As usual, way behind in the note-keeping business, but a few random tidbits instead:

• Gotta love a city where catching an afternoon performance of Mahler’s Third by the Staatskapelle Berlin conducted by Daniel Barenboim (brilliantly filling in for James Levine), is as simple as: picking Nino fresh off her plane at Alexanderplatz, walking over to Staatsoper and buying three (very cheap) last minute-tickets.
• Used the excuse of miscellaneous out-of-town visitors to check a few of the more touristy items off my Berlin list.
• For an artist squat long past its underground heydays and part of even the most casual touristic tours of Berlin, Tacheles was still surprisingly fresh and unassuming: with some cool art, a relaxed atmosphere and a funky bar to grab a drink at in the middle of the night. You can also buy “Kultur kann man nicht kaufen” postcards for 1.30€ there.
• I apparently look very fetching in a tiara. A comforting thought, in case I finally quit research to pursue my lifelong dream of becoming a pretty princess.
• Only major piece left missing to our Berlin nightclub collection, Berghain was actually sort of a letdown: not bad, but definitely nowhere near what the legend gave it as. Perhaps just that particular night. Had fun anyway.
• Also caught Jazzanova (or a two people subset thereof) at Icon. Rather unimpressive DJing skills (at least before the 5th Vodka mit Red Bull), but some damn awesome blend of everything Latin, Jazzy and Danceable (from Calypso to Cumbia, with your fair share of random house beats in the middle). Funnily enough, threw the same Led Zep nod as Theo Parrish at Yellow, a couple years back: except they played Whole Lotta Love, not Kashmir…

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More Random Comments and Appreciation: a Berlin Wrap-Up

Liebes Diary,

It has now been 15 days that the great yellow star has vanished from the sky. Ancient ones have prophecised that it shall return one day if we make the proper sacrifices to the gods. Then again, ancient ones will say anything for a chance at skinning a dozen virgins, while getting high on mystical plants. According to German news, such a dark spell had not occured since 1964. I liked it much better back when meteorological records involved “longest dry spell ever recorded on a rainy season” or “warmest autumn since the invention of thermometers”. Now that we have successfully debunked the liberal global warming hoax, can we go back to abnormally mild winters, exquisitely hot summers and dangerously rising sea levels? That Siberian datcha I bought last year is not gonna become a waterfront on its own.

As predicted last month to easily amazed Japanese friends, our German flat comes with such marvels of 19th century technology as central heating and double-windows. Unfortunately it also features 10ft high ceilings, which sorta defeats the purpose. Something is not quite right when the longest dimension of your bedroom is height. I assume, however, than my no doubt imminent transformation into a blood-sucking creature of the night will solve this issue by making “upside down, hanging from the ceiling”, a perfectly natural sleeping position.

Although technically “in” Berlin, my laboratorium sits in the middle of the German tundra. Access requires usage of the entire bahn alphabet, followed by a vivifying walk through neighbouring parks and forests. I spotted a couple wolves in the distance, on my way home yesterday night. They fortunately seemed too busy fighting over the remains of some unlucky coworker to notice me. I did notify the lab secretary this morning that I did not think Hans was staying home with the flu, as was initially assumed.

My German is slowly crawling back to the satisfyingly mediocre level of my high school years. I still tend to answer all questions with “sou desu ne“.

The Fall of the Berlin Wall, German reunification and ensuing economic and sociological challenges of the early 90s, are expectedly way less popular a conversation topic than may have been implied by 7 years of high school language classes relentlessly covering the subject. Had Frau Wagner spent just a little less time obsessing about Wiedervereinigung, Ossis, Wessis and balloons coming in easily roundable numbers, I might actually know how to say useful everyday things. As it is, I am now known in my social group as the guy with a surprisingly rich German vocabulary pertaining to the plight of disenfranchised and politically disillusioned East German workers confronted to consumerist and individualist values inherent to the capitalistic system of the West. Also known as: that guy with the tedious conversation who can barely order for himself at the restaurant. Fuck you Frau Wagner.

Linguistic limitations aside, and despite the equally unsurprising lack of opportunities for congratulating one’s interlocutor about the cuteness of their monkey in casual bar conversations (“Was fur ein süße Affe!” — year 1, lesson 1), people are friendly and fun to hang out with. Sadly, my considerable repertoire of Hitler jokes remains largely unappreciated, strangely enough.

I have an increasingly hard time repressing the urge to punch newly met acquaintances who mention how great and enjoyable Summer in Berlin is. Which they never fail to do. Preferably shortly after it has been announced that the negative double-digit temperature is likely to last until at least the end of February (“When did you say you were leaving again? Oh… I see… sorry”).

I must now step out to go replenish our survival chocolate supply at the store across the street. It looks like there’s yet another small snow storm outside. Where did I put the damn polar bear gun.

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Deutsch Chroniken, Teil 1

It took a while, but I think I finally know how it feels to be the ancient one, sitting helplessly while the younger ones try to operate antiquated machinery from another era… say, a turntable.

Picture if you will: a standard Berlin bar, two cheerful yet terminally hopeless barmaids, a pair of standard-issue decks, a [presumably rather cheesy German] record to be played…

It went a little bit like this:

1. Barmaid places record on deck, tries to play it for 2 minutes before realising said deck has no needle (stylus or cartridge, for that matter).
2. Barmaid repeatedly tries to spot the beginning of some track she is presumably looking for, using a lighter for sole light source. Gets ever so slightly pissy when yours truly points [as gently as possible] toward the button to enable the dedicated target light that comes standard on all SL-1200.
3. Barmaid #2 [unsuccessfully] tries to fit a raw stylus into the standard needle connector, apparently oblivious to the obvious size/shape difference.
4. Barmaids have stroke of genius and finally decide to switch the entire deck with the other deck (changing cables and all), yet again failing to notice that simply switching the cartridge, would have been a considerably easier endeavour.
5. After finally plugging the new deck in, barmaids enter long struggle to figure the on/off dial on the new deck. Get increasingly pissy at any attempt to point them in the right direction… Finally give up in frustration and put a CD instead.

Seriously: now I know exactly how old-timers feel, when they see condescending-yet-clueless youngsters trying to operate a 1930s radio… and miserably failing at it, as if it was some alien technology.

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The Youth of Today…

The only question is: does either go up to 11?

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Stronger or Strongest?

In Paris for New Year’s Eve (and a few more days after that), before going back to Berlin until the end of Winter.

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Snowy Winter Break

In Paris (and Europe at large) for the week… Should be back in the Kyo just in time for hanami.

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Early Spring in Paris

Barring some very unlikely technological leap in European medical facilities regarding internet access, I’ll be offline for a couple days. Use cellphone or carrier pigeon for any matter that cannot wait.

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Men in White

And if I hear one more piano piece by Satie or a Bach partita in a film, I shall scream.

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The problem with contemporary French movies

Thinking of mailing a package or urgent document from France? You might naturally be inclined to pick French transporter Chronopost: after all, they are the official offshoot of the French Postal Services and you can use their service through any French post office. OK, if you have any experience with the latter, and their dysmal record in both regular and special mail delivery, knowing that they officially “recommend” Chronopost wouldn’t be a big boost in their favour, but still, the point is: they are the default, ubiquitous, choice for parcels in France… marginally cheaper than DHL or Fedex and much more conveniently located.

Over the course of those past three years in Paris, I have done my best to avoid Chronopost and the French Post: never ever relied on them for anything critical, whenever I could help it.

And when I couldn’t help it… well they never once fulfilled their promise. I’ve had “Express 48h” delivery brought over to my doorstep, 3 weeks late and half torn-out, relatives to whom I’d send birthday presents abroad would get them a month after their birthday (that’s despite paying $100 for a pocketbook-sized parcel), I’ve had to go pick-up packages at the local delivery point countless times because “Recipient not at home at time of delivery” (never mind the fact I’d have been sitting by the door all morning and had my cellphone number printed on the delivery slip)…

To sum it up, out of about a dozen interactions with Chronopost during my time here, I don’t think they’ve held up their end of the contract more than once, twice at best.

Every time, I feel I should blog about them. Warn random googlers, particularly non-French-speakers who might blindly trust their brand name, of their pitiable overpriced services. Each time, I just decide to let it slide and get on with more positive things in my life.

Here is the last straw that made me change my mind:

• Cue back last Wednesday (2 days ago). ‘Tis Christmas season, time to send out gifts to my loving world-scattered family. I won’t be hiking out to the Great Ass-Freezing White North this year to see this side of the family, but little brother, who currently spends time in the south of France, will. His plane leaves on Saturday morning.
• Why, no problem: 3 days is ample time to get a small package rush-delivered from France’s largest city to its second largest city, located 5 hours away by train.
• Since I’m not feeling very peachy (i.e.: surviving on pharmaceutical-grade painkillers), I foolishly opt for the easy solution: walk over to my local Bureau de Poste, hand over my package, pay the $40 fee in exchange for their top-speed overnight “delivered-by-1pm-the-next-day” service. This, I thought, gives it a whole extra day security. Even factoring in their usual incompetence in door-to-door delivery, that leaves enough time for little bro to go pick it up himself.
• Sure enough: next day at 3pm, when I go online to their website, their tracking service informs me that an “Unsuccessful delivery attempt” was made at 11:24am (did I mention that the delivery address is a standalone building with no doorcode, a doorman that had been warned to expect a delivery and my brother’s cellphone number clearly printed out on the delivery slip).
• That’s when I notice that, according to the full tracking listing: “Recipient refused delivery”. Which, is so blatantly impossible that I guess it is the delivery-guy’s way of saying “Gosh, I have way too many packages to deliver today, let’s lighten up the load a bit”.
• Better yet, the listing reads that the package has been scheduled to be sent back where it came from (to me), by end of day.
• Half-an-hour on their overcrowded customer service number (billed .15 euros/minute, of course) and much irritating scripted speech with painfully incompetent personel later: package scheduled for new delivery attempt on next day (Friday), same time.
• Brings us to Friday – today – 11am: my cellphone rings. Delivery guy wanna know how he is supposed to get past the doorcode. What doorcode, do I politely inquire while screaming very loudly in my head, then repeat the delivery street address once more and recommend he contacts my brother – the recipient – on his cellphone to arrange the handout directly.
• A couple hours, many more fruitless customer-service exchanges and still no package delivery later: I am informed that my package has been handed over to the caretaker in my building.
• Chronopost has managed to send my package to its destination city, and back. In two days.

Need I mention that any potential complaint I may have regarding their service cannot be registered at the local post office, who will gladly take your package and your money, but not much else (“Chronopost is a fully independent contractor, we are only a pickup place”). In fact, was I to really want a refund for that useless return-trip stampage fee, I am invited to write a letter, stating my complaint and bringing proof of their failure to follow up on the most basic level of service, and might expect some sort of refund voucher in the mail within a couple months (assuming they do not use their own services to send it). If you just said “web” or “email”, you are a sweet, sweet, innocent person who hasn’t dealt with many consumer-oriented services in France so far.

Anyway, I’m off to send my package to Canada via DHL, but decided to post this rant first, if only to remind myself not to fall for the Chronopost scam ever again. If this can help out a few other English-speaking Internet passer-bys, it won’t be all wasted spit.

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Chronopost is a Scam

Trying, because despite being on my twentieth online ticket booking for the month, trying to get anything out of French National Railway’s website feels like trying to get freshly squeezed OJ from a stone. I am not sure how exactly the whole “prevent users from getting a ticket online at all cost” fits into their business plan, but I guess if you take in account their laughably bad track record in all areas of service, it is merely brand identity on their part.

Twenty minutes and still no luck trying to get a single schedule for a local train departing 10 times a day from Paris (website timing out or randomly crashing at varying levels of the 50-step process), I had an illumination and remembered a friend telling me about how it was probably easier booking a French train through Deutsche Bahn, German’s national railway company. At the time, I thought it was a joke.

Well, it’s not.

In approximately 1/100th of the time I spent attempting unsuccessfully to get a schedule for a French local train (from a French city, to a French city) on the official French website, I got the exact same info (available in 4 languages) on a German website.

It would be funny if it wasn’t so lame.

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Want a French train schedule? Ask the Germans.

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June in Europe

On a tour of European capitals for the week…

Will be back in T-town next week.

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European Break

So to keep it short and bitter, I’ll just say that, as a fierce Euro-hopeful, I’m doubly disappointed by this result. Not only because it drags the once promising European process further into the ditch where it’s been for the past couple years, but also that Ireland, of all countries, had to be the one responsible for doing so.

If by now you haven’t heard a thousands times how Ireland virtually owes a huge share of its current miracle economic success to the very European solidarity process they have just bailed out on, then you must have been sleeping for the past 20 years.

It’s bad enough seeing people and countries act as selfish me-first teenagers, but when said country was until not so long a clear beneficiary of such solidarity and decides to leave as soon as they are finally asked to pitch in… That’s both infuriating and slightly dispiriting about people.

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Selfish brats…

In between miscellaneous artsy touristy stuff and random Parisian strolls, we eloped to Barcelona for a 3-day weekend. Considering how packed our schedule was already, it seemed we could have done without an extra travel: but honestly, after my 2 month anachoretic stint, it took very little to get me booking a flight and a room in that gorgeous boutique hotel S. had been telling me about.

No regrets whatsoever.

Unlike Paris’ usual February semi-freezing drizzle, Barcelona was a mild upper-teens (evening included), sunny most of the time, and still serving cava around every corner of the city. We started our first day by kicking it in park Güell, taking after Gaudi’s famous dragon by sitting in the sun until we had forgotten the mere meaning of Winter.

Actually, we didn’t exactly start with the park, since we first dropped our luggage at the hotel, which lovingly had our room ready upon arrival in the morning: it took massive efforts of will not to just throw away all plans of outdoorsy activities to spend the entire stay between the room’s cozy bed and adjacent lounge room’s hammock… If I had any lingering hesitation about picking this over some standard high-rise hotel with swimming pool on top and fat midwest families crowding the lobby, they all about disappeared when the super-friendly staff showed us to the 24-hour free organic buffet. I know, I’m gushing (and sound like I’d be on the hotel’s payroll), but that place really made our weekend twice the fun (and it was pretty damn awesome already).

Miraculously we managed to extract ourselves from our room often enough to show H. a couple of the numerous architectural wonders that seem to make half the city: some Gaudi, of course, but also a couple more recent designs among my personal faves. Staying 2 minutes away from Plaça de Catalunya in Raval, we were within walking distance from both Barrio Gotico’s historical strolls and Passeig de Gracia’s tapas bars and clubbing.

On Saturday, we took a day trip to Figueres, where Dali’s humongous legacy kept us busy and amazed for the entire afternoon. Followed by dinner with my mum and her companion, who had come to meet us halfway.

By the way, on the matter of day trips and trains: may I use the occasion to emphasise how important it is to really check the destination of your train before you get on it. And definitely before it arrives to its terminus, 5 minutes later, in the opposite direction to where you intended to go. You may feel smug for flawlessly understanding the directions half-mumbled by the stationmaster: it won’t help all that much when it turns out your train is 5 minutes late on its schedule (seriously: Europe. What was I thinking?) and therefore the train coming up to your platform just on time is not actually your train. On a related matter, language was a much more frustrating experience than expected: while understanding everything came as natural as rain, trying to express myself often resulted in some comical mix of Japanese and Castillan, whence I had to dig another two or three attempts before coming up with the proper Catalan version. Still all there, just buried really, really deep under all those new weird sounds I’ve learnt since the last time I lived here. Priceless moments: H falling over laughing, each time I’d let slip an “ehh-tto” while looking for words in my discussions with local speakers.

Anyway, after some late-night clubbing and some trendy electro beats at a nearby bleep factory (other priceless moment: realising I had not the faintest idea how to order the ‘cassis soda‘ H. had asked for, neither in Spanish nor, for that matter, in English), we capped the weekend by more lounging, more strolling and a last art excursion to see some Picasso. Although Barcelona’s Picasso collection is dwarfed by Madrid’s and doesn’t feature his most seminal pieces (it’s essentially centered around his early periods), I personally like its more subtle, slightly old-fashioned, figurative paintings (my favourite? Two nudes and a cat, a small sketch you’ll have to go check for yourself since I cannot seem to find it anywhere online). Also his fascinating obsession with Velázquez and a roomful of deconstructed Meninas…

Less than 4 hours after our last drink at a Barcelonian sidewalk café, we were back in Paris. Special shootouts to the security troll at Barcelona airport’s security checkpoint, who unceremoniously trashed the two mini-bottles of cava H. had just bought at the airport’s own souvenir shop. The very same unopened, hermetically sealed bottles they were selling 3 feet after the checkpoint. I swear: I will smack in the face the next person who comes to me yapping about the need for more inane security measures at airports and how removing shoes or throwing away shampoo bottles makes it so much safer.

After that little episode, I could only agree with S. that private flights are the way to go. Well: that and her invitation for an overnight party excursion to Milan in her friend’s plane on a Tuesday evening. Back just in time to pick up some fresh bred and H’s breakfast on the way home the following morning. When exactly did I switch lifestyles from mad-scientist to jet-setter and what happened to that guy last seen sitting at 5am in the middle of his living room amidst 300 scattered pages of science articles, mumbling math equations in a rather demented tone?

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Barcelona Travel Notes

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More touristy stuff…

So in the spirit of clearing my current bloggage (and also because I really don’t have the time), allow me yet another life update potpourri entry, hopefully the last one in a while.

Paris hasn’t changed over the Summer. Still mostly cold and grey on an average day. Still offering a wide variety of options to liquor oneself up. Which sorta makes up for the previous part. Also has free bikes, which is way cool.

Vélib’ is easily the best thing to happen to Paris in a long while. Dirt cheap, ubiquitous, self-service, bike stations now cover every inch of Parisian sidewalk. Which means I rarely, if ever, step into the subway or bus anymore (rainy days aside). Biking amidst Parisian notoriously psychotic car drivers is not as fear-inducing as I thought it woud be, although it requires staying alert and attentive to your surroundings at all times. Unless, that is, you are drunk, riding full speed at two on a bike, down the Montagne Sainte Geneviève (that hill atop of which sits the Pantheon) on to the next bar. But we know of no people who would do such a mindblowingly stupid thing.

Of course, this being France and perfection being neither human nor French, this wonderful system has its downsides, one of which is the many bureaucratic hoops and near-month-long wait, one has to go through in order to receive their one-year subscription card. Still waiting for mine (and living off weekly passes in the meantime).

Winterish temperatures have also finally arrived. Which had for first consequence to keep me in bed the best of last week, waiting for my usual seasonal bout of flu to pass. But now that my tissue consumption has gotten back under the metric-tonne-a-day, I have finally come to give some limited appreciation to the cold albeit rather sunny outdoors. I don’t know if it’s me growing soft or cough syrup acting up, but I swear: breathing in the fresh crisp air on a cold Parisian night nearly makes me feel all mushy inside these days. I have turned on the heater at home nonetheless.

Shortly before I started hacking my lungs out, I did manage to attend a couple miscellaneous social affairs and cool art-related thingies. In particular, I had a really good time during the yearly Nuit Blanche celebration, spent in the north of Paris where a friend was showing her paintings. I do suspect spending the night outside discussing contemporary artists’ sexuality in relation to their art, with only a light jacket and some whisky to fight off the cold, might not be completely unrelated to aforementioned health problems.

Somewhere amidst the 20-points list of excuses for my being remiss from this blog all this time, is my official decision to sign up for JLPT 2-kyuu this year. What can I say: I like pain. The test takes place at the beginning of December. By even the most optimistic estimates, I will fail by a long shot, but I figured paying the 60 euros signup fee was the best way to kick my ass into some hardcore Japanese studying for the next two months.

Of course, being a geek first and foremost, I immediately concluded that 10% of my precious 50 days of revision would be much better spent on coding a nifty Japanese drill application. Also, because I am a geek 2.0, this application is on Facebook. But I swear it doesn’t suck (at least not as much as all those vampire/pirate/ninja bollocks). Trust me, if you are studying for JLPT, or even if you are just learning Japanese for fun (mind-boggling as the concept might be), this app is all you’ve ever dreamt off.

And now that I’m done selling it, I guess it is time for me to go back to using it.

I promise I’ll try to post more frequent, if succinct, updates for the near future.

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Bientôt nous plongerons dans les froides ténèbres…

These are times of project wrap-ups, end-of-stay work presentations, last drinks with friends and last cozy nights with more-than-friends. I have practically shaved my head and started packing my luggage. Next weekend I fly off to Bangkok for a couple days: not so much for relaxation as for a very necessary transitional break before resuming six months of intensive studying in Paris. Vacation time is over. Not that it was exactly vacation to begin with, but what’s ahead is sure to make this ending Summer feel like a slice of paradise in comparison.

Actually, I am not dreading return as much as I thought I would. I know those six months aren’t gonna be much fun, but the mere fact that they have a specific timeframe and the knowledge that I’ll be done at the end of March, helps make it all feel like a sort of extended vacation to Paris. And Paris is much more enjoyable if you feel you are visiting than if you actually live there. Parisian life is a different form of fun that only appeals to me, given the certainty that it won’t last: fancy dinners out, cozy wine-sipping evenings at home, opera season, art exhibits, cocktail party crashing, overwhelmingly beautiful architecture on every corner, drunken bar-counter philosophical debates… All so typically Parisian, overly sophisticated fun… that after a while makes you yearn for simpler, more natural ways of having a good time. Which is when I will be about done with my current academic pursuits and will gladly move onto another period of my life, presumably far from Paris, without regret or bitterness. So, timing is perfect, it appears.

Plans for next year are still deliberately very vague. Much less definite as they were at the beginning of this Summer. I no longer know whether a Ph.D. is the necessary path to what I later want to achieve, in fact, maybe university research altogether, isn’t. Or perhaps it is my field of research that needs revising. Throw in a couple very tempting offers, brought over to me lately, that I would be a fool not to at least consider…

Part of my Summer here was coloured by the fact that college friends I hadn’t seen much in ages, now work and live in Tokyo. Hanging out with them coincidentally reminded me of an essential conclusion of those years, that I might have lost sight of otherwise: The fact you have the abilities to do something doesn’t mean you should, and definitely doesn’t mean it will make you happier. Back then, I once did the mistake of picking what most people seemed to hold as a universally enviable life/career path, only to quickly realize that most people’s idea of happiness in life probably didn’t match mine and therefore neither did their conception of how to achieve it.

I now realize that I might have been about to do the same mistake this time again. And that’s why I feel I need to stop and question my true motivations and the goals I am looking to achieve. Which could in turn lead to either three more years of selfless scientific pursuits… or Buddhist priesthood… or traipsing the white sand beaches of Brazil with a yearly supply of gin and reading material… Hell, maybe a foray into the glamorous world of investment banking and hedge funding… Who knows.

Regardless of what my pick turns out to be, it is very possible, even likely, that I will be back in Japan for another six months next year, as part of my graduation research requirements. As to whether these six months will turn into a longer period of time, is a question I couldn’t even try to answer at the moment. I guess I have some time to figure that out.

OK. Quarterly life update is over. Regular programming should now resume.

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Summer is over…

See ya on the other side.

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Skipping Town

I promised (a long time ago) we’d talk about the other strong contender in the upcoming French presidential elections: Ségolène Royal, so here we go.

A couple years ago, when Angela Merkel was on the verge of becoming the first female Chancellor of Germany, I remember reading an article from a German magazine (der Spiegel I think it was) candidly asking if one could not consider voting for her specifically on account of her gender. The gist of their argument was that, electing a woman to such an office was in itself a considerable social advance, possibly overshadowing any measure either candidate could ever enact once elected.

It is a bit of a provocative argument, but still worth considering. Especially if you have your doubts about the effective influence of this election’s outcome on important matters of economic or international policies.

However, the comparison between both women ends there. They are from slightly opposite sides of the political board and, under their common gender, are perceived very differently by partisans and opponents alike. Angela Merkel, while I am not well-versed enough in German politics to give an extensive appraisal of her skills, is a very capable, respected politician. There is not the slightest suspicion that she may ever have relied on her gender as a prop to get by, quite the opposite: I remember reading people emphasizing her “butchy” manners (equally unnerving, as chauvinist clichés go, but at least not in the way you may expect).

The problem with the current French presidential race is that it has become extremely hard to tell whether one’s impression of a candidate is somehow attuned with reality and verifiable facts or just the result of widespread journalistic bias. Of course, this is a problem everywhere: Fox TV and other Murdoch-style news outlets do a much worse job at imitating journalistic integrity than most French media. In France, the bias is usually more subtle: few media (outside of those ostensibly labeled as following one party or the other) will directly slander their political opponents. It is more of a meticulous, careful selection of the news they report on and the tone they adopt, so as to finally envelop each politician in a caricatural persona that fits a specific political intent.

I do realize I just described the way politics and media work everywhere in the world, the thing is: the ratio of perceived versus actual personal and political traits here is simultaneously very high and rarely acknowledged by most people, it seems.

This is true of all candidates and works in either direction: I previously mentioned how Ms. Royal’s opponent, Mr. Sarkozy, is hyperbolically depicted by his opponents as some neo-fascistic brute, which is simply inaccurate: for all his sitting on the conservative right side of France’s political board, he objectively ranks left of both Hillary Clinton and Tony Blair on major issues and policies, yet any topical discussion with your average Frenchman will invariably veer into Godwin territories (unless your interlocutor is pro-Sarkozy, in which case he will hail the man as a savior of all things righteous and law-abiding in a society crumbling under the weight of rampant youth crime and illegal immigration). I dislike the man and his knack for populist securitarian rhetoric, as much as the next freedom-loving fool, but he is no Benito Mussolini, not even a Georges W. Bush.

But back to Ségolène.

What do I think of her?

When I hear Ms. Ségolène Royal talk of her projects, when I read her interviews, watch her answer questions or simply humor journalists with unsubstantial banter, all I see is one incredibly unseasoned, incompetent, borderline-stupid politician with the stuck-up delivery of a grade-school teacher and the mien that goes with (you really expect her to slap you on the wrist with a ruler at any moment). I see shameless use of her image as a maternal figure, I see a candidate who has suddenly emerged to the forefront 10 months ago and won her party’s primaries, not on a solid program, but on account that her pleasant looks, relative political freshness and high poll ratings, made her at the time the most serious contender to beat Nicolas Sarkozy.

In a word, I see practically every single misogynist stereotypes about women in politics made flesh.

Now you understand why I might be questioning my own perception through the French media. This is all depressing and ever so slightly suspicious. But unfortunately I still think this is not all made-up impressions and journalistic bias: she is that incompetent.

Post originally published on: Dave's Blog (please leave your comments over there)

All you never wanted to know about French politics… pt. 2

Guess what this year is?

Why, you’re right my friend, this year is French Presidential Election Year !

In May of this year, to be exact, the French will vote to elect a new Président de la République.

Under France’s current constitution, the president controls the executive branch and has power over foreign and domestic policies. Unlike the US, however, he can (and often did, over the past 20 years) end up with a government from the opposite party, as the National Assembly has the power to vote the Prime Minister (and his ministers) out. The President can decide at any moment to dissolve the Assembly and call for a new election (which he traditionally does as soon as he is elected, I think, unless such an election is already scheduled).

Thus you have a Janken-like circular structure of power, where the President still holds an advantage, being the only immovable piece of the game (5-year mandate and a pretty good immunity from prosecution, as Mr. Jacques Chirac will tell you). At all times, and regardless of the Assembly’s majority, it is customary for the President to keep his role of representation abroad, along with final say in matters of foreign policy (not unlike the POTUS). Domestic policies are his, only so long as his party holds the majority at the Assembly.

Anyway, enough with the boring talk about French political institutions. On to the only thing we may care about: Who will it be?

The answer, with a fairly high rate of certainty: either Nicolas Sarkozy (“Sarko” to his fans and enemies alike) or Ségolène Royal (“Ségo”, to same).

As it turns out, not only am I eligible to vote in this election, but I even took the time to swim through oceans of Kafkaian French bureaucracy in order to get registered in time. Living in France for the time being and possibly until the end of next year, it was only logical for me to put my money where my mouth is and express my political opinion by a local vote.

To be honest, I regret already. Like last elections in the UK, 2 years ago, these are already bound to disappoint. Perhaps even more so… As in the case of Britain, I still had some sort of a preference by default for one candidate over the opposite party. Here, I really don’t care either way. The two leading candidates have a near-identical program and both shamelessly pander to the lowest possible common denominator. Whoever wins this one won’t be invading some random oil-rich country to pay back the bunch of industrials that helped elect him or her… Nor will they really bring the country to the brink of destruction (at least not within the length of my stay here), economic implosion or any of the other doomsday scenario hung on them by their opponent.

I sincerely believe not much change, good or bad, will arise at all from this election. Hardly ever has, from any presidential election. The more I dive into matters of French politics, the more I come away convinced that it has never impacted very strongly the general direction of the country. Domestic policies seem to merely evolve through painfully slow, politically-agnostic, administrative changes. The French people are way too much of a corporatist, strike-happy people, to ever accept any sort of change that comes imposed from an elected body they perceive as pliable to street movements. It is not at all uncommon for important laws and regulations that were thrown back at the face of a government to eventually make it quietly into the books, through lower-level administrative pressure.

Now that we have established my personal indifference toward these two candidates, neither of whom will be receiving my vote in May (and no: I will not be voting for amnestied war-criminal Jean-Marie le Pen either), why not get better acquainted with their little quirks and ugly facets. After all, one of these two will be the upcoming face of France for the next five years.

Note that my disliking of them has a lot more to do with their methods and personal positions than the political line of their respective party (moderate-left Parti Socialiste for Ségolène, moderate-right Union pour un Mouvement Populaire for Nicolas). First, because both parties count an incredibly wide selection of political leanings, only a fraction of which are fully embraced by their candidate, both conjoined around political middle-ground anyway; second, as I wrote above, I do not believe in their ability to have anything more than a superficial effect on deeper economic and domestic issues. I think they are both equally incompetent, somewhat manipulative, uninspired politicians with very distinct conservative leanings.

My experience with French elections is rather limited (or learnt from books), so I can only hypothesize that the “Americanization” of French politics is a recent thing. At any rate, I find it heartbreaking to see that the Show Business approach to politics has finally moved from the US onto the old continent (indeed, one could argue it hit the UK long before). Given the strong (or popular) personality of previously elected presidents of the 20th century, I guess it could be said there’s nothing new here about voting for a person and their irrelevant personality traits, over a party and its program.

Still, when they announced their candidacy, neither Nicolas nor Ségolène deemed it really necessary to have any sort of a program to offer. Mr. Sarkozy’s revolved essentially around easy securitarian sound bites pandering to the precious suburban middle-class vote, while Ms. Royal did her best to follow in his direction (lest she be accused of being one of these dreaded permissive pinko socialist idealists). At the moment, Mr. Royal is still conducting “Civil Consultation” meetings where she personally interacts with the People, writing down their grievance for inclusion into her yet-to-be-disclosed official running platform program… Leading many to question the soundness (not to mention sincerity) of this “whatever your little heart desire” approach to politics.

Mr. Sarkozy, on the other hand, fancies himself the pragmatic one, with a strong bullet list of vaguely formulated measures, all intent at purging the country from its parasitic scum (welfare queens, lamb-slaughtering illegal immigrants, drug-peddling suburban shifty youths, reckless skiers etc.)… All the while trying to keep people’s mind off the fact that he was (still is) Minister of the Interior for the past five years (having quite possibly refused the position of Prime Minister in private at some point), with all the power needed to enact most of these “revolutionary policies” all along. Surely you don’t say he would have purposely held back on his magic solution for the country all these years, for mere political gain?

In the absence of clearly-defined political lines – and because frankly who cares about ideas anyway – the media have largely focused on irrelevant, yet infinitely more entertaining, aspects of each candidate: namely, their physical appearances and personality quirks.

And they are plentiful.

Mr. Sarkozy’s alleged obsession with a sub-average height and unabashedly ambitious career run (leaving many a political corpses in its trail) have earned him a few comparisons to that other short-sized French dude. Some of them more ironic than others. There is no denying a certain part of historicity to him: he first gained nationwide notoriety in the 90′s by supporting Chirac’s former political ally and “friend of 30 years” in an ill-fated bid for the presidency against then presidential candidate (and ultimately elected president) Jacques Chirac. It took him the best of a decade to recover politically from that little bit of backstabbing (seems Mr. Chirac doesn’t take to betrayal kindly… whoddathunk), but could never quite get rid of that Marcus Brutus aura about him ever since.

The man is obviously smart. Some could even say “street-smart”, in a limiting way, given how much his academic results fall short of the norm amidst usually heavily diplomed French politicians. Although he graduated Law School, he flunked somewhat prestigious Paris’ Institute of Political Studies (Sciences Po’, as it is known to its fans and failed students alike) and, more importantly, may be one of the very few presidential candidates of the past twenty years to have not graduated from l’ENA, France’s highly incestuous, elite senior civil servant school. While many put this atypical education to his credit (given the uncanny tendency of ENA graduates to gravitate toward a very French brand of technocratic bureaucracy), it is hard to imagine such an ambitious man foregoing a step so crucial in a French political career, if not for certain academic shortcomings. Then again, ENA has been criticised times and again for putting entire generations of well-connected idiot savants in control of the highest political spheres, so this omission would hardly make the man unfit to govern.

What is more bothersome is his fondness for simplistic, populist and demagogic harangues… Small catchy phrases and antagonistic speeches that have made him extremely popular among both lower- and upper-middle-class professionals, to whom he manages to play a softer, more palatable and reasonably hatred-free version of popular right wing topics (immigration, employment laws, taxes etc.). While it is not in itself a bad thing for such topics to come out of the unhealthy Politically Correct no man’s land where they had been left to rot for years, his appropriation and use for lowly political gain of such, is much less inspiring. While I personally dislike the intellectually lazy, inaccurate and potentially dangerous habit of left-wing partisans to pin him for a semi-fascist nutjob (including the insanely stupid “Sarkozy = le Pen” street campaigns), there is no denying that the man has a taste for reptilian-brain politics.

It has been said that, given the right conditions (and the right bunch of scared pea-brained constituents), Sarkozy would make a reasonably convincing French version of securitarian US neo-cons… Indeed, unlike most of his colleagues, he has never been particularly vocal in his criticisms of Mr. Double-Vé (in fact, he even managed a pseudo-official campaign meeting with him a few months ago), though I suspect this has more to do with annoying his arch-nemesis at home than establishing actual ideological ties.

“Fine”, you say, “that’s an easy choice: I’ll vote for whatever-that-chick-running-against-him-is-called.”

Yea… Well, see, it’s not that simple. Let me tell you a bit about Ségolène…

[that is, let me tell you about her, tomorrow, or later this week, whenever I will have another hour to waste on pointless local politics rambling]

Post originally published on: Dave's Blog (please leave your comments over there)

All you never wanted to know about French politics…

I was until now quite happy using my antiquated prepaid cellphone (about 50×100 pixels of monochrome goodness and such cutting edge features as “call”, “send SMS” and even “address book”), until I started gathering last year’s pictures, for my yearly New Year’s Card project, and realized I had close to none. Even though I own a reasonably nice and compact digicam, and use it sometimes when I feel artistically inclined, it just isn’t the same as a camera-phone…

I was never a big fan of cameras, especially in group settings. Actually I suspect the “let’s take a souvenir photo” bug is mostly a female thing, and tends to grow hundredfold with motherhood. But going over all the drunken (and less drunken) pics I took during my stay in Tokyo, with my trusty keitai, I realized how much I liked having those around. To me, they are nothing like the sort of pictures you take with a “real” camera. Cameraphone pics, for one, are lower quality (especially mine, since I purposely downsample them in order to use less bandwidth when sending them over email), which means you treat them differently: being lo-fi, badly lit or with a strong visible grain is expected and nearly part of the journalistic charm of the medium. The other aspect I noticed with myself and friends while in Japan, was the psychological difference: people usually do not react to a phone the way they do to a camera. Phones are slightly less intrusive and allow you more easily to take pictures without breaking the flow of social interactions; with a camera-phone, even usually camera-shy people tend to be more exuberant and less self-conscious. It is possible that Japanese society is special in that respect, considering how ubiquitous camera-phones have become there, but I reckon things will be moving in a similar direction everywhere…

Anyway, from now on, you can expect a fairly regular influx of live views from my life in Paris. Incidentally, this will help me fill my quota of diary-esque entries on this blog, without having to resort much to boring “did this, did that” text entries. I liked the balance I had found with the older keitai log format, with tons of pointless but short photographic entries on one side, longer verbose rants on the other.

For now, enjoy the pretty random pics of drunken friends and Parisian locales.

Post originally published on: Dave's Blog (please leave your comments over there)

Le Keitai Moblog is back

Note that this snapshot entirely fails to convey the real Soviet-era ambiance of my 8am-1pm weekly Tuesday lecture: attended by twelve hardcore students huddled in a 300-seat auditorium, fighting sleep and hypothermia, with the dreary droning of a disinterested lecturer as background lullaby.

Can I get a Hell Yeah for advanced graph theory?!?

Hell… zzz…

Post originally published on: Dave's Blog (please leave your comments over there)

You think your Tuesday mornings suck?

If you are in Paris today and looking for a way to spend an early evening, there’s a free pyrotechnics show near la Villette (19th arrondissement) tonight at 9pm. Seems like the weather should be nice, but I’d bring a warm sweater and a tarp to sit on.

We went yesterday and it was a good time. Much flames and explosions to be marvelled at.

Only downside, was the very forgettable smooth jazz soundtrack to the whole thing. If the sound of elevator-riding saxophones deeply offends your ears, I recommend you bring your iPod or large amounts of psychedelic substances.

Access map (in PDF format)

Post originally published on: Dave's Blog (please leave your comments over there)

Pyrotechnics in Paris…

Why the hell can’t my friends do like everybdy else and celebrate their bachelor party by getting drunk and snorting blow off a hooker’s tits in Las Vegas?

Post originally published on: Dave's Blog (please leave your comments over there)

Harold’s Bachelor Party

But if it is, then consider this my most heartfelt “Too little, too late” break-up letter.

Post originally published on: Dave's Blog (please leave your comments over there)

An Indian Summer in Paris