13 July 2009

SOMETIMES I CAN'T HELP but wish the Germans would have won the war. I'll be the first to admit it wasn't very nice of them to systematically mass murder all those Jews, gays, gypsies and mentally challenged people. Not very nice of them indeed, even bad.

But so is a France run by the French.

France is one of the most beautiful countries in the world. It has Paris, the Cote d'azur, The Alpes, lots of fertile farmland, thousands of years of history and culture, and phallic shaped bread. Maybe God realized this was too big a blessing upon one country, and created the French. (don't worry about them being insulted, their English is so bad they'll never be able to read this).

Everything is fine, until you need something done. Fixing up your house, getting a new license plate, an internet connection, insurance, they're all first class tickets to purgatory. You always need another form, another stamp, two more weeks of waiting before the next appointment. Half the time the civil servants themselves don't even know what's needed, so they simply throw a whole bunch of requirements in your general direction, hoping to bounce you off to a colleague.

They just don't think things through. They update client's software needed to go online, but simultaneously kill every client's connection and offer the update as a download only. Or they pass a law that allows an entertainment-run agency to terminate internet access of suspected illegal downloaders (French anti-piracy law) and then need the Germans -of all people- to tell them it's against the most fundamental principles of their own constitution. Or they divide the country up in 93 districts -some of which are smaller than a Hummer- and then tell people they have to get new license plates every time they move. (When we had to get our new plates at the prefecture the other day, there we're 111 other people waiting)

Thank God I don't have a time machine, because ever since I moved to France there have been moments I'd be tempted to use it and go down in history as Adolf Hitler's evil genius.

First I'd have to prove to him that I'm for real of course. But I already have that covered, thanks to Back to the Future Part II. All I have to do is buy a book with all the sports results of the 1936 Olympics, then set the time machine to travel to the eve of the opening ceremony.

And after I've won der Fuhrer's trust, I'll be like: 'He, how about you leave the Jews, gays, gipsies and mentally challenged people alone, and I'll tell you how to win a really big war.' And he'd be like: 'Sauerkraut, krieg und donnerwetter!' but in the end he'd realize I'm right and accept the deal.

Now I'm the only one knowing I've saved millions of lives ( but I don't mind, since I'm very modest by nature) and keeping my end of the bargain, I'll tell Adolf -of course we're on a first name basis now: 'Look, forget Eastern Europe, most of all Russia. Let them choke in that damn cold. Instead, focus on Holland, Belgium and France. Holland is full of hardworking people, France is beautiful and Belgium, well, is in between.'

After that I would travel back to the future and live happily ever after in a France where every train travels on schedule, internet always works and everybody speaks English with that adorable accent they have in those war movies from the sixties.

But of course those movies won't be around anymore.

A couple of months ago, my grandfather showed me an old photograph of this big band he played in as a young man. Spontaneously pulled it out of the inner pocket of his jacket while my grandmother was making tea in the kitchen. A hidden treasure, about the size of a postcard. "Look, this is me" he said, pointing at a collection of tiny heads in front of the Cathedral of Den Bosch. "128 eight guys and I'm the only one who's still alive."

I was about to respond when my grandmother came back into the living room with the tea. My grandfather quickly tucked the photograph away. "She doesn't like to talk about things like that." he whispered.

My paternal grandparents were both born in 1912, the year Titanic sailed and sunk. Married in 1933 -the year Hitler rose to power in Germany- they lived through two world wars, the Spanish flu of 1918, the Great Depression, the North Sea flood of 1953, the Cuban missile crisis and the music of the eighties. The 20th century certainly was no picnic.

Last year they celebrated their 75th wedding anniversary, both 96 years old. I checked the Guinness Book of World Records for longest marriage ever, just in case. Some Taiwanese couple has the world record with their 86-year old marriage. Though that's still relatively far off, the Dutch record stands at a measly 80 years, which is definitely doable.

Yesterday my grandmother called me, something she never does.

No there was nothing wrong, she said, but she had just heard from my dad that we were moving to the south of France and she wanted to make sure we'd come visit with Julien (our three month old son) this one last time.

I guess in her mind our new home would be so far away it could only mean farewell. I promised we'd visit her this month and also tried explaining the words 'webcam' and 'skyping'. (very loudly, like you sometimes do when speaking to someone who doesn't speak your language)

But seriously, if they want to make it into the Guinness book of world records -and of course they do, I mean who wouldn't- it's about time they join the technological age.

No time like the future.

21 April 2009

Riding a bike has become all the rage in New York. Seems very logical. It's cheap, healthy and good for the environment. All very good reasons, except that they have nothing to do with the real reason.

You can buy a used bike in Amsterdam for 10 Euro (50 if you don't want to buy from a junkie who swiped it only 5 minutes ago). In France you can hire a bike for 1 Euro an hour, thanks to the State sponsored 'velib' project. But New Yorkers don't buy used bikes, they buy brand new ones, ranging from $1,000 to $2,000.(I should quit Paris and start a bicycle shop in New York). $2,000. These days, you can buy a Hummer for that, complete with complementary semi-automatic hunting rifle with night vision sniper scope (for blasting those annoying bikers after dark)

Why so expensive? Because these are designer bicycles, made after the kind of bikes that were all the rage in Holland, back in the 1940's.

Actually, New Yorkers weren't the first to fall in love with this sturdy Dutch bike design. In 1944-'45, during the last year of the second world war, German soldiers occupying Holland stole a lot of bikes from the Dutch. Why exactly has never been cleared up. Maybe they just got used to stealing everything, needed transportation back to the Fatherland (after all a bike is cheap, healthy and good for the environment) or maybe they just loved the sturdy design. In any case, until well into the 1970's, whenever a German asked for directions in Holland there was a good chance the Dutch person would respond: 'Eerst mijn fiets terug.' (Give me my bike back first). Of course all these people are dead now, so we'll never get our bikes back.

In New York though, the Dutch bike is first and foremost a designer bike, used as an accessory by guys dressed in "preppy Steven Alan shirts, a necktie, a Ralph Lauren tweed sport coat, vintage army pants and a pair of sturdy lace-ups." (this according to the NYT, whose fashion reporter, like me, also seems to be in love with the word 'sturdy'). Now I don't know a lot about clothes, but it seems to me like you'd have to spend another Hummer on looking the part, while riding your highly fashionable Dutch bike.

But it's really only after you've bought your Dutch bike that the fun begins, because as it turns out there are several rival cycling factions. For instance, the Fashionable Bikers are looked down upon by the Cycling Zealots, who always race through the city like it's the last day of the Tour de France. (they're the ones acting machismo while wearing skin-tight outfits and a helmet) And then there is the faction of the Normal People, who, well, dress normally and just ride a bike to work, arriving there all sweaty and happy. The whole thing is like a Mad Max movie with bikes instead of cars and Lance Armstrong instead of Mel Gibson.

But sometimes good things can come out of ideosyncracies. So who knows, in a couple of years you might be able to get a real Dutch bike from a New Amsterdam junkie for only $10.

28 April 2009

I love my morning coffee at the Starbucks just around the corner. Well, around a couple of corners. We also have a Starbucks that's really just around the corner -who doesn't- but the one on Boulevard des Italiens is very beautiful, almost palace like, whereas the one just around our corner is very common, almost Soviet tavern like.

How many Starbucks do you know that have Chandeliers hanging from a high ceiling that's painted like the Sistine chapel? Wood carvings around the edges of the walls, dark marble pillars with gold leaf ornaments? During the French revolution, several houses of the nobility were raided by The People. And while the noblemen - and women - ended up under the blade of the guillotine, their houses and palaces would get new lives as government buildings, museums, hotels, or houses for the new ruling class (formerly part of The People).

I like to think the Starbucks on Boulevard des Italiens was also once owned by nobility. It makes the coffee taste better (which is why I'm not going to google it to find out if it's true; some things are best left untouched).

When you go somewhere every day, like I do, you'll soon notice there are others who also go there every day. Then, after a few weeks, just after you start expecting to see them, something unexpected happens: you start greeting each other.

It's just one of those things. You see each other every day, reading the paper, having a coffee, a quiet moment far away from your job, friends, family; all those other you's. At some point you just start acknowledging each other. A nod, a mumbled 'hello', a smile. This can go on for weeks, months even. Still, conversation is imminent.

This is how I met Bernard, godfather of the most beautiful Starbucks in Paris.

At first he was just an older man, somewhere in his mid sixties. Typical sharp shaped French face, big pointy nose to boot. Could have been the brother of famous French actor Jean-Paul Belmondo. Soon he became the older man who always read the Parisien, giving it to the shabby looking chap who always sat in the back when he was finished with it. After a couple of weeks we started nodding at each other, often with a smile. Then one morning it was very crowded and we ended up sitting next to each other.

Of course he only spoke French, having grown up in an era when the French government still strived to make French the world's number one language. Like the Vatican's goal of making Catholicism the world's only religion, this can now safely be filed under the kind of missions impossible even Tom Cruise couldn't complete.

I only spoke a little French, but what does it matter when you have time? Besides, French is a very elaborate language, very helpful when you have trouble understanding it. Lots of words are needed, lots of gestures, lots of sounds. All wonderfully inefficient. (Probably why it never became the world's number one language). But he, it's France.

If you're looking for efficiency, go to Germany. Or Holland.