The Quiet American

The Quiet American

“Well, some of them are really, reallly rude.”
The sudden loud English breaks my reverie. I’m in Paris, and I was staring off into the bottle-dotted depths of the Seine outside of the sort of hostel known for housing loud Americans, Aussies and any other twenty-something who honestly believes they’re “traveling” and not just on holiday. The bar inside is decked out in colorful plastic furniture with clean chrome lines and crushed velvet accents. The music they are blast-casting out here on to the patio is bassy and basic but the waves of the river, and all the rubbished pooled at the base of a nearby bridge, move out of sync.
“Like, I took a train once between San Francisco and LA and, you know, it’s like a five hour ride.”
“Rhite, rhite…” another man tries, in heavily accented English.
             “And this girl was putting on makeup—literally, the entire time!”
“Oh vov.”
“I think her tits were fake too. It was brilliant.”
The Englishman’s head is shaven and he is wide enough to play rugby, with a huge yellow Nike swoosh plastered across his red tee shirt and a devil crest on his left sleeve.
I cringe and shift. In my experience, Manchester United fans are the Yankee fans of the football world. His friend by contrast is slighter, with shaggy brown hair, a diamond earring and an endless sort of summer tan. His shirt is teal, without writing; he keeps twisting his facial hair up close to his chin. They didn’t come here together, and they won’t be taking the same tours in the morning. For now, it is enough to simply laugh and smoke with a stranger in a strange land. I’m down wind, but they don’t notice.
“I fink da ting viv da States es dey are da best in da voard and sometime dey act may-bee better, like better den us?”
“Well, it’s like if they are the most powerful nation in the world, you’d expect them to be best at everything,” the native speaker interprets.
“Yace, but al-so dey is arro—arrogant?”
“Quite right. They think they can just go over to Iraq, or wherever else really, and take whatever they want.” He drinks deeply from his pint, gulping revoltingly.
“Yace and I see dis youtube vid-yo, and dey are askin American to point to Irak and, and dey don’t!”
They laugh again.
I make up a wide range of angry excuses in my head for why the dumbest people in my country always stop to talk to camera crews. But when I can’t make any of them stick, I go back to resenting their cigarette smoke.
“Well it goes back to what I was saying before, with that woman on the train. I said to her, ‘Excuse me, I think you’re in my seat’, and she said, ‘I paid for a ticket too!’ Just like that, went right back to putting on her makeup! Can you believe it?”
“Yace, yace. And, and I see also dis vid-yo vere dey ask American vere are da con-contry vut start vid ‘U’ and dey know only one!”
“Yeah, there are loads of them, aren’t there? Uganda…”
“Ukraine.” He says with a nod of certainty.
“Uruguay. Loads of them…”
You forgot the United Arab Emirate, dickwad. I tell myself sulkily.
“Yace, yace, lohdz.” The chrome on his red plastic chair scrapes the new concrete as he rises, pulling up his belted pants as he goes. “I get nother beer. You vant?”
The first waves his hand away. I find I am looking down at the menu—a
boilerplate selection of drinks and snacks. I’m trying to calm down; to be fair. It isn’t without reason that these stereotypes of my countrymen exist, and it isn’t as though I didn’t just make assumptions about that prick based on his tee shirt.
But America is like my mother. Now, my mother is crazy, I know that. My saying that isn’t based on a two week vacation where I met her for the first time, or something she posted on Youtube. I’m not the fighting type—all I’m saying is, if you’re gunna criticize her, you better be ready to finish what you start.
Je demande, “Excuse moi, tu a bu cette bier?” I was even kind enough to point at his empty bottle.
“Um pardon, uh sorry, oh beer, oh yes! Yeah, this beer!”
Sa bier.”
“Yes, this beer, uh, oui!”
Alore, c’est bien?”
Bien? Oh um, yeah, uh oui.” Lots of head nodding and then, “Alright.” Plus his best international, “thumbs-up.”
Mais, bon. La vue de la Sein c’est tres agreeable, non?”
“Um, sorry ?”
“You don’t speak French?” I ask in a contrived half-accent. The way his eyes light up, I surmise he just plain doesn’t speak with women.
“Oh um, yes, ah, a little,” he says in English, pantomiming a pinch.
En fait, tu ne parles pas en Francais?” I say, shaking my head, again guiding him to an answer I will accept.
“Um, no, not really well, I mean... no, nah.” He shrugs up his shoulders self consciously.
“Its just interesting to me,” I say, fully American, “I heard you talking about the States, but you speak no French.”
Quick enough he catches on.
“Fair point.” He smiles down at his ashtray, finally extinguishing his fag.
Et tu habites ou?”
”Uh, come again?” he asks, laughing. 
“Oh, sorry—I forgot. You live where?”
“Oh, England,” he says, his coffee colored teeth proud.
“That’s very interesting. And your friend, where was he from?”
“Oh, him? Ukraine. He’ll be back, um…. Would you like a beer?”
“No thank you. La bier ici, c’est tres cher pour moi.” After a blank look, “Too expensive.”
“Oh. Right.”
“You know it’s very interesting, I’ve had a hard time finding people to practice my French with. But everyone speaks English.”
He laughs a little.
“I don’t think I would go to a country where I wasn’t willing to speak the language. I mean, imagine coming all the way to Paris and not be able to comment on the loveliness of the river.”
“You think it’s lovely, do you?”
“Oh yes, it’s quite pleasant at night. People bring bottles of wine and blankets and play Pétanque, and—“
“Play what?”
”Um, it’s rather like lawn bowling.”
“Oh. I hadn’t noticed. How long have you been here?”
“Don’t know. Bout’ three days, I guess. I haven’t been staying here of course. But you can get une demi for only 2 euros down there at that pub, too.” I say pointing at a row of buildings not 50 meters off. “It’s all very charming.”
“Sorry, a demi what?”
“A beer, you know, une demi. It’s just the cheep stuff. But you could pay what you’re paying here for three Kronenbourgs down there. How long have you been here?”
“Oh, I don’t know... a week. I leave in the morning,” he adds, altogether too hopefully. When I don’t smile, he goes on, “But you, you’ve only been here three days have you? Brilliant. And you saw this all in a guide book, then?”
“Guidebook? Heh, I left that paper weight in Spain. Enjoy your drink.”

Wakefulness

Being awake is stupid
              Like Clinically proven to be stupid, stupid.
                    Hmm,..Coffee? Ok, but today I'm feeling Turkish--two more lumps, please.
           Just to warn you, if my face doesn't fit in the cup, you're doing it wrong.
         Good man. Now be a dear and fetch me some yogurt. 
          




So I finally saw Inception and it follows therefore that dreams have been on my mind. I won't ruin the movie for the 5 or 6 of you less proactive than I. But I will say: masterful.

5 Fave dream movies in order of awesome
*Inception
*The Science of Sleep
*Waking Life


Ok, so I've only got three.
After my Zack died, he was obviously in my dreams a lot. He kept telling me he wasn't dead and the dreams didn't stop until I told him that he was. They didn't haunt or bother me, they just were. I kind of craved them. Its not the first time in my life I wanted to dream about people who have left my here and now. How tempting it would be to keep someone alive there.. 

Things are totally crazy pants here thanks to prep-work for the wedding. Thankfully, I am still able to waste several valuable hours each day working on my carpal tunnel. This morning is the first one all week (umm for the last three weeks) I was up and stayed up before 11. Ever since today, I've been trying  to be a good girl and stay awake after Sebastien leaves for work.

But in all fairness, we spent a lot of money on our bed and bedding and I just can't stomach walking around the house and letting a precious resource like that go to waste. Think about it, who will keep the bed warm until he gets home?  That right there is a full time job.  Plus this way, if I'm still in it, I don't even need to make it. Win win, clearly. Ah well, I think I'll go read a book down by the pool. My fingers need a rest and anyway and I've earned some relax time.

Ask me about my upcoming guest post. No, no, ask me to post more comics. Ok, I'll do it. But only cuz you asked nice. After the pool though, I deserve this.

Summerteeth


  1. "Can't Stand It" (Tweedy, Bennett) – 3:46
  2. "She's a Jar" (Tweedy, Bennett) – 4:43
  3. "A Shot in the Arm" (Tweedy, Bennett, Stirratt) – 4:19
  4. "We're Just Friends" (Tweedy, Bennett, Stirratt) – 2:44
  5. "I'm Always in Love" (Tweedy, Bennett) – 3:41
  6. "Nothing'severgonnastandinmyway(again)" (Tweedy, Bennett, Stirratt) – 3:20
  7. "Pieholden Suite" (Tweedy, Bennett) – 3:26
  8. "How to Fight Loneliness" (Tweedy, Bennett) – 3:53
  9. "Via Chicago" (Tweedy) – 5:33
  10. "ELT" (Tweedy, Bennett) – 3:46
  11. "My Darling" (Tweedy, Bennett) – 3:38
  12. "When You Wake Up Feeling Old" (Tweedy) – 3:56
  13. "Summer Teeth" (Tweedy, Bennett) – 3:21
  14. "In a Future Age" (Tweedy, Bennett) – 2:57
  15. Untitled (silence, hidden track) – 0:23
  16. "Candyfloss" (hidden track) (Tweedy, Bennett) – 2:57
  17. "A Shot in the Arm" (alternate version, hidden track) (Tweedy, Bennett, Stirratt) – 3:54

To live is the only adventure you have left

You may not know this about me, but all my great adventures and their subsequent trails have been blazed thanks to metaphorical arrows of  reckless and ill-informed ideas, slung blindfoldedly at gas covered piles of flammable--in the dead of darkest night. For clarification, see below
Grand adventures and the circumstances which beget them:
  • Talking a lot while drunk
  • The result of an argument
  • Song lyrics
  • Passing whim    
It follows therefore that at the honest onset of adventures, and I don't mean the fun packing and dreaming part. No the honest onset folks: the tickets bought, my ass is in the air or on the train; in the back of a car, or van....nervous as hell in a gypsy cab or thanks to my friend Mr thumb, riding shotgun in Optimus Prime's face--in short, it's real. It's honest. It has just begun.
Figure B





Figure A
This is is the moment when Figure A becomes Figure B
You see, Figure A represents the time and place in the story where my hair looks sweet, and my face is that perfect shade of arrogant that makes people say, "Damn, she should really consider running in a local election." Whereas Figure B represents the instant where I realize I haven't actually thought things through. There is no thought bubble there (fittingly) but you can tell I'm thinking, "In the name of all things holy, how the fuck did I get myself into this mess?" You should try that one sometimes, it's way weightier than "Omg." 
Now, before you get all kinds of judgy mc f.u. on me, let me state for the record, that the not thinking things through is actually a failsafe, my friends. 
By doing so I have no expectations. So I get there and a van full of Italian says, "Hey you want ride up mountain?" and I'm all, "grazie" Or I've got this big heavy box and it's late and cold and this DC dude is like, "Have you two heard of Gypsy cabs?"  
         And        I        think        to        myself,        what        a        wonderful        world.

No expectations has lead to some classic moments in my life, great conversations and as of yet, resulted in exactly no deaths. I've slept under a boardwalk on the Jersey shore and even commandeered a vehicle in long-beach California. If that wasn't cool enough, I've done loads of other shit I don't even feel like bragging about. All great adventures however, have started with foolishness and not resulted in death. So I think I may be on to something here.


Take college as an example:
I was scared of college. 5 of my six older siblings were high school dropouts. One of my sisters got into college on a sports scholarship and partied her way into full time work. So my high school guidance councilor got me into a two year school. Which, as it turns out was way too easy for me if I am to be judge by my grades. I was sick of living in Boston and my favorite professor at the time made me apply to Antioch College in fuckin, east Guam Ohio--and she totally spoon fed me. All I did was write down my social, she did the whole effin thing. I don't even go to see the college they just sent me a tee shirt in the mail which matched my anti-sports bias at the time and I lazily accepted their acceptance. Naturally, the night I showed up to meet my hall advisor, who was drunk, stoned and smoking, I thought to myself, "I've made a terrible mistake." But it all worked out, like it ought. And I learned a bunch of cool shit. So I'm happy.

I'm saying all this because I have prematurely come to the figure B phase of getting married and leaving the country. Its not the married or the leaving. Its the state recognizing it as legal, the country of France recognizing it as legal, the cake, flowers, aunts, location and other stuff i never wanted to focus on. The really good parts are still really good. So many of my awesome friends are going to come here and help me overeat all over town! I love the person I have chosen as my mate, I think we're well mated and he's actually my mate..in the British sense (and the biblical).  But I also need to find work and that means that I also need to work on that. We just had a house guest for the week and I am really hoping that this next week is my week to kick things into real-time-work-ethic-mode. For now though, I think I'll go down to my favorite book store, slurp coffees and wait for Sebastien to be finished with son travail
So that we can do the things that make us feel good, when we're alone together.
And obviously, I meant sex.

Falling and the Fells


In a world where logic reigned supreme, two constants when at odds would hold each other in a stalemated state of limbo. Such as, a cat whom by nature always lands on its feet, when paired with a buttered piece of toast, which by nature always lands butter side down, would have no choice but to hover above the earth, if tied to the back of the aforementioned and for our purrrrrposes,  falling cat.
File:Flying cat.jpg
Mathematical proof:
The diagram at right shows that FBT is the force exerted by the butter so that it falls down, and FC are the forces the cat's feet exert so that it doesn't break its ass when falling. The following equation:
math
Such that Θ = π + 3μ√2 gives us that when:
math
The cat defies gravity.

I think of this well worn trope because I've always fancied myself that cat who never lands on my back. Mais, seemingly,  I may have tied a frickin piece of powdered toast-man there just to make things good and hard(ish)..


Stated plainly:
Summer school finished on Friday and I will collect one final paycheck before I am unemployed. This small personal tragedy was embarked upon willingly so that I could move to a different country. Howevski, now that Sebastien has a job he is less than excited to move before his contract ends in October. Don't ask me why, it seems job title related. And then there are all the kids I have influenced, guided and adored who will no longer lend their smiles and their light. But I can't live my life as a piece of their furniture, taken for granted, my weekends belonging to them and to the paper work they create.
Consider also that I don't have a mortgage, I don't have a car. I don't have debt. Why wouldn't I travel when I have someone to share the road with? Uh, in October...did I mention that he doesn't want to leave until October?
Our lease is up then, at least.
I may go ahead of him to France but then I have to handle all the hard parts myself and still don't get to join the mile high club.
>:(
There would be some good in that too though,  a couple months without him means sink or swim French times. Plus, I will get to hang out with this hardcore band wherein both the drummer and the guitarist are bed worthy, not to mention a weekend or two in the mountains with that little tasty I left in Lyon without tasting.  These last facts are note worthy only because I will by then be married....
But not in the stupid way you'll probably get married some day where you don't get to bed other meritorious parties. Ha ha, suckers.
I will still miss him terribly in that hard-rooted poetic way that many rings of my tree are comprised of. (See also, Figure 1)
Figure 1

 I'd get a lot of writing done, though.

I tell ya, the internet
It doesn't seem to be easy for me to express the loss I am encountering with my students. I put so much of my best into their lives and now all I can do is hope for them and who they will become. I will never see them again. I know it. We will move in different worlds for the rest of our lives. Not unlike others who have shared my life before. Its cuz I'm always getting curious and leaving town, that's how come.

Despite all the mistakes I've made, all the gaps I've left--I hope I have inspired critical and creative thinking, a love for reading and a fascination with math. The truth and folly of history and the wizardry of science was ours to explore through songs, simulations and the various worksheets I was forced to give you grades on. Every moment was teachable and I'd be a fool to believe I was the only teacher.






See what I mean? Dicks on a squid; who knew there were so many?