subkirke

Subkirke, as it turns out, was fantastic. It's a church that lends itself to concerts (literally lends itself) so you sit in a pew and listen to a band play at the front of the church where, on an average Sunday, a service might be held. It's an unusual experience to be sure, and one that might offend a few particularly orthodox individuals, but it seemed pretty inoffensive and the pews were well-padded. It was a little odd to be seated in tidy rows in an almost-really-intimate setting, but the novelty of it was A+. I got there a late and didn't take any pictures, so I can't really share much more than this for now, but I hope they have another super awesome concert soon!

did i say squared? i meant cubed

because I also went to the library Saturday night...

...after failing at life (i.e. failing to get to a concert that was only a few miles away)

yeah, so google gives really bad directions around South Bend

as a result, we completely missed the concert at Subkirke, a brand spankin' new music venue in town because we turned every which way but left (the directions gave us a series of rights which put us on a 1-mile freeway that threatened to lead out of South Bend altogether, all we needed to do was make a left; and yes, there's a freeway in South Bend that lasts almost exactly one mile)

but Subkirke looks like it's gonna be awesome, hopefully i'll find out Thursday 

fingers crossed

speaking of the thesis...

When I chose Woody Allen as the subject of my thesis, I didn't know he was such a sex symbol.

Apparently he was. 

Go figure.

hipness squared

So guess who got to be the super cool kid who went to the library on a Friday night?! 

You guessed it...

me.

To spice up my academic expedition, I walked around the 5th floor of the library like a pirate. I found my copy of Discontented Discourses,  gave a quick nod to the grad students who were in the lobby, and made my way back to my room. 

At the least there's a big upside to writing a film studies thesis, namely that when I can't stand the pages and pages academic analysis anymore, I can pop in a movie. 

It's not such a bad gig.

another reason not to club baby seals: Animal Collective says so

I can't put my finger on exactly why, but I think it's really cute that Animal Collective has taken such a strong stance against clubbing baby seals. Part of it's certainly because many celebrities take up causes for the sake of taking up a cause; bottom line, it's good PR. On one hand, I'm not terribly opposed to this because it often brings attention to good causes. Of course, on the other hand, it's frequently an act of band-wangonism and therefore not always sincere and informed advocacy. I took particular issue with the Rock the Vote campaign simply because the message boiled down to: "hey you! you're young, you like celebrities; if celebrities tell you to vote, you'll totally do it!" 

Another part is probably because the members of Animal Collective aren't out-and-out celebrities, at least not red-carpet-walking, tabloid-making celebrities. Instead, they're just a couple of guys who make really good music that a lot of people listen to. They seem well-informed and sincere. Plus, baby seals? That's pretty cute. 

http://iguessimfloating.blogspot.com/2009/10/news-animal-collective-save-animals.html

cookies! beer! FOOTBALL!!!*

I'd be curious to know if there's been a statistically significant increase in the number of heart attacks in Michiana during this particular college football season. If so, it's certainly thanks to Notre Dame's insistence on bringing every single game this season (the only exception being the season opener against Nevada) down to the last few terribly dramatic minutes. 

I have my fair-weather tendencies when it comes to football in general. Los Angeles has no team, so I'll follow the Chargers when they're doing well. I enjoy a good Super Bowl here and there, even if my fondness of the game is often exceeded by my fondness for the commercials (and from time to time, the half-time show). But I do like Notre Dame football and I do go to the home games. I've even been to an away game (ND@USC, 2006, we really just don't need to talk about the second half of that game, but it was a good overall experience). That being said, last season was a bit of a snoozer and a bit of a heartache (with the GRAND EXCEPTION of the Michigan game where all the forces of Mother Nature came together for a great game followed by some fantastic quad-sliding. On the subject, I would like to formally apologize to the staff of North Dining Hall for entering the dining hall soaking wet, I hope you understand). 

But this season, oh man, this season you'd have to be crazy to even think of leaving a game early for a quick nap or to avoid the lines at candle light dinner. I'll admit I don't know everything about football, when I won Madden against my brother it was only because my play-calling was so creative and random that it was impossible to strategize against. However, at the same time I've never had any patience for the drunk girls who, even after three and half seasons of college football, still don't know the difference between a touchdown and a touchback. The point is, I know enough to follow the game. And these are games to follow. 

So while we may not be back to the glory days, we're sure as heck doing a lot better than we were. At least this time around, the games are exciting, even if they are too close. And more than anything, we're winning this season! 

Except that we didn't beat USC. We came close, but ultimately we lost. Campus was quiet, more depressed than I'd seen it in a while. We came so, so close. We were down to the very last second. I wish the final score could have reflected just how close we were, practically sitting on the goal line with one second on the clock, a second that we had to fight for. And in an instant it was all over, but we weren't the victors. There really isn't much else to say on the issue. I wanted to win. We all wanted to win. But we didn't. However, I'm not the only one who is still proud that the game was as close as it was. USC is a formidable opponent and even in defeat, we still took them down a peg.

Football is an odd sport if you think about it too hard, but it's interesting. I like college football because I actually know some of the guys on the field. We're not besties, but they're friends of friends, guys I go to class with, people I talk to and eat with and party with. It means something to cheer them on and support them, it's part of the community that's such a central part of the the identity of our school. 

I'm waxing poetic a bit, and I don't really mean to, but I started this post because I didn't know how to deal with Saturday's loss, so I just put a few thoughts on the page to see where they would take me.  I took a pretty sentimental turn in a post that was only meant to say, golly gee, it's been a wild ride this season, and oh boy, I've loved every minute of it. Football isn't the be all and end all for me, but it's a lot of fun, and I'm really glad I've gone to every home game. I've almost lost my voice several times, I've made some friends, and I've gotten sick from the wind and the rain, but there's something vaguely primal about creating in-group, out-group distinctions and using them as a reason to scream and jump around for a few hours. There's also something to be learned in dramatic structure, how the game itself tells a story. It's a story of war, it's a story of life, of wins and losses and good things like that. I'll stop myself before I get any farther into sentimental rambling. But this season has been a series of awesome stories, of victory snatched from the clutches of defeat and defeat where there was so much hope. A little part of me wants to go reread the Trojan War now, but I'll spare myself. 

*the title of this post came from watching a Michigan game with some friends where it was decided that Jimmy Clausen probably keeps Keebler cookies in his fanny pack, if this isn't true, I don't want to know

spotlight: more than this provincial life

Man oh man, it's mangela, and she's got a blog, and it's got comics, and it's awesome.

so shout out to my good friend mangela, I miss you my dear:

More Than This Provincial Life

the internet, because the more i have to do, the less i get done

As each day passes, I am one step closer to my latest foe, the Graduate Record Examination. Each morning and each night I vow to lock myself away from the world and dig deep into the depths of academic prose, GRE prep books, and various papers, abstracts, and theses. However, with each passing day I am reminded that I am not a super-intelligent alien robot. This repeated realization still chokes me up. Moreover, not only am I human, I am an easily distractible human.

And it was a beautiful day outside. 

So I took a walk. And then I fed some geese. And then I took a nap. And then I checked my email. And then I was completely overwhelmed by the internet and got lost somewhere between lastfm and tumblr. It happens.

You call it procrastination, I call it a mental health day (and I don't think I'm the only one who would call it that).

Start around 2:20

the triumphant return of TURQUOISE LOVE

August didn't get any blog love; but hey August, don't lose heart, you win some you lose some. 

If too little love is a problem in any arena, I've got just the solution: Turquoise Love!

That famed, that legendary, that ever so slightly infamous internet radio show born on a wintry night after a Cloud Cult concert in northern Indiana nearly two years ago...

IT'S BACK!

Turquoise Love will be making it's triumphant return in full glory this semester. The four original DJs will be reunited on the air waves for the first time in over a year, and it promises to be nothing less than magical.

TURQUOISE LOVE

FRIDAYS 12pm-1pm EST

wvfi.nd.edu

Featuring DJs:

"Win a Date with" Danny McRae

Michelle "The Indie Asian Sensation" Nguyen

Stephanie "Big Gunz" Jazmines

Shannon "Rock 'n' Roll" Mathers

Kids* on the west coast - wake up Friday mornings to the latest, the greatest, and the most absurdly fun that music has to offer

Kids on the east coast - witty banter and silly musings for your turquoise lunch?

Kids in the midwest - call in and win a date with Danny McRae! you're close enough to take us up on the offer!

Kids abroad - party at all hours!!!

*it should be noted that term "kids" and similar and related terms here-in does not imply an 18 and under crowd, but is instead used in a more generalized and colloquial sense to evoke this relative hipness and youth of those people attracted by all things Turquoise Love, it should also be noted that the term is not meant to alienate other listeners, as all are young and hip when they partake of Turquoise Love, especially Danny's mom, my favorite listener

So tune in, turn it up, and IM requests to: wvfiradio

Tired of waiting? Check out the website in the mean time:

Turquoise Love

Cleveland Revisited

Way back in the month of July, I had planned a blog post so epic, it would have put Homer to shame; an expose of modern day life on the mean streets of Cleveland/a celebration of a love for all things Cleveland.  This tear-jerking heart-warmer was going to be posted just in time for Cleveland's 213th birthday on July 22, 2009. Sadly, life got in the way, the report from the Cleveland front never arrived, and my once beautiful dream was in shambles.

And so, for that, I apologize.

However, dear reader, know that I have been using my Cleveland calendar for many months now and I couldn't be happier. For the month of August I had a lovely view of the North Point Tower from East Ninth Street at Lakeside Avenue. September now brings me changing leaves in the Cleveland Botanical Garden in the University Circle area, appropriate as I am now back at my own university for a senior year. My calendar is nice and full and resides happily in my dorm room next to a post card of a wax statue of Abe Lincoln and family from Springfield, Illinois, another midwestern town which is close to my heart despite the small detail that I've never been.

And while it has been a while and the blog and I lost touch briefly, I never stopped caring; I'm here for you blog, I'm right here. 

the greater Silverlake area

Silverlake is the land of hipsters, to be sure.  Bordered by Echo Park and Los Feliz, it's kinda near Dodger Stadium, surprisingly close to Downtown, and also a neighborhood with a heavy immigrant influence, particularly from Mexico.  It's a diverse neighborhood, and for the most part not a flashy one.  It's also one I'm growing fonder and fonder of.  Not just because it's Hipsterville, U.S.A. (although this does mean there are some funky awesome little boutiques and some good people watching), but it's home to Beck (ok, not making a good non-hipster case yet), my favorite glasses shop, a fun and very legit weekly market, and it's got great street names.  

I'm not really where exactly on the Los Feliz-Silverlake-Echo Park map the following places lie, but most of them are in Silverlake, if not close by.

That said, here are some of my new favorite places.

1. Gogosha Optique - run by a wonderful eyewear guru named Julia, the frames are pricey but creative, interesting, and hard if not impossible to find anywhere else.  Their claim to fame, you walk in and instantly the sales clerk will find about a dozen frames that look good on you, but the two of you will work together to find the best match.

2. Little Dom's - while sometime I think they're called Major Dom's or they ought to serve Asian fusion, Little Dom's is in fact a good ol' fashion American restaurant with an old Hollywood glamour and a well-preserved charm.  Not only that, the food is excellent.  You can order a bowl of fruit as a side, but instead of your run of the mill cantaloupe, honeydew, grapes, etc, they serve an eclectic and ever-changing mix of the best that's in season.  When I went, the fruit bowl included fresh fig, apricot, and plum, among other things.  

3. The Silverlake Farmer's Market - A good ol' fashion farmers market chock full of  fresh produce and home made crafts, but with a twist, meaning avocado crepes and pure cane juice, handmade notebooks made from recycled paper (so recycled that there's still writing on the other side) made by Tyler Bender, and an organic coffee stand that serves a drink called "Global Warming" (Cafecito Organico).  Granted, most of these vendors are also at the larger Hollywood Farmers Market, but I like Silverlake because it's smaller and more laid back (this may or may not be related to the pervasive smell of marijuana that lingers in the air).

4. The Echo - okay, so this one's definitely in Echo Park, not too far from the park itself, but its in the general region and it's a great concert venue.  Small, but not too small, there's seating against the wall if you get too tired of standing, but they keep a pretty solid lineup running through there, so during concerts there isn't much need to sit.  

spotlight on Cleveland

The rumors are true, today's spotlight city is none other than Cleveland, Ohio.

However, contrary to popular belief, I am not actually in Cleveland at the present time.

So then why Cleveland? Let me explain:

Having recently come into possession of a 2009 Cleveland calendar, I thought today was as good a day as any to hang my 99 cent calendar above my desk.  I opened it to July and lo and behold, a bright shiny picture of the Steamship William G. Mather Maritime Museum.  So maybe Billy is missing an S at the end of his name, small potatoes, we're totally related!  (...maybe)  

But why did I hang a 2009 calendar in July?

The calendar was a gag gift from one of my uncles to my dad for my dad's birthday which was in May.  My dad was both puzzled and unamused by the gift so after trying to pass it off to a cousin or two, the calendar fell into my possession and, as an enthusiast of the esoteric, I kept it.  Then it sat around for about a month at which point I rediscovered it and, as calendars are always handy, I hung it up.  This morning.

Coincidence #1 - I opened a random calendar at a random time to find the steamship of a man who will surely prove to be my long lost uncle.

Calendar in place, I went about my business.  A few hours later I got a call from a friend who just so happened to be en route to Cleveland himself. (Coincidence #2)  He is neither a resident, nor, at the time that we spoke, a fan of Ohio (pro - it's hillier than Indiana or Illinois, con - there are not enough rest stops on the highway; Ohio lost this round), but was on his way to see a friend.  We decided that should I fail at life, the next logical course of action would be to fly to Cleveland, paint an S on the Steamship William G. Mather Maritime Museum and claim ownership.  

Cleveland will be none the wiser.  

I've named this particular friend as my traveling correspondent and he's promised me an exposé on Cleveland, but in the meantime, I leave you with these:

http://www.collegehumor.com/video:1907953
http://www.collegehumor.com/Video:1909669

lacma

Today I went to LACMA with my internship. It was wonderful, quick, but wonderful.

The most wonderful? Magritte's Ceci n'est pas une pipe, naturally ;)

Also, just saw this film, like it a lot, mostly for the conversation:

reference material

for all of your future Venn Diagram Day celebrations, refer to the following:

Suggestions 

Happy 4th of July*

Today is a day to celebrate.  But contrary to popular belief it is not just a day to celebrate America's independence from those rascally British (I love you Great Britain, I really do), it is also a day to celebrate Venn diagrams, those overlapping circles of joy and organization.  It is a young holiday and an obscure one to be sure, but every year it grows in popularity as people across the nation (and certainly soon, across the world) celebrate the beauty of a diagram that shows all possible logical relations between a finite collection of sets (thank you wikipedia).  And so, in honor of Venn Diagram Day, I humbly present my own Venn diagram for the occasion:

Please note that Lewis Carroll was indeed correctly placed in the "Venn diagrams" circle.  

But beware, dear reader, there have been unofficial attempts to celebrate Venn Diagram Day at other times in the year.  While the most logical celebrations might be August 4th or April 4th (the birth and death dates of John Venn respectively), no recognized celebration of Venn Diagram Day has ever occurred on either of these dates.  

2002 is the earliest known reference to Venn Diagram Day:

Exhibit A

Later, in 2006 a celebration of Venn diagrams took place sometime around November 16th:

Exhibit B

Exhibit C 

However, if you read the comments attached to Exhibit B, there is a brief explanation:

It actually started with a simple post from seasecret (the post is locked, otherwise I'd link to it) that simply said "I would like to see some Venn diagrams on my friends page." And we all took the bait. 

Nevertheless, the official celebration of Venn Diagram Day is July 4th and has been so for a number of years.  

So happy Independence Day, happy Venn Diagram Day, happy 4th of July*!

*I've been informed recently that July 4th may also be Venereal Disease Day, but I can neither confirm nor deny the legitimacy of this claim.  

life, death, and art

(Odd formatting below, I know, I think it has something to do with the

embedded clip...)

Spent the morning watching youtube clips.

Started with the Seeds because their frontman just passed away,

but his death had been swept under the rug by Farrah Fawcett

and especially Michael Jackson.

I'm not a huge Seeds fan, but this led me through a bevy of old rock clips,

including the following little gem.

It's a song I never especially cared for recorded, but it's fantastic live.

But yes, yesterday was a strange and culturally significant day.

Michael Jackson went into cardiac arrest in his current residence

in Holmby Hills. Coincidentally, I happened to be a few doors down

the day before at the Frederick R. Weisman Art Foundation, which I had

planned to blog about anyway. Up until a few days ago, I didn't even

know the area was called Holmby Hills, though I'd driven through before

to get a gander at the edge of the Playboy estate.

Anyway, the Frederick R. Weisman Art Foundation is a large modern art

collection kept in the former residence of Mr. Weisman,

a two story house designed by Gordon B. Kauffman in the 1920s.

The house is fairly big, but the collection is bigger so there is art

EVERYWHERE, on every wall and in every corner or every room,

and quite often, on the ceiling as well. In the garden, in the front yard,

heck, there's even a piece in the pool (I kid you not).

There's so much art, that the Weismans had an annex built for the pieces

that were too large and difficult to store inside the house.

And it's a magnificent collection, three Yves Klein pieces just sitting out

in the open (and IKB looks phenomenal in person),

Magritte paintings and sculptures (who knew?),

a bed set designed by Mas Ernst, some early Picasso,

photo-collages by Hockney, portraits of the patrons by Warhol,

and more Lichtenstein than you can shake a stick at.

In other words, it was very cool.

We went through the collection on a tour that moved at warp speed

which took about two hours.

They bill themselves as LA's best kept secret,

I'd never heard of the collection and it's impressive,

so I'd say it definitely makes a top 10 list of secrets.

I went with my fellow interns, one of whom pointed out that

LA seems to be a town based on secrets.

From regular midnight screenings at fantastic and obscure movie theaters

to the best beaches, to dozens of canyon roads,

to all the "Little" country neighborhoods

(Little Somalia might be a personal favorite),

to the secret menu at In-n-Out, she definitely has a point.

Nevertheless, these are things you pick up pretty easily from living here.

The Frederick R. Weisman Art Foundation does not publicize at all,

it relies strictly on word of mouth, plus it's tucked away in the hills

on a residential street, so it qualifies as especially secret.

The Foundation is open Monday through Friday

and tours are by appointment only. I highly recommend it.

the blood arm, art brut, and chairlift

On the topic of French, I saw the trailer for Girl from Monaco, looks good, plus it's in French! (with English subtitles)

Alright, new topic.

Music!

Last weekend I went to see Art Brut Friday at the Echo (near Echo Park) and Chairlift Saturday at the Getty (Oh man! So many links, I can't even handle it).

Friday at the Echo, the Blood Arm opened for Art Brut. Their song "Suspicious Characters" is fun, so is "Attention" which is half in French! They have a lot of energy on stage, primarily because their lead singer, Nathaniel Fregoso, who hopped off the stage a few times, into the crowd to sing to us individually before jumping on top of the bar.

You have to look a little closely, but he's there atop the bar (below).

Then back off the bar and into the crowd to give me a big ol' sweaty kiss on the cheek.

However, it was Art Brut that I went to see and Art Brut delivered. They'd been in LA for 4 nights and I guess a lot of the people at the Echo had gone to the previous nights' shows at Spaceland. After 3 nights of stayin up late and gettin deaf, the crowd was a little lackluster, and a little older than I expected, a pretty even spread of 18-40+, and pretty mellow for the most part. But that didn't stop those of us up front from dancing! Most of Art Brut's music sounds more or less the same, but I love it, as I told my friend Maggie that night while walking back to the car (excuse me, as I yelled to her, as neither of us could hear a darn thing), they're one of the few bands that make me want to dance around AND genuinely laugh out loud.

Ready Art Brut?

I was milling around online Saturday afternoon, still trying to recover my ability to hear properly, when I stumbled upon a blog that mentioned Saturdays Off the 405 at the Getty. I'd heard that the Getty had a summer concert series but I hadn't really looked into it. It recently moved from Fridays to Saturdays, so that now every Saturday evening, the Getty hosts a free outdoor concert. FREE! That was enough to sell me. Although it helped that Chairlift was playing. They are responsible for the tune that accompanies one of the iPod Nano commercials, "Bruises." Like the Blood Arm, they've got a well-dressed woman rocking the keyboard (although these days, who doesn't?), but Chairlift's Caroline is the lead vocalist with a lovely voice and pretty, light brown eyes. They opened with an original song, followed by a cover of Snoop Dogg's "Sensual Seduction" which was alternately very steamy and very amusing.

I went with Stephanie and after the concert we wandered the Getty gardens at sunset; I don't think I'd ever been there that late in the day, it was absolutely lovely.

The effect is a weaker in a small picture as opposed to being there in person, but look closely at the chairs in the windows below.

It was a good weekend. Plus, about mid-day Sunday I realized I could hear properly again, so it was a really good weekend.

summer whatnot

I've been home for about 2 weeks now, but it feels like a lot longer. Unless I'm speaking French, France seems really far away. Except for last night. I had a dream that I was practicing French and English with some French students. They kept asking me vocab questions "What's the word for 'molle' in English?" and, this being an anxiety dream, I had no idea.

Upsetting? Yeah, it kinda was.

Upsetting enough that my solution was to speak French aloud to myself on the drive to my internship this morning. Maybe not the most effective way to practice, especially since I was simultaneously listening to an English-language album (Dirty Projector's Bitte Orca), but practice nonetheless...right?

Maybe not.

back home post-script

my semester abroad may be over, but the blog will continue

because, ladies and gents, the show must go on

back home

I tried to put a dirty napkin in the refridgerator yesterday, unfortunately I've been home long enough that I think this falls just outside the purview of jetlag.

I've been back in the States for a week and a half and I'm happy to be home. France was fantastic, but home is... well, home is home. My language prof prepped us for reverse culture shock, which definitely occured, but not quite to the extent that she described.

That said, the first time I went to an American restaurant, I nearly ordered in French.

Luckily I had just enough presence of mind to stop myself before I opened my mouth.

I did not however have the presence of mind the following day to remember that I was in America:

(in conversation)

"My dad gets back to America a day or two after I do"

"So...tomorrow?"

"Oh... right... I'm already in America, aren't I..."

After a couple of days I was functioning like a normal person again, more or less.

A few highlights from the long journey home:

Notre Dame hired a bus to drive us from Angers directly to Charles de Gaulle, leaving at 2:30 in the morning. This worked out well enough because I spent the day shopping and wandering the city and then I finished packing my bags at night. Angers is split in half by a river, and go figure, my last day in town was the first day I crossed the river. The edge of the river was very pretty and I passed some interesting shops, but I hadn't missed out on too much. I ate dinner with Isabel at a nice, classic French restaurant at Place du Ralliment in the center of town. Ralliment isn't much to look at these days, it's home to a beautiful theater, but the square itself is full of construction. However, it's lined with some of the best restaurants in Angers, and we returned to one we had visited earlier in the semester. I ordered a salad with cheese, tomato, oranges, toast, and duck pate; sounds a bit odd, yes, but it looked and tasted wonderful.

After dinner, I walked home and packed my bags; I finished a little after 1am, the same time my host mom came out of her room to check on me. She had taken an hour-long nap so she could be awake to say goodbye. We had a cup of hot chocolate in the kitchen and reflected over the semester. Around 1:45 I ran back upstairs to grab my computer and I was ready to go. My friend Thomas had scheduled a taxi to pick him up at his house at 1:45 and then stop by my house right afterward, as he lived close by; keep in mind the bus was scheduled to leave at 2:30. Around 2am I got a call from Thomas that the taxi hadn't arrived yet. He'd called 4 times, but couldn't get through. He asked me if my host mom could drive, so I told him I would ask and call him back. I explained the situation to my host mom who promptly took control and phoned another taxi company. But we couldn't get through either! After about 3 more attempts, we finally got a hold of someone and had a taxi standing by if we needed it. I called Thomas back at 2:10, the original taxi had just arrived at his house. So we waited. Around 2:15 the taxi drove past my house to the end of the street. I walked outside, assuming Thomas had forgotten where my house was and I see Thomas running like a mad man from the end of the block telling me to get my bags because the taxi refused to back up. Madame Laporte, Thomas, and I threw my bags into the street and I said a quick goodbye to Madame, thanking her profusely for everything. As I turned around, the taxi driver had finally decided to back his car up to my front door. When he got out of the car to open the trunk he started complaining about how much luggage I had (Thomas had warned him, plus I think two and a half suitcases is perfectly reasonable for four months). However, the guys got the luggage in the trunk, I lept in the car, and we were on our way. The taxi driver continued to complain the whole ride, first about the construction that had consumed Angers, then about the luggage, then because Thomas mentioned that the bus was supposed to leave very soon. And on top of his poor social skills, the also had limited driving skills. It was raining so the streets we slick and dark as we sped through narrow and winding roads, only speeding up at sharp turns. I was holding onto Thomas for dear life because I couldn't find my seat belt. But at least we made it to the bus on time. The meter on the dashboard read 11.50, the price we owed, but as we got out of the car, the taxi driver informed us that we owed him AT LEAST 12 euros because he was given the wrong address and was forced to back up, a grave inconvenience that had caused the meter to misread the distance. Thomas gave him 12 euros, but he looked at the money and then looked at us and began to complain that it wasn't enough. Thomas claimed that was all he had (which was mostly true), and the cranky taxi driver left, muttering complaints of mistreatment. Thomas called him a vampire.

So that was the taxi driver.

We said our goodbyes to host families, friends, and professors before heading out of Angers plane-ward bound. I slept a bit on the ride, but this was difficult as out of the 12 of the students on the bus, probably half were drunk, and some were quite loud for the first hour or two. I can't imagine the bus driver was our biggest fan, especially when we insisted on belting the American National Anthem as we left Angers. We did settle down about half way there and most of us slept. However, when we arrived at the airport, the bus driver made one stop only because Charles de Gaulle is a difficult and confusing to navigate, or so he claimed. This one stop was very convenient for one of us, but the other 11 had to haul four months worth of clothes and souveniers across the concrete wilderness that is the second terminal of Charles de Gaulle on little to no sleep, and for a few unlicky souls, hungover. Exhausted though we were, we did make it through the security and to the gate with time to spare.

From the moment I was on the plane, lively American chatter buzzed all around me; the air stewards were pleasant, smiley, and very chatty; and before the plane took off I switched seats with a woman sporting bright purple hair so that she could sit by her friend in leopard print pants.

Home sweet home.

McDonalds, this one's for you

Dear McDonalds,

or more affectionately

Dear MacDo,

I suppose I can't thank you for being an American corporation with an international presence that may threaten the fabric of European life as we know it. We have our differences, I know. I still haven't gotten over that one time I was at the Pantheon in Rome, and I turned around to see you creeping up behind me. That wasn't cool MacDo. But let us put our differences aside because today I would like to say thank you. Thank you for having not one, but two branches in middle-of-nowhere France (who are we kidding, Angers isn't Paris, it isn't Cannes, but it's not so bad, we both know that). Thank you for being open 7 days of the week with very reasonable hours all 7 days. Thank you for McFlurries, thank you for parfaits. But above all, thank you for wifi. I would like to sincerely thank you for the free and unlimited access you grant me to the internets. All of them. All the internets. Because it is because of you MacDo, that I hauled my computer across Angers, through the empty parking lot of Geant Casino on a hot day, sat myself down and hammered out all the blog posts I'd been holding back.

So here's to you MacDo, for being better than your bad rap.

And here's to you French MacDo, because you have chocolate mousse on your euro menu.

Thank you.

Sincerely,

Shannon "smathers" Mathers

Festival de Cannes 2009

And now for the post we've all been waiting for…

Ladies and Gentleman, le Festival de Cannes 2009!

 

In a wonderful confluence of events, I made it to the last few days of the Cannes Film Festival last weekend.  Cannes itself is a gorgeous seaside town in the south of France with (as I learned) a few islands close by.  My first day there I went to the Ile de Sainte Marguerite where the man in the iron mask was imprisoned.  I got into the prison itself and adjacent museum for free because it was the very end of the day (my friends and I had taken the last boat of the day to get to the island).  It’s nothing too impressive to look at these days, just a couple of empty seaside prison cells, but it was pretty cool to walk around nonetheless.

There it is, the 40 year home to the man in the iron mask:

An iron mask is no good, but if you've gotta be in prison, at least this one has a nice view.

The next day we went to the Cannes Cinephile building to pick up our badges for the festival.  If you’re a film student or a member of a film fan club it’s pretty easy to get an accreditation to get into the festival, you just send proof of film student/fan status and a letter explaining why it would be super duper cool if you got to go to the festival and why movies are way awesome.  However, what this means is that, if accepted, you get a badge which permits you to get passes which MAY let you get into the films of the festival.   And those passes are not guaranteed, you have to go to the Cinephile building each morning and see which passes are available for the day, then you get to choose one or two and show up to the screening an hour ahead of time (depending on the film) to wait in line with the other students and non-professionals and hope you can get into the film.  However, we did not know this when we tried to see our first “Official Selection” film.  We got dressed up and arrived 15 minutes before hand only to be told that the tickets we thought we had were not actually tickets, they were more like “potential tickets” and there was no more room left in the screening for us, it was full.  We went to dinner, bummed, but showed up extra early at the next screening, determined not to be defeated a second time.  This film was Bad Boys of Cell 425 and was not a part of the official selection in competition; it was a part of a selection of 15 films which represent the festival's attempt to diversify its selection.  Once again, we did not know this. This meant, also, that we didn’t need to be there an hour ahead of time.  After asking everyone and their mother what time people usually line up, we got there a half an hour before the film was scheduled to start and we were the first ones in line.  Victory!

 

...sort of. 

 

We were also the only ones in line for a while.

 

 Bad Boys of Cell 425 wasn’t a bad film at all, but it was a very rough verité-inspired documentary about 7 men who share a single cell in a Polish Prison.  The filmmaker was a Polish man who hung out in a Polish prison cell for a week with a camera, interviewed the prisoners, and filmed what happened.  I gave the title in English, but the film itself was in Polish with French subtitles.  Luckily, I’ve been studying French for the last 4 months, so I could follow the film.  However, it was still quite a cultural experience, I felt bad for my non-film major friends.  Especially since the filmmaker used shots that expressed the limited space of the cell so watching was uncomfortable.  But it was a very interesting subject because the film delves into the lives of individual prisoners, their likes, dislikes, and how they get through each day.  They seem like pretty nice guys for the first three quarters of the movie.  Then they start talking about their crimes and you remember why they’re in prison and stop empathizing as much; it was a clever story-telling technique, one I liked a lot.

 

And because we only made it to the end of the festival, this was the only feature-length film we saw. However, the next day we went to screening of all the short films in competition, which was wonderful, the selection was excellent.  They were beautiful, touching, wonderful, and bizarre; aaand a great consolation prize for not seeing more features.  For more info.

The short film directors:

 

The theater:

That was my little excursion to the Cannes Film Festival.  No, I didn’t see any celebrities.  A lot of people who looked really familiar, the sorts of character actors you know you’ve probably seen 100 times but you have no idea who they are, but no real celebrities.  

I did however see a pretty good Brad Pitt impersonator. 

Blue Beard's Castle

The Vendée was a bit of a downer, so afterward, to brighten our weekend adventure, we hit up the chateau of a child molester… Yeah, it was kind of a depressing weekend. Gilles de Rais, or Blue Beard as he was later nicknamed, was a friend of Joan of Arc’s, no joke, but after she was put to death he may have gone a little wacky.  Don’t worry, that was just the biggest understatement of the last several centuries.  It’s unclear whether he had these pedophilic tendencies while he was palling around with Joan of Arc, but what is clear is that he suffered from a split personality and after her death, he was responsible for the rape, torture, and murder of over a hundred young children in his dominion.  The number of victims may be as high as 250, but there’s no real way to know these days, but he confessed to over 100 of these crimes shortly before his death.  One of his castles, the one we visited, is now used to display medieval weaponry.  There’s also a room underground with a very creepy show about the search for the sorcerer’s stone through alchemy with references to human sacrifice and the occasional screams of cats in the distance.  In light of the horrible things that had probably happened in that very castle, I thought it in poor taste.  

Vendee

The weekend after Belgium, I went with SUNDEF to the Vendée militaire.  It took me the whole week to figure out what the Vendée militaire was.  Turns out Vendée is a region of France, one that sits right next to Anjou (home to Angers) in the west of France.  And the Vendée militaire was a region (roughly modern Vendée, but including some of what is nowAnjou) where there was a strong resistance to the French Revolution.  That is, there was a large Royalist presence, people who were perfectly happy living in their comfortable homes, practicing their religion, and being maintaining their allegiance to the king.  Then, over in a little town called Paris there was this tiny little event the FRENCH REVOLUTION.  The Royalists of the Vendée worried that their lives would never be the same, some of them fled to England, but many stayed put and went about their lives.  Unfortunately, as the Revolution got ugly and the Reign of Terror ensued, suddenly the Republican revolutionaries weren’t having any of the Vendéans Catholicism and general political grumblings.  Their response?  Kill ‘em! Yes, Robespierre ordered the mass slaughter of the population of Vendée, which, ironically, included both Royalists and Republicans.  And so one day a rather large, rather mean group of Republican fighters showed up and started killing people indiscriminately.  The Vendéan people weren’t really having this, they started fighting back and a small war broke out in what is now known as the Vendée Militaire.  Among other atrocities, pregnant women were bayoneted through the womb and people were skinned alive with their flesh taken to tanneries for experimentation (a little Nazi foreshadowing, anyone?).  Now, over a century later, the residents of the Vendée are still pretty unhappy about the whole affair, and who can blame them?  Especially since it took the government that whole century and then some to admit that this actually happened.  In response, the Vendéans have built a theme park comprised of a series of live shows to reenact the horrors of the Vendée militaire and keep the memory alive of the thousands slaughtered.  And while this sounds odd, their shows have gained world renown for the little part of French history that nobody really likes to talk about.  

Below is the church that houses the grave of Bonchamps, on of the local nobles who became a Royalist war hero.  He is remembered for having pardoned a half dozen or so Republican POWs.  Not wanting to perpetuate the turmoil of the war and from a general desire to express a Christian grace, he ordered the POWs be released. Unfortunately they returned a few weeks later with some friends and killed some more Royalists.  Some thanks.

In the church above resides the grave and memorial of Bonchamps, pictured below. 
A church in the Vendee where Republicans locked up about 100 Vendeans and set the building on fire.  Naturally, this isn't the original church, but a restored one on the same site that stands as a memorial with the names of the dead carved on the walls.   
A picture from the Vendee, near another memorial, despite it's dark past, it's a very pretty region of France.

Frietmuseum

INT - Frietmusuem, DAY.

FIONA FRY meets PETER POTATO, it's love at first sight.

FIONA

Hey Peter, tell me something about your family.

PETER

Oh my goodness Fiona, what a question! My family comes from far away. A very, very long time ago we lived in Peru.

FIONA

And do you come from a large family?

PETER

Well... if I remember rightly, my grandfather always told me that we were more than four thousand.

FIONA (flirtatiously)

And how did you come to arrive in Europe?

PETER

That's a long story. First of all, my great, great grandparents went to Chile.  There they married the local potatoes.  And their children jumped into a Spanish boat and arrived in Spain via the Canary Islands.

FIONA

Know what Peter? I take my bath in beef and horse fat.  And I even wash twice. I take a first dive, wipe myself dry and take a second dive.  Then I come out brown all over, as though I've been on holiday. 

I kid you not.  If you squint, you can read it for yourself.  

And what ever happened to the two potato-y lovers?  Well, Fiona warned us not to go into private rooms, but she was happy to point out the restrooms.  Then, together, Fiona and Peter pointed us toward the restaurant where we promptly consumed Fiona's relatives.  But as to Fiona and Peter themselves?  Well, turns out Fiona was kind of a tease at first, but Peter won her over with his patience and persistence.  They married, had two children (a fry and a potato), and lived happily ever after.  

The end.  

Belgium, take 2

Two weekends ago was another Belgian adventure, this time it was just Isabel and I and we hit up both Bruxelles (Brussels) and Bruges.  We left Wednesday and stayed with her grandmother for the weekend, returning Sunday evening.  Brief summary (announcing my plan if you will…oh dear, this is evidence I’ve been in Langue class too long): Thursday, we explored Brussels; Friday, Bruges; Saturday and Sunday we spent with Isabel’s family.

 

Thursday, Brussels

Isabel’s grandmother gave us a map and a plan.  She pointed out the major sights, explained why they were significant, and showed us the most efficient way to travel between them.  Before I go any farther, I’d like to point out one of the secret qualities of Belgians that nobody ever talks about: they’re really efficient.  I’ve noticed in all of the museums, train stations, sidewalks, and metros, there are always signs and arrows directing you exactly where to walk so that you can get somewhere in the shortest amount of time.  They are placed at perfect distances; the minute you aren’t quite sure if you’re still going the right direction, there’s a sign with the distance to the sight listed, and often also a large map.  What more, the design of everything in Brussels, both the public and private buildings, is sleek, efficient, and modern, but while maintaining a traditional European flair so that there’s a comfortable, hip uniformity. (I apologize, it didn't really occur to me to take a picture) Basically Belgium is a very nice country with its efficient design, its royalty, its waffles, its beer, its chocolate, and its fries.  If only the constant threat of governmental collapse would subside, it would be rather idyllic. 

 

Yes, while another lovely aspect to Belgium is its multiculturalism, the Flemish Belgians and the French Belgians aren’t exactly palsy, but they’re working on it… sort of.  Let’s just say that Isabel’s grandmother advised that that since Bruges is in the Flemish part of Belgium, we would be better off speaking English than French. Not that we would be in danger speaking French in Bruges, but we would be treated much better as English speakers, go figure.  However, Brussels is divided pretty evenly between the French and the Flemish and they get along well enough in Brussels, so we spoke French in Belgium, which worked out nicely because we were treated a little better than the tourists who didn’t speak French or Flemish, which is to say, shopkeepers and museum workers were chattier.  However, in Belgium, one doesn’t find nearly as much hostility as in, say Paris, toward visitors who don’t make an effort to speak the native language.  However, I would imagine this is at least partly due to the presence of the European Parliament, which conducts the bulk of its business in English and has taken pains to accommodate the native tongues of all member countries. 

 

Anyway, back to Brussels.  We only followed Isabel’s grandmother’s plan loosely, but we made it to the two biggest attractions in Belgium, Grand-Place (Grote Markt in Flemish) and Mannekin Pis.  The former is the central market square of Brussels and home to beautiful, old Belgian architecture, museums, and guild houses, and Town Hall.  The latter is the statue of a peeing boy.

Town Hall, Grand-Place

 

Grand-Place

Me and Mannekin Pis

Yes, one of the great sights to see in Belgium, one of its greatest draws is a tiny fountain that portrays a little boy relieving himself.  They dress him up on holidays.  I don’t pretend to understand, I just take pictures.  No, but really, the statue was erected many years ago by a wealthy Belgian man who thought he had lost his son.  He searched high and low for the missing boy to no avail.  Just when he thought all hope was lost, someone found the boy one day, down a small street taking a leak against a wall.  The father was so happy to have found his son that he commissioned a work of art to commemorate the occasion.  And thus we have Mannekin Pis, or roughly, peeing model. 

 

After Mannekin Pis, we headed back to Grand-Place for a quick tour of the Brewers’ House.  A quick tour indeed, it was only three rooms.  The first room was a very small bar that doubled as a ticket counter, the second room was a small, restored brasserie, or brewery, from the end of the 17^th century, and the third room was a larger circular room with a few machines from a modern brewery on the outskirts with a screen at the head of the room showing a long film about the history of the beer, the gist of which was that monks are really good at making beer. 

 

After that, we made our way to the Museum of Costume and Lace (Musée du Costume et de la Dentelle). It was much more satisfying than the Brewer’s House, which felt like paying money to watch a special that probably runs on public television.  Plus it had another thing Belgium is secretly known for, lace.  Granted, we didn’t see half so much lace as we did costume; the museum was exhibiting a retrospective of women’s fashion in Belgium from 1958.  Essentially it was a series of rooms of pretty dresses, hats, and fans from the late 50s, and a whole lot of fun to walk through, especially since there was hardly anyone there to mind that I was singing American standards the whole time. 

 

We rounded out the day with waffles and fries (ie lunch) and a walk though Parc du Bruxelles, one of the biggest park’s in Belgium, the edge of which took us past the royal residence.  Then we headed back to Isabel’s grandmother’s where we ate a real meal and went to bed, tired from a long day. 

 

Friday, Bruges

If you haven’t seen it, I highly recommend the movie In Bruges.  It definitely got me pumped for going to Bruges, although I would have been happy to go anyway.  It’s a pretty little town with some of the oldest architecture in Belgium and an extensive canal system that yields (poor) comparisons to Venice (that is, people say Bruges is the Venice of Belgium… to that I say, the canals in Bruges are very nice, but they’ve got nothing on Venice).  It’s a little touristy, yes, but it’s also quite beautiful.

One thing that the film In Bruges gave me was an unshakable, childlike excitement anytime I walked through Markt (Bruges’ equivalent of Grand-Place) and past the bell tower (if you haven’t seen the movie, I refuse to spoil it by explaining the significance of the bell tower).  I probably giggled excessively, especially for someone who grew up in Studio City. 

(“Mommy, mommy, it looks just like the one in the movie!”)

 

Arriving in Bruges Isabel and I first followed some signs and walked around, making our way to the Lovers Water where we were struck by the natural and overwhelming beauty of Bruges.   We decided it was aptly named because it seems like a place that would be very conducive to that I’m-in-love-and-everything-is-wonderful sort of feeling, so much so that Isabel felt the need to point out several times that it was too bad that I was me and not a beautiful man friend.  Tant pis, I’m perfectly happy being me thank you very much. 

 

We also wandered into a béguinage, or Beguine convent, the grounds of which were open to the public.  It was quiet and peaceful, that is, until the tour groups came through with their matching t-shirts, high flags, and chatty tour directors.  That was odd.

 

Next we took a boat tour of Bruges via the canal system.  Luckily, we just happened to catch the last open tour of the day, from there on out the tours were only reserved for the large tour groups we had encountered earlier.  The boat tour was lovely; our driver explained everything four times, giving tour information in Flemish, then repeating himself in French, English, and Spanish.  He was kind of a champ in that regard. 

The champ

 

Another boat on the canal

A hotel and restaurant on the edge of a canal

After the boat, we were getting hungry for lunch.  And we were in Belgium.  The only logical solution? The fry museum!  But why stop there?

If we buy them all together, we can get a discount for going to all three of the big museums in Bruges, the fry museum, the chocolate museum, and the lamp museum.

Our response? Pourquoi pas?   

 

And so we started at the fry museum, or Frietmuseum: From potato to chip.  Simultaneously inane and glorious, the fry museum engaged in a little false advertising because we had to pay for the fries at the end of our tour that we had hoped to get for free.  And yes, that was Friday’s lunch.  Unless you’re a potato enthusiast, you’re not missing a whole lot if you skip the fry museum, although each room had, among other panels of information, a story geared toward children that followed two potato characters from room to room.  This was the glorious part of the museum, so glorious in fact, that words will not suffice, I will have to show you.  However, it might take a few pictures, so I'll give it it's own post. 

  Next up, we hit up the chocolate museum and the lamp museum.  They’re housed in the same building, so when we showed up at the ticket counter, we were given passes for both and could visit them in either order.  The chocolate museum seemed busy so we tried the lamp museum first.

 

The lamp museum, or Lumina Domestica was… interesting.  We first had to slip plastic passes into a slot and go through a turnstile which led us to a brief introduction/explanation of the museum and to a set of stairs to start the tour. The intro explained how the proprietor of the lamps housed in the museum started his (or her?) lamp collection at a young age upon receiving an exotic lamp as a souvenir from a father who traveled far and wide for business.  The lamp collection subsequently became, shall we say, obsessive.  The museum tour began up a flight of stairs where a glowing, color-changing genie spoke to us in French of the wonders of light.  Next we were guided into a dark room that suddenly lit up to the sound of thunder.  Isabel and I both jumped about a foot in the air and screamed the first time this happened because, to add to the tension that the exhibit sought to create, we were the only ones in the whole lamp museum.  We were so shaken up that we stood there hugging each other for about a minute at which point the lights went out and it happened again. 

We jumped the second time too.   

 

Then we moved through the rest of the museum cautiously, but quickly.  And while it was pretty cool to see all the ancient ways people harnessed fire and oil for light, the collection was actually obsessive, rooms and rooms and rooms of lamps that looked virtually identical and not another person in sight.  I’m sure the proprietor was very well intentioned, but it came across as a little creepy.  ESPECIALLY when I tried to take a picture to capture the fact that this person has SO MANY ROOMS FULL OF SO MANY LAMPS and I had accidentally left the flash on; when I went to take the picture the flash went off and INSTANTANEOUSLY all the lights went off and we were left in near darkness. 

We left pretty quickly. 

 

Then we made our way to the chocolate museum or Choco-Story which will forever and always remind me of Thomas Gerkin who insists on calling all things chocolatey “choco.”  This museum was decidedly more conventional and full of people, hence little to no creep factor.  It was much more about chocolate and its history than the chocolate museum in Barcelona had been, although this one also had displays of statues made of chocolate.  Unfortunately, it was raining outside and everyone had decided that it was therefore a good idea to go this particular museum and it was pretty crowded.  It was reasonably interesting, but at this point Isabel and I were both suffering from an acute case of museum fatigue and didn’t stay very long.  After a bit of wandering in the rain, some window shopping, and nearly getting turned around several times we ran to the train station and just barely caught the 4pm train back to Brussels, which put us back at Isabel’s grandmother’s just in time for dinner.

 

Saturday, Sunday, Brussels

We spent the weekend with Isabel’s family.  Saturday we went to the local market and ate more waffles (if you get them hot and fresh, mmm, so good).  Then we went with Isabel’s grandmother and two of her cousins to a centennial celebration of the local neighborhood and culture.  It was a small fair and a good bit of fun: old games, old costumes and dance, and restored trams.  That evening we went to Isabel’s uncle’s home for dinner which was excellent.  He makes his own apple juice, which is delicious, and he has a farm so we got to play with baby goats and chicks (cuuuuute).  Then Sunday we visited Isabel’s aunt for coffee and cake. She has a new kitten so the weekend was full of adorable baby animals. 

After that we went home, which would have been uneventful if I hadn’t left my wallet in Angers which had my Carte 12-25.  The Carte 12-25 is the best thing about the SNCF, the organization that runs the French train system.  The card gets you major discounts on train tickets if you are between the ages of 12 and 25. Unfortunately for me, you have to carry the card with you when you travel and present it, along with your ticket to the ticket checkers.  I got a fine for not carrying my card, but I paid it and that was over with.  Also, the train stopped once or twice on the tracks and we just sat there without explanation for some time, so we got back to Angers over an hour after we were scheduled to.  But aside from my frustration with the SNCF (which will be explained in more detail soon), it was a very nice trip.