barista will approach me with the bill, and I will lean in and whisper, “Tu ne peux pas commencer un feu sans etincelle” (You can’t start a fire without a spark), and bam!  Montage of us traveling throughout Europe, and the rest is history.  That’s the tentative plan for today.

Moving on:

The Pants Paradox

I am harshly unforgiving and rigid towards those who do not check their pockets before throwing pants in the wash.  To complain to me of having erred in this task would be akin to complaining about the weight of your backpack to your four-star general, Vietnam veteran father.  Will not even feign consolation.  I may not be the most immaculate, handy individual on the domestic front (as I currently draw looks of sheer amazement from my two female roommates on a daily basis), but to check your pants pockets is just engrained in me.

If I could bring this pants-in-the-laundry attitude to the classroom, I would be fit to be a teacher for life.  But I just don’t have this intrinsic desire for order.  I am not going to berate a student who does not have a piece of paper for an exercise, because at the end of the day, it just doesn’t irritate me too much.  Some of the teachers I work with…when a student so much as drags a chair leg on the floor, they lay into him/her with a level of anger that I have not experienced since my terribly sore loser days in college, on the hardwood and on the beer pong table.  

In the under-privileged environment that I happen to have been placed in, these teachers are dead-on in their approach.  Their classrooms are more well-behaved than mine (although I’ll grant myself a slight handicap, as my students look upon a 24-year old who speaks their language with a goofy accent… not ideal for garnering respect of these ruffians.)

Furthering the paradox, I like what I hear about the olden days.  Nuns beating children senseless with yard sticks.  I think this raises the bar and forces a level of respect and accountability. 

I just won’t be the one to administer these beatings, physical or verbal. 

***

Text Message of the Week: 

“Take care of your bottom in the basketball.” 

Received from a French girl when I told her last weekend that I was going to a basketball practice.  Earlier that day I had informed her of my previous physical therapy to get my glute muscles to activate so as to avoid added stress on my back.  Bring out the “lazy ass” jokes.  Not funny.  Goodnight.

Dreams

France as the sole subject of this blog be damned.  This post is primarily about a recent dream.  

I have a weekly event known as No-Alarm Wednesday, as it is my one day off during the week.  This week, there was a bonus round:  No-Alarm Thursday.

Many students were on a field trip on Thursday, cutting out two of my three classes.  Now, with a commute of nearly an hour to get to my middle school, to go there for an hour of class was a most undesirable outcome.  I honed in on a 60ish year-old woman (and that is the first time I have strung those words together) named Dominique, whose class on Thursday was the only obstacle to a glorious reprise of No-Alarm Wednesday.

On Tuesday, I saw her in the hallway and wasted no time in mentioning that there was a field trip on Thursday for the other classes.  "So I'll just come for your class," I said, casting the rod.  She grabbed my fishing pole, slammed it over her knee, and said, "Ah, c'est ca.  Pas de souci, ca marche.  Je suis un peu pressee la." ("Yes, that's right.  No worries, that works.  I'm in a bit of a hurry here.")  She sprinkled the remnants on the ground, and was on her way.  This wasn't over, Dominique.  

This very same, otherwise sweet lady gives me a ride to the nearby metro station every time I'm at the school.  So it came down to the six o'clock drop-off, when I desperately reiterated, "Alright, well, just your class on Thursday then."  And she responded with some mots doux (gentle words), perhaps the most doux that I have heard since arriving in Lyon:  "Ce n'est pas la peine de venir.  Je m'en occuperai."  ("It's not worth coming.  I'll take care of them.")  Hook, line, and sinker.  

As a result of this low-key work week, I'm coming off a week of wild, non-cyclical sleep.  7:30 a.m. bedtimes; some naps.

I haven't seen the likes of this since my roommate saw very little daylight one week, my junior year of college.  The highlight of his week was when the house was awakened at 10 a.m. to the sound of aluminum cans pelting the walls of our dilapidated, beloved house.  After another nuit blanche ("white night," which means "all-nighter"), he was slap-shotting crunched-up aluminum cans in our backyard, with Christmas music blaring from the iPod dock.  I just wanted to give a shout-out to college, which I miss dearly.

Anyways, when my sleep schedule becomes erratic, some mad libs of dreams come about.  My most recent dream went as follows:

I was at a high school basketball game with some friends, and I was legitimately wondering whether it was still cool for us to be there.  Next thing I know, my mom is waking me up (in the dream, not on the real), asking me what I did last night.  She sat on my bed (later to become a bunk bed... watch your head, Mom), and just then a white, marble-looking insect resembling a Mancala piece crawled up the wall.

I turned away, presumably, as the next time I looked, this insect had become furry, still predominately white but with black spots.  I exclaimed to my mom that this bug looked like a rabbit, and naturally this shaped the following events.  

Suddenly, there is a bunny sitting on the top bunk, and I can see through the wooden bars.  I start punching the bars, enraged by this unlikely transformation.  The climax of the dream- the "You can't handle the truth!" moment- was when I said, "This is just great, Mom!  Add this to your encyclopedia of life:  There are now bugs that turn into rabbits!"  I cannot often quote dreams, as I either don't remember or fall back asleep before transcribing the events.  On this occasion though, I woke up with a smile after my impassioned rant.  I thought my line had some zip to it.

At our high school psychology fair, my good buddy and I chose the very abstract, impossible-to-receive-less-than-a-B subject of dream interpretation. Despite our grueling session of research the night before the fair, I have no theories regarding this dream.  Do you?

***

After an awkward pause in which she judges my choice to include this entry in the blog, a female blog reader, obviously gifted at making conversations in these types of situations, says:  "Oooh, oooh, Dan, do you ever dream in French?"  (She smiles at me with her eyes, and runs her hand through flowing, golden hair)

A:  Yes, I do dream in French from time to time, but don't get excited, missie.  It often involves those around me not understanding a word that I'm saying, which of course is enraging.

Dan's Finances, and Whatever Subjects Should Follow

[The original entry date is January 5th, 2011.  It has been reposted here because blogspot was tweaking out due to the use of italics and accents on letters.  I am as disappointed as you are, and hate that the four words just below are not italicized.]

Bonjour mes chers amis,

I'm packing a lot of punch into the salutations lately (my one other entry), so I'll keep going with that.  If you understood the salutation, pat yourself on the back:  your junior high and high school French courses/resignation from the "popular group" tryouts (Spanish course takers) were not without value.

I've embarked upon an exciting January of frugalness, due to some quick spending of the December paycheck.  Here are some causes of my plight:
1.  My rent was bumped up from 225 to 300 euros.  I initially lived with three others, whereas now I have just two roommates.  (-300)
2.  I noticed that a Madrid-Rome flight had only three remaining seats, so I had to book two seats for my friend and I (more on upcoming vacation later on).  If the flights arriving in Madrid or departing from Rome sell out, this will go down as a mistake.  (-108)
3.  I'm sick of eating refrigerated, previously-cooked eggs right after working out.  My weight room is equipped with a refrigerator, and I often head straight to work from there.  It was time for a change.  (-63)

In other news, I am participating in an endeavor that I deem to be quite important.  Since early November, I have been tutoring a 46-year old doctor who speaks limited English.  I go over to his apartment at least once a week to eat dinner with the doctor, his wife, and their twin 18 year-old daughters.  All the while, of course, we speak English and I note any phrases that give them problems.  Thus, I benefit from a nice home-cooked meal, the company of a great family, and some euros.

Recently, we have moved on from simple conversations, to the French-English translation of an abstract for a medical article that he will soon submit [this is the aforementioned important endeavor... not the sitting down for free dinners (although that too is important to me, because the quiches are amazing)].  The article is about a potential treatment for patients suffering from allergies to apples, this of course being a leading cause of griping among the wealthy.  Should the doctor's abstract be accepted, he would head to Istanbul this summer to present his Elwood-polished English, and I might get a postcard out of it.  I should really be working on the translation right now, in fact, but I owe you people an entry.  Also, I would really like the counter of visits to the blog to surpass 10,000 by the end of the year.  I just picked that number, but it sounds doable.

About the upcoming vacation that I alluded to... It will begin on February 26th.  My large football player of an American friend will be coming to Europe, and I will travel with him during my two weeks off.  We will see how he does with European portions.  The itinerary is as follows:  Lisbon, Madrid, definitely Rome (due to Reason 2 above), and Dublin.  Stories should arise from this voyage.

I recently went on a tour of a prison in Vaulx-en-Velin.  I took pictures of the premises, and would like to share them with you:

Nope, that is actually one of my two schools.  I do not know if these pictures capture the dismal atmosphere of the school.  I do know that literally the first thought that popped into my head upon arriving was "Face/Off," the 1997 action film with John Travolta and the always-horrible Nicolas Cage, who also got a shout-out in last year's blog.  (What if this blog got so big that Nicolas Cage read it?  New goal.)  In the movie, there is a high security prison in which the convicts' boots are magnetized so as to not allow them to lift their feet off the ground, which would be handy at this school, with the terrors running around and all.  The building is essentially one large hall, with two stories of walkways above, hugging the perimeter such as in, well, a prison.

This post lacks a little beef (there's some French rap for you), but I've got important medical documents to work on.

Bonne Annee,
Dan

For nobody in particular, but especially you, Russ.

Ramblings

Bar Afterthoughts Thoughts After a Bar

Bonjour à tous,

It is 00:21 here (that’s 5:21pm to you, Chicagoans), and I am looking on with weary, post-Happy Hour eyes.  But Phil gives me strength.  Despite this drum-infused strength, the title of this Microsoft Word document is “January 12^th blog attempt,” so if you are reading these words, it means I got hot late, Hibachi-style.  (Cyber chest bump if you understood that.)  Thus, I press on with the hope of triumphing over my doubts, and the desire for a tangible finished product may result in publication of a sub par entry.  Alright, absolved from pressure and ready to go.

At the bar tonight, I watched a pair of dogs flirt for hours on end.  A homeless-looking, grayed, go-getter of a hound worked relentlessly on a beautiful Black Lab.  The lab was playing the game, giving him just enough time at the helm to leave him wanting more, and then backing off.  But the tramp did not back off.  He wanted to be her dog.  What I’m trying to tell you is, I don’t have much to write about right now.  But also, that dogs are allowed in bars in Europe, which is awesome.  

And don’t be a passive blog reader; if you can find motivation from this tale, go right ahead.

Well, might as well mosey on back to what brings me to France in the first place (theoretically):  teaching English.  Lulled into a false sense of security by a calm sea of bi-focaled cinquième students, I hastily and irresponsibly labeled the entirety of my student body as “angels.”  I rescind this first impression, as the troisième classes have gotten comfortable with me and I have been awakened from my blissful dream.  [Cinquième is the equivalent of seventh-grade; troisième the ninth-grade]  My goal with some of these older classes, who are unanimously indifferent towards learning, is to finish the period.  “But Dan,” you say, “What about Michelle Pfeiffer in Dangerous Minds?  She really got through to them.”  That, my friends, is the stuff of Hollywood.

Luckily, there are students like Andrew.  He came to France from Iraq a few years back, and is a year behind due to problems with his French.  This round, little guy does not stop smiling.  I’m always very excited when he pops in my room in between periods to chat with me and work on his English.  The other day, some of the older girls and Andrew were in my room, and they condescendingly asked him why he was there.  “Parce qu’il est mon pote” (because he is my friend), I said, and Andrew’s smile grew even bigger.  So although I have some problems with the students, there are indeed cool moments.  Take that, Michelle.  

Since you’re wondering, on the fashion front, if France is a dog park, I’m this guy.

Not so much this year, but going into last year, I was on a quest to better my wardrobe.  To get Frenched out a bit.  Unfortunately, there are no improvements to be spoken of.  Jeans or corduroys and a tee-shirt, and I’m on my way.  If I can make it to that January paycheck, I may be taking advantage of some serious sales that are going down in Lyon.  Worry not, you'll be in the know.

Be well, take care, and safe travels.