The Eagle Has Landed

Remember Francis Gary Powers, the U2 pilot who was shot down over Soviet Russia by a SAM we didn’t know they had? Naturellement, he was vilified in the United States for singing like a caged canary in the hands of Ruskies, but I feel for him now. On what was a relatively short trans-Atlantic flight, my ass gave out before the 747 did. Ten hours in the air, and I was ready for a short hop to bed; ten hours over Russia and a missile up the tailpipe and it’s no longer surprising that Mr. Powers was ready to capitulate as well.

Of course, I surrendered pretty quickly, but I still had an RER ride to Gare du Nord and a Metro hop to Madeleine, neither of which were facilitated by my lack of usable French skills. A half-hour ride and what in the States would have been 10 minutes of buying tickets stretched into about three and a half hours of French-English dictionary-toting frenzy. In case you were wondering, voie means a train track. After stuttering je besoin une carte orange, which may very well make no grammatical sense whatsoever, to a ticket agent who seemed quite game for some sport with an American, I got my Juillet pass and found my train. At the Madeleine stop, I managed to make ou est Rue Duphot? understandable, and found the Burgundy.

Checking in took a matter of minutes, and at 4:30 I was in bed. I know they say you’re supposed to wait until at least 5:00 to counter the jet lag, but I’m a rebel.

Days in Paris: one. Sights seen: Madeleine. While walking by.

C'est Madeleine

Skunkenstein!

Poetry in motion is quite the overused cliché, so I shall spare you the comment, but needless to say, it is one thing to see a car sitting still at a show and quite another to see it moving. Show cars are appreciated calmly, show cars on the freeway are greeted with enthusiasm and perhaps even measured use of one’s horn in acknowledgement.

So where does that leave actually experiencing the car? Especially when you manage to take one of San Francisco’s most scenic roads, a serpentine series of hairpins that double-dog dare you to go too fast while admiring the view. Driving a Charger at all in San Francisco seems no mean feat; driving the Charger on that road as if you’re Swede Savage is another thing altogether, and it makes me wish that I could do the same with a car that I can call mine.

All in all, I’d say Dave and I had an enjoyable jaunt through the Bay Area – plus some very high quality crab louie – and I came back with some pretty cool pictures of a real R/T SE that’s not afraid of being driven. It's a perfect way to say goodbye to San Francisco.

Comme ci comme ca

I met my roommate. As it turns out, he is a self-acknowledged stoner, which I’m sure is reinforced by the fact that everything I own now reeks of weed due solely to proximity. And even though he is from UCLA, it turns out that my new roommate was better able to illustrate the comical properties of the Berkeley commune than even the legion of bums or the hare krishnas.

After all, it is only in Berkeley where you can start out at a research university, work your way through a sea of homeless, hippies, handicaps, and affirmies of every stripe, passing more vintage clothing stores than Starbucks, and hit up not one, but two cannabis clubs, all on foot.

But more importantly, I started French classes today. We are taking half a semester of basic French and putting it on frappe. We’ll be done with eight weeks’ worth of class in one-fourth the time. Nonetheless, I’ve found that I take to French fairly well. I am not sure if it is the Latin in my background – the first time that has become useful outside of inscriptions on buildings from centuries past – or if it is because so much of French has the same roots as English. Either way, I am getting in the zone.

And this is all as it should be, because I will find myself in the city of lights very soon. I will be staying in le premiere arrondissement, about three blocks from the Place de la Concorde and half a mile from Le Louvre, from what I can tell on the map. I’ll also be close to Notre Dame a la Isle de la Cite, the Arc de Triomphe will be about a mile and a half hike down the Champs Elysees, and the Tour Eiffel will be just across the Champs Mars on the rive gauche. On the map, look for the border of the 1st and 8th districts, halfway to the Seine. That's where I'll be.



I plan on making Paris my own, just as I was able to do with Boston; it is one thing to visit a city, or even to exist in it, as I did in Austin, but it is quite another to set out to see, understand and own the city. Despite having spent little more than three months in Boston, I add it to my ever-expanding list of hometowns. I hope to be able to do the same with Paris, and, toujour l’optimiste, I think I will be able to, for Paris is, to borrow from Hemingway, the moveable feast.

I am also hoping to make some side trips while I am there, one to the South of France, via Toulouse, where I will be able to drop in on Lauren, and another to northern Italy, where Joan is interning in Verona. We should be able to take the short trip to Venice, which is one of the destinations that has always been among the foremost in my travel desires. I am also thinking of stopping in on Jessica and Kelly in Pamplona, Spain, since the running of the bulls happens in July, but this is tentative, as I won’t let anything interfere with Bastille Day. Isn’t it ironic how I will be closer to my siblings as we all travel halfway around the world than I am for the rest of the year? To have to coordinate a trip to Toulouse just to see Lauren for the second time this year…well, that’s weird enough for Berkeley.

I haven’t called Dave yet, because I’m currently sitting through 6 hours of class each day. Rest assured that I will when the weekend comes around, since I want a ride in the Stratocharger even more than you want to hear about it. I’ll be sure to take plenty of pictures.

I already miss mon frere de l’autre mere, German, ma chere, Tina, et mon camarads in Los Angeles. Merci beaucoup to Brett. Take good care of mon chat, “Ravages.” I’ll see you all again before you know it. A toute a l’heure.

A Worker's Paradise

Welcome to the People’s Republik of Berkeley. Perhaps welcome is too strong a term for a guy who, without so much as thinking twice about it, donned his USMC (Semper Fi) t-shirt this morning before flying out to the Bay Area. What’s this? An American who supports America? In Berkeley? Who’s the freak now?

Entre nous, had the Marine Corps shirt been the result of an enlightened frolic through the closet, I might have expected to be viewed as I was: the obvious outsider. Such at it was, however, it took me several awkward minutes and several more awkward stares before comprehension rose above my horizon. Nevertheless, Berkeley seems to have that effect on an outsider, military garb or no. It takes more than one trip through the streets and alleys around the University of Kalifornia before it dawns on you that there is no method to the madness, nor is there an escape, for Berkeley is not a city that hides its fruit-basket tendencies, nor does it tacitly acknowledge them and move on. No, Berkeley revels in its insanity.

Why won’t Berkeley fall into the ocean when the “big one” hits? Because there’s a wingnut on every corner.