9/30/2006

Parisians

Here's why I loved Paris: I went there with some almost-entirely forgotten French and a phrasebook (which I read constantly while we were there). In almost every case, when we were out somewhere, the people at the shops and wherever else were happy to meet me halfway. If I was struggling with something, they'd try to figure out what it was in English. It was so great to try and go as far with French as possible and have them willing to give me the assist when it didn't get there.

And really, almost everyone we met was like that: kind, happy to talk to us, and I think a little amused that I was trying so hard to speak French.

I went to Paris expecting to not like the French at all, and out of all the people I dealt with, only a couple weren't great.

That said, here's how Parisians are dicks:
- Making fun of your pronunceation. It's a little power trip, where they make a big deal about how you're not saying words correctly - repeating the thing you said, acting confused, the whole deal. I was in a bakery and asked for two pain aux raissons (these cool pastries with raisins in them) while making the thumb-and-finger "two" and pointing at the pastries I wanted in the display, and the young woman behind the counter made a huge deal about how I wasn't saying it right. "Poisson?" she asked, which would be fish. She protested that they didn't have any fish pasteries. Which then would make it really strange for me to ask for fish pasteries, right? And since I'm pointing to something that sounds pretty close to what I asked for, it's probably a pretty good bet that that's what I want.

There were people behind me in line and this was embarassing. I did my request again, asking for the pastries, the sign for two, pointing, and she repeated my words with the same confused look. She drew this out for a while.

This is distinct from conversations I had with people who wanted to talk to me about improving my French, which was sometimes pointed but done in a friendly way.

- The indignity of work. This happens everywhere - there were a couple times where I'd walk up to a counter to buy something and the clerk would make a big deal with the body language, huffing as they stood to walk over, sighing as they opened the register. They only work 35 hours a week - come on.

I spent almost almost two weeks in Paris, working my ass off to speak to people, and by the time we left I could have reasonable conversations with shop keepers (including asking them to please speak a little more slowly). I felt really good about it, and it helped make my time in Paris much more fun.

9/24/2006

Train travel in the UK

I'm a huge fan of trains.

They're cool.
They're environmentally responsible, far more so than air travel.

There's also a much more complicated argument for redundant systems I want to make here, which is essentially that if you're overly reliant on any single means of transportation that system becomes an extremely lucrative target, and it makes recovering from any attack dramatically harder. But I'll skip that.

We took trains from London to Edinburgh, Edinburgh to York, York to Bath, and Bath to Paris by way of London.

London to Edinburgh was great. Looking out on the sea, all the little towns, the English countryside -- totally worth it. The only weird thing was because of the bank holiday (they went crazy for the bank holiday, it was bizarre), everyone headed out of London headed out one station, where they caught trains elsewhere. We had a bunch of shorts-wearing jersey-clad guys on the way up, who stood between cars, occasionally making offensive comments to women, and drank beer continuously.

The strange thing, at least to me, was that they were the only group of tattooed people I'd seen in London, and they weren't young, they were older, middle-aged ways.

Edinburgh-York was fine, except that it was a Virgin train which (seemingly) meant that "quiet car" (no cell phones/needless noise/etc) was entirely ignored, but whatever, you don't really expect things like that to mean anything, much as you might hope. York-Bath though...

We're traveling along, minding our own business, when we smell something that smells like loaded baby diaper. It gets worse. People on the train start looking at each other, around at people who just got on, the babies... and it gets worse.

And worse.
And worse.

Later, my wife and I argued over how bad it got - she argued it was the worst smell ever, and I argued that while it wasn't the worst ever, it was the worst smell I'd ever been exposed to for any length of time.

What was amazing was the response of the people in the car. There was a great reluctance to say anything, much less react visibly, but the smell was so bad people found pretexts to touch their mouth, bring handkerchiefs or other articles of clothing up to cover their noses, until finally many people were openly pinching their noses closed.

This was the great British stiff-upper-lip reserve.

I was, weirdly, reminded of an X-Files episode (weirdly because I didn't watch the show that often).
Cop: "They say it cuts the smell if you don't breathe through your mouth."
Mulder: "They lie."

I ended up leaving the car, which you're not really supposed to do because the seat assignment is regimented and standing is as enforced as having a seat (weirdly) so it's hard to give up a seat even if you're nauseated by a smell and about to be sick.

I ended up between the cars, unable to take it as almost all the rest of the British endured without complaint. A conductor came by and said to the refugees (and I don't know how to punctuate this to convey the humor he managed) "There was an accident with a dog. (beat) Allegedly."

He went through and sprayed something in the car that either
a) removed the smell or
b) deadened the smell sense of car riders

I went back to my seat, now weirdly less smelly than between cars where the stink cloud had moved. A cleaner came on two stations later, and whatever he did, the situation got even better.

Then London-Paris... the thing about trains, if I may, is that being far more economical than air transport, it makes sense to make the seats at least somewhat more spacious. Especially if you're me and really tall, it seems like an obvious conclusion, trains = more space. But the train through the Chunnell was really cramped and annoying, and its only redeeming value was that it didn't have the horrible security and general hassle of flying from London to Paris.

Edinburgh, York, Bath

Edinburgh was much friendlier than London, though of course it wasn't nearly as cool. We arrived at the end of the Fringe festival, which meant there were uncountable things going on, shows and street performers and all kinds of stuff. We went and saw "Watson and Oliver" which was really funny, but was also essentially put on in a cargo container with two performers in front of 40 people. It was also strange to sit around and have the performers, their friends, and random assorted hangers-on come by, ask you if you would be around at showtime, or "looking for a show tonight?"

I wanted to stop some of them ("Hey, you're going on stage in a couple of hours, you should take a break here...")

I have a criteria for seeing comedy. It must be funny. The whole genre of applause comedy bores me. Whee, politics are so stupid! Clap clap clap clap! The furthest I'll go in this direction is Lewis Black, who gets a lot of applause but is also really quite sharply funny and willing to make fun of himself.

York was great. It's also an excellent demonstration of the problem with trying to preserve old cities today. Narrow streets designed to admit one horse carriage, if that, can't handle car traffic and pedestrians. Trying to build roads through them is a fool's task, but businesses will demand them (like Nordstrom and Westlake Center!).

So in York, within the walls, there are all these crazy narrow, crooked streets, hordes of people on feet, and annoyed people on cars trying to get around (for some reason), honking their horn.

Just ban the cars from those areas, at least from say 9am-7pm when they can't safely coexist. I'll come back to this in a later post.

Bath was okay. Not a lot to see once you've taken the walking tour, unless you're interested in hanging around at the spa. Weather was also really strange while we were there - gusting wind, rain, cold for much of the time.

This lead to a great British moment. I loved the dry, understated British humor every time I came across it, from the Beefeaters at the Tower of London (who described a medal they got for meritous long service as the "Undetected Crime Medal"). In Bath, I tuned into the BBC for the weather and the report, essentially, was "winds between 0-20 kilometers an hour from the west and north, sunny and cloudy with sprinkles and showers" and for the rest of the week, it would continue to be "inconstant".

I cracked up.

Then we headed to Paris.

9/22/2006

Another argument for anonymous browsing

After I got back, I looked into whether I could have brought back a box of Cuban cigars, as I wanted to do (nope, ). That ended up with me reading some other stuff, wandering around, and finally I checked out the Department of Justice's privacy policy which (to sum up) says "we collect standard webstats like your domain, IP address,
In certain circumstances, however, we may take additional steps to identify you based on this information and we may share this information, including your identity, with other government agencies.


Uhhhh... wow. So if I do research for a short story I'm writing, read the Microgram Bulletin, which is totally fascinating, and otherwise poke around the Customs and DEA information, that might be "certain circumstances" where my excessive interest leads to them seeing if my IP is static and then putting me on the super-search list so I get pulled out of line every time I take a flight?

Dreamcast, MacBook, Art Ramblings

My plan was to sell my MacBook Pro after the road trip, but now that the time's come, I can't bring myself to do it, and I find myself finding excuses for using it over my extremely souped-up PC with the sweet LCDs.

Yet I don't have money and I haven't decided whether I'm headed back into the job market, so I'm torn. In the last year or so, as I've worked on the book continuously, I've made a pretty huge mess of my office, and now I'm cleaning that up as I hang around waiting for word on my other book proposals/job possiblities. Which means I'm selling off some of my old treasured RPGs and cool games, which, inevitably, meant I hooked the Dreamcast up again and took it for a spin.

I'll skip the rant about how cool the Dreamcast was and get to my point -- some of those games were gorgeous. Popping in a game that's six years old, I don't expect it to look that great, but in some of them - Skies of Arcadia, in particular - the artists did so much with the expressions of the characters, building a style, that it's beautiful.

I look at some of my favorite old games (like Starflight/etc) and I remember the sense of wonder I felt playing them, but I don't ever look at screenshots of the old PC/PC-AT games and think "wow, that's a beautiful CGA game". But the aliens in Space Invaders are weird and cool and recognizable even today, and some of the old sprites still carry meanings.

It's a lot like art history. Cave paintings without perspective can move us, and today

There are two major differences, though:
- computer technology's moved so fast that there's never been little artistic focus at any point. When EGA supplanted CGA, there weren't artists that tried to keep working in CGA, but there were still painters after photography was invented (to be overly simplistic about it).
- the history of the art's quickly destroyed, because incompatibility means you can't study the works of the past, and copy protection contributes as well. I can't run Starflight today for a number of reasons, so I'm reduced to seeing screenshots and trying to remember the gameplay (Uhhh... Statement/Question/Posture?).

Both those differences have wider-ranging consequences than we've really considered as a society. For one, it means that we're in a strange position of moving forward and jumping ahead of our breadcrumbs. If I wanted to teach someone about the history of gaming, I'd be able to find some of the orignal arcade games in decent emulation or otherwise, and then I'm screwed for a while before I can even consider walking into the vast grey area of abandonware, then it's dicey trying to get stuff from then on to run on supported operating systems... so my class would be like
1. The early origins of gaming
2. Games I'd like to show you but can't for various reasons
3. Half-Life 2!

I'm reminded of the gaps in the history of painting created by wide-scale wars or natural disasters, where we're left with a couple pieces by someone who was brilliant and supposedly created others.

Video games are art, I have no doubt that this will eventually be recognized by all reasonable people. But while I can buy a book and look at reproductions of Jean Miro paintings, or travel to see them in person, some of the best games, the most influential classics that created genres and thrilled all that played them, are already essentially lost.

That's horrible, and it's sad that nothing's going to happen about it.

9/21/2006

Impressions of London

London is a great city, and like all great cities, it is amazing and horrible at once. There is a strange sense in visiting London of sifted history. Taking the Underground, even staring at the map of the Underground, there’s an uneasy sense in my chest that London is incomprehensible, that the lines are based on a thousand years of history, and the bump in the diagonal of the Picadilly line is the result of the great fire, or some historical accident that forced a station to be built several blocks away from where one would logically go. I stare at the map and know that in a week, I’m not going to understand the territory, and will be happy when I can read the maps well enough to navigate.

Worse, there was a constant tension trying to get by in London. I have no job right now, and don’t know when, or if, I’ll return to getting a steady paycheck. The prices made me feel uncomfortable everywhere we went. They would look, at first, entirely rational – inexpensive, even, given that we were in one of the world’s largest metropolitan areas. £3 for a beer? Why, that’s entirely reasonable at first glance, except that £3 at $1.90/pound means that beer’s about $5.75. The £12 meal is £23.

It provoked a kind of horror that made me afraid to buy things, and sent us into grocery stores and the food department of Marks & Spencer over the corner noodle store. And the food sucked, generally speaking, even without correcting for cost. Finding a decent meal wasn’t hard, but it cost so much that it discouraged exploration.

It takes some of the fun out of vacation when you worry about money. I know that we’re supposed to say “hey, it’s vacation – don’t worry that a bad plate of fish and chips runs £8.50” but in practice, it’s an accumulated mental weight that makes each night a little harder to justify spending.

It’s part of what made London seem more work than vacation. Everyone in London seemed unhappy to be there, as if they were on their way to or at unpleasant jobs that barely paid the bills. Once we talked to them, they were almost all quite chipper and helpful, but taking a train from one place to another felt like joining a funeral procession. One paper estimated that the average London commuter spent 45m each way. I have no way of evaluating whether that’s true or not, but from the looks of it, it seemed to fit: each day, eight hours and then nearly two in transit is a quick way to knock off another day on your way towards death.

In-flight movie mini-update

From yesterday:
Simpsons episode I've seen many times > X-Men 3 > Nacho Libre > Two Weeks Notice [sic]

9/13/2006

Speak English?

Walking on the streets of Paris, it’s obvious that people can detect Americans at a distance. I’m not always sure what gives us away (wearing shorts, sure). Often, it means a subtle shift in language that you have to pay attention to: a shopkeeper says “and is that all?” in English instead of the French equivalent.

The most noticeable thing that happens, though, is you attract gypsies. No, really. I was lucky enough to be warned early, but the first time I saw a barefoot girl in a flowing dress, walking around one of the riverside streets asking everyone she saw “Speak English?” I didn’t quite believe it.

The scam is that they ask anyone who looks touristy “Speak English?” and if they acknowledge at all that they do, they deploy a small piece of paper or worn cardboard, where someone’s written
Ladies and Gentlemen, I am from a family from Bosnia […] (so please give me money).

More or less. They are not, in case you are at this point curious, a family from Bosnia or wherever that particular plea claims.

If you read it and don’t refuse them immediately, they start pleading, making little hands-together praying to you gestures, and so on. I think many people give them money at this point to make them go away. Sometimes, if they sense opportunity, they’ll keep at someone who’s already given them money, though I rarely saw this. Once they got money, they walk away, sometimes turning it over in their hand before stuffing it in their moneybelt like the ones worn by people worried about being pickpocketed by gypsies.

What’s not clear is why they ask people if they speak English, and why they themselves don’t speak or pretend not to speak English, and are instead reduced to showing a sign to people, or why they don’t appear anything or dress anything like a standard Bosnian person.

Take a counter-example. Say that I flee the United States ahead of angry mob of rival bloggers, and end up in Mexico. Would I hang around tourist attractions in Mexico, asking everyone if they spoke Icelandic, and then showing them a plea, written in Icelandic, which I can neither speak or write, asking them for money?

The question is quite good. It’s in almost perfect American English, and your natural response is to say “yes” and then they have your attention.

Moreover, wahat the question does is filter out people in continental Europe who either have experience with gypsies or who have heard warnings about them. They’re either going to refuse a response because they don’t speak English (and probably recognize the pitch), or they’re going to refuse a response because they recognize the hustle. Leaving people from the UK who don’t know any better, or American/Canadian tourists who may have little experience with this kind of con.

So answering “yes” is like saying “I’m naïve and don’t understand what’s going on”. This is like slathering yourself in barbeque sauce and then jumping in to the lion exhibit at the zoo.

The thing to do is deny you speak English, even if they walk up to you while you’re talking in English, because it prevents the pitch (most of the time).

I’ve been approached on the streets, near the Louvre, near Notre Dame, but the Eiffel Tower provided the best example of this, because it has a great open square, where tourists enter and exit constantly, and where they move towards predictable queues, and sit along accessible benches.

We watched them work today for a while, and its fascinating. It’s a little like seeing ranchers at work. There were one to five girls, all fairly young (like late teens on) and they would circulate in almost random-seeming patterns, but manage to not approach the same person twice as they worked their way around the square. There was almost always one at the base of pillar as an elevator descended, letting off a pack of known tourists, but they would group and then disperse, staying just out of each other’s earshot, so if you were approached by one you were unlikely to hear the “Speak English?” of another from the same group.

They took breaks, maybe when they were tired or maybe when they felt they needed to let the ecosystem refresh itself, but they’d all find a spot of grass where they could lie down and talk. It’s probably even odds on whether they were talking shop – what wavering tone best worked on mothers with small kids – or trying to talk about anything but how depressing it must be to work crowds every day like that.

They made a lot of money.

They disappeared entirely when the French military guys showed up. The French run patrols around major landmarks seemingly at random, three uniformed, camoflague-clad soldiers with automatic rifles who saunter through, scanning the crowd around any important site. The British seemed to dislike displaying their military – in situations where something was serious enough to protect with uniformed officers (or enlisted personnel) with heavy personal weapons generally served as the second line of defense, ready to respond if something serious happened, but also content to let the London police be the face of security, unarmed though they were. But here in Paris, there they are, closely bunched like an invitation for a suicide bomber, walking along the Champs de Mars, serious as can be, occasionally helping a brave tourist unlose themselves.

I don’t know if this happens every time, or if it was coincidence, but while we were watching the “lost Bosnians” do their bee-dance we saw one of the threesomes of uniformed military walk in from the southeast, and suddenly they were all gone. They disappeared entirely, and we didn’t see any of them for a while.

Now, there are police around France (not many, it seems, but there are). I don’t know if they don’t particularly care, or if they would flee around them, but it seems like a good way not to be hassled on the street is to dress up as if you’re in the French army and carry an FN-FAL automatic rifle.

What I find even more interesting about this is that in a way, it’s like the battle between infection and an immune system. If you’re too gullible, you’re attacked from all sides by con artists of all kinds, who will take you for every cent you have (and can borrow from others). But you can’t counter-attack everyone, because almost everyone is innocent. In this case, it makes me much less likely to help people out while I’m traveling, if only because I’ve been made less willing to listen to their plea – whether they’re asking for a baguette, directions to an embassy, or money – because allowing myself to respond to pleas means I’d waste a lot of time.

Similarly, I’m dramatically less likely to talk to someone who is close to the description of the girl who hassled me repeatedly over a couple of days in different locations – which, in turn, I think reflects why people in France and Germany have such a low opinion of Gypsies in general, and means that if you were a Gypsie, and wanted to make an honest living, it’d be that much harder because no one trusted you.

You might soon be reduced to walking barefoot around tourist-rich areas of Paris, carrying a worn cardboard plea, asking “Speak English?”

9/10/2006

Version four in

No, really. Completed today with church bells tolling, emailed in just now. Hopefully I won't have to touch it again while I'm on vacation.

9/06/2006

I get shortchanged on the Île Saint-Louis

a) T-Mobile (and Starbucks) have no fucking clue what they're doing with wifi points. I'm going to be asking for refunds shortly, because their well-run operation stopped, it seems, at the crossing.
b) I'm hoping this scrolls off before my parents chance to read this, but I had my first infuriating Parisian experience today. Short version -
There's a grocer next to my parents' hotel. Since they stay there often, they know the dude, whatever.
The last few days, we've hiked over to their hotel before we all head out.
Today, we stopped at the grocer to buy water, because it's really hot here. We bought two .65E bottles of water for 1.30E. While I was working out the change in my head, my mom & wife were talking to the grocer, the grocer's joking that I can just give it all to him and he'll work it out. I'm reluctant to do this. I give him 2.30E in a two-euro coin and .30 in other change. He says "You pay big this time, next time you pay small." I stare at him, stand there, wait. He doesn't move. I stand there, hand out, expectent, and nothing. My mom & wife chat about moving on, everyone else in Paris has been nice and helpful, plus he knows my parents-- I figure it's good. Plus, it's my mom's birthday, I don't want to cause some big scene.
I stew about this for some time, in particular his refusal to hand over a euro when clearly I was not into his "wheel of karma" argument. It pisses me off.
Then later, after we've hiked around and whatever, we stop in to buy crackers, more water, etc. This is a perfect opportunity for him to give me that euro he owes me, or even a good faith chunk of it. Nope, exact change.
Bonus incident: I'm stewing some more about this, and complain to my dad while birthday mom is up in her room. He expresses consternation, not because I've been ripped off for 1E by someone he knows and does business with all the time, but in his words "I just can't figure out why he'd do that" which, to translate, is "I don't think that happened, or at least not in the way you describe it" which, to digress, was probably the most infuriating thing about my youth, which - and I freely admit this as much my fault for being delinquent all the time as anything - had any number of incidents where it was my entirely truthful word against someone (generally a teacher or other authority figure) else's story, and they'd totally buy mine. In this case, the essential implication is that I, a former cashier myself and not a s dull knife at this, must somehow be responsible.

Anyway. Fuck you, grocer on Île Saint-Louis! This is why visitors get bad impressions. Everyone else is kind and nice, and you fuck it up for them.

I'm not sure what the proper Parisian response is: graffiti or brick-through-window. I'll ask at the hotel front desk tomorrow, see what they say.

9/01/2006

CGTB version four

I hate hate hate working on this thing while I'm on vacation, but I knew what I was signing on for, years ago.

Edits have been pretty light, I'm about ~100 pages through them and they're going pretty fast. Unfortunately my ability to do research from here, where internet access is horrible, price and unreliable even where available, is pretty limited, so I've been unable to answer some re-re-research questions. We'll see what happens.

Al Gore is following me

I'm in Europe, Expedia launches my cool carbon credit thing (fight global warming!) and Al Gore's hanging around. He was in Edinburgh with me, and he's been running around the UK praising the country for trying to beat its Kyoto obligations to reduce greenhouse gas emissions.

I'm a fan. I know Gore's a pretty polarizing guy, but I was a fan back when he was leading nuclear arms reduction pushes from the Senate, and I'm still a fan.

Anyway, while here, I've been trying to read all the papers I can, and I came across a London Times editorial that argued - in print! In the Times! that argued that we couldn't really know if global warming was man-made until NASA got some more satellites up, since it could just be the sun.

This is one of the big myths of the global warming ostrich crowd (part of the "we don't know enough to act yet" bundle), and pretty easily debunked. And yet I had to wonder - Al Gore's in town, the UK's doing good work, and they ran that editorial? Why?

(as an aside, since I can write endless annoying asides on my blog - run a google search for "global warming myth" and you'll get one of the more disturbing sets of results I've ever seen)

Anyway, hi Al! We should chat sometime about creating market-based incentives for greenhouse reduction. I know what I'm talking about, I got something out there (well, sorta, since I wasn't there for the implementation) -- drop me a line.

Or... does anyone know him? Want to give me an intro?

I started a longer post on the carbon credit thing I hope to post today. Later dudes.