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Picture Weather_in_Paris.png I am starting to suspect that the depressingly sturm-und-drangish overtones of my late high-school years’ musical tastes weren’t as much due to post-adolescent hormonal overload as I used to think:

Go to the Bay Area or Tokyo and, on more days than not, shiny sun and cloudless blue skies practically beg you to sit on your patio, beer and joint in hand, listening to some deep house by Miguel Migs or Jenö.

Parisian weather from September to June, on the other hand, leaves you with no other options than sit in a corner of your apartment and entertain thoughts of killing yourself while listening to Saint Etienne’s entire discography.

Granted, last night, particularly its 2-to-6-am part, might not have helped on the freshness factor.

Must stop drinking Irish Coffees and stick to straight whisky from now on.

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To file under: News that you should only care about if you are my mom…

I was just communicated by my Man in Japan, the results of the JLPT test Level 3 (yea, not feeling that ambitious at the time)… The one I took back in December of last year…

And it would appear I do indeed speak some Japanese. At least just enough to fool the government officials who passed me.

And to quote some hopelessly optimistic piece of j-pop fluff:

Yatta!!!

I soooo 0wN0rz N1h0|\|Gø!!!11!1

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The French blogging community is currently abuzz following announcement that a high school principal, whose blog had reached a fair amount of popularity in its time, had been officially revoked due solely to his blogging activities.

Now, a few of you are probably incensed at such blatant disrespect for civil liberties, all the while wondering how you say “first amendment” in French, while others will object that employers are free to do what they want and getting dooced nowadays is hardly newsworthy stuff.

Here is where both would be wrong and what makes this situation very particular:

First off, being a school principal in France means being directly employed by the government as a civil servant (the infamous fonctionnaires). This work status implies an incredible number of particularities, both advantages and constraints. For instance, such employment cannot be terminated for any reasons other than gross misconduct on the part of the employee who is otherwise guaranteed a job for life. On the other hand, working for the State and being, in essence, representatives of the State, employees are held to what the French call “devoir de réserve“: an obligation to remain loyal to the State’s institutions and not harm its standing by one’s declarations or actions in public. Doing so being the one major ground for losing your job and status.

Ironically, this ground for termination, commonly used in countries where average work contracts do not require anything more than a notice anyway, would land any private company foolish enough to use it here in very hot water (ever heard of French labor laws? They make US HR execs wake up in a puddle of cold sweat in the middle of the night). If you are the government, though: it’s ok.

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Will you help a homesick gaijin cum starving Parisian student get back with the food, drinks and music he loves?

Any assistance on where to find the items below, subject to reward in the form of a free homemade dinner (sexual favours to be considered on a case-by-case basis only).

Bonus points for stores conveniently located close to 6th arrondissement (yea, yea: anything will do, but just in case).

  • Rice cooker: will soon die of starvation if I don’t get one. Was told to check out Chinese grocery stores… Haven’t seen any at Tang Frères… Specifics, anybody?
  • Fresh shiitake mushrooms: Japanese grocery store rue St Anne only carries the dried kind… Also sure the Chinese have that: how the hell do you say “shiitake” in Chinese?
  • Fresh kinugoshi tofu: Same as above (only have very bland vacuum-sealed stuff). Tell me somebody in France is making fresh tofu out of all these GM soybeans.
  • Yellow curry paste: address of a cheap Thai grocery store anybody? (Please don’t reply “somewhere in the 13th arrondissement”: have you seen the 13th arrondissement on a map lately? it’s big).
  • Cranberry juice: WhoWhat does a girl need to do, in order to get a proper Cosmo around here?
  • Glock 10 mm. or S&W .44 in working order: to be used as teaching material in my upcoming class: Neighbouring Relations 101 – “How Much Noise is Too Much Noise at 3 in the Morning?”.
  • Used audio amp & speakers: cheapness is of the essence here, seeing how I recently unloaded 30k yens of audio material on miscellaneous friends and not about to do the same here in six months.

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Lesson 1

Labeling to your name, a mailbox for which you turn out not to have the key: not a bright idea.

Lesson 2

With a piece of tape and a coat hanger, stealing mail from a mailbox is frighteningly easy.

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Am I the one with a sick mind, or would you also do a double take if, opening one of France’s leading newspaper, you glanced upon a headline reading something along the line of “Diddle: Little Girl’s Favorite”?

And just in case you thought it might be yet another unfortunate semantic collision between unrelated words in separate dialects, the article promptly informs you that it is to be pronounced in the English fashion (“dideul”, does it read in French).

And you thought Engrish would end with Japan…

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I think I may have, ahem, hinted at it in past entries, but let me spell it out for the benefit of the slower ones:

I am now living in Paris: P. A. R. E. E. S!

Yep, that means no more upskirt keitai shots of underage japanese schoolgirls. Not that there were any in the first place, but how could I resist the pleasure of one last Google keywords showdown. Actually, there might still be a few views of Nippon, gently contributed by our in-house Samurai and the ever cat-obsessed Tracey dearest, but still a massive slow-down from the old rate.

In exchange, all I can promise you is a bunch of tired rants on the French, their capital city, their greasy foods and promiscuous ways.

More of the former than the latter at the moment.

Understandably, some of you might feel shafted with the deal and turn your back on this page… To those people, I have this to say:

First of all, know that I won’t be missing your fickle, treacherous, back-stabbing excuse for a readership one least bit. Second, you may want to consider the fact that my current residency will only last six months, to be replaced by a potentially much more exciting destination: unsubscribe now and you may be missing out on all the fun then. Third and last for now: pleeeaase don’t go! Oh reader! soul of my life, salt of my existence! I need you so… I promise I’ll do my best to keep posting about cat-ear-wearing people and crazy language hijinx, even if I have to make them up. Just don’t leave me now.

A few random things of note so far:

  • In France, the letter ‘C’ on heaters and taps, stands for Hot (whereas Cold is ‘F’). Will you guess how many shivering morning wake-ups and boiling hot showers yours truly has had so far?
  • Whoever elected France as the country of all things gastronomical, never had to find the ingredients to a proper breakfast in a local supermarket: I had forgotten how unduly hard it was to find something as simple as bacon here. And no, I don’t want “smoked ham”, nor “diced bacon” with my eggs, I want plain crispy bacon goodness and it’s so far dearly missing from my morning table.
  • The biggest matchmaking service in France is called CUM. I am not making that up. In subways, in magazines, everywhere: you got huge ads inviting you to log onto CUM.fr or touting CUM as your gateway to a perfect relationship…

More to come soon, be sure of that…

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The Markets

On both evenings, I sampled the variety of local street markets, most of which were nearly walking distance from my hotel in Kowloon. Fast, loud and overwhelming on all sides… In a word: awesome… Also very similar to markets anywhere else in the world. Though I spent a long while getting lost amidst the chaos, I didn’t buy a single item: having no use for chosen dog meat delicacies nor Louis Vuiton ripoffs on the cheap.

The Pit

I really wasn’t planning on hitting Hong Kong’s infamous expat ghetto, even less after Justine’s flaky friend in Hong Kong (with whom I was kinda supposed to hook up, never did, all for the better, most likely… friends of friends… remind me to write about the topic one day…), strongly urged me to go entertain myself there, touting it as “Hong Kong’s very own Roppongi”… Yea, that was a big selling point.

I knew exactly what to expect when on Friday evening I decided to go for a drink in Lan Kwai Fong: not feeling like hitting the sack at 11pm leaving me with few alternatives, by myself, in a city I knew nothing of… I certainly wasn’t let down in my expectations: while undeniably lively and more densely crowded than moribund Roppongi, it features the same congregation of sorry expat losers drowning their bitterness and the vacuousness of their life into whatever alcohol-laden cat piss they can get in a western-labeled bottle.

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Update: Added a few links to relevant flickr-hosted pics.

I’m back… and not even hangover… Must be all the chlorine in the water neutralizing the alcohol.

So, where were we?

Yes: The Sights. But before:

Alone in Hong Kong

I actually “visited” Hong Kong twice before. Mind the bold quotes here, as on both occasions, my visits were little more than short layovers spanning over a single night. Each time, I was taken care of, the moment I exited the airport: once by a friend who lived there, another time by the contact of a San Francisco friend who had arranged a sweet gig in passing, on my way to Thailand. Needless to say: all I saw of the city then, was a bunch of cool neon streets, glitzy lounge bars atop vertiginous buildings and semi-conscious rides back to the airport with the sun rising beautifully over the bay. Unfortunately (or perhaps not?) all those people have long left for greener pastures and, not expecting to arrive on my own, I had made no effort to look for HK-residing cicerones amidst my extended circle of acquaintances.

This is therefore my first real sightseeing trip to the city, and the first time admiring its lovely surroundings in broad daylight. Definitely worth it, if a bit regrettably lonely. On that note, I must say that even if I had many an interesting chats with locals and other visitors (mostly the latter, actually), HK definitely belongs to the category of destinations that are more fun doing with a travel buddy: unlike Tokyo for example, where most locals are willing, nearly eager, to establish contact with visitors and go out of their way, trying to get around the language barrier, Hongkongers appear much less inclined to mingle with the foreigners. I suppose it may have to do with the past few centuries of colonial entanglement, or maybe it’s just me. Don’t get me wrong I had a blast, but definitely felt like it could have been improved by some travelling company. And do not cite expat bars as proof that a single guy can have his fun in this city too (we’ll come to this later).

The Sights (cont.)

Yesterday, after Po Lin, I did the quintessential tram ride to the Peak. Took it around 5:30 and thus managed to catch both a cloudy sunset and a much more impressive view of the whole city by night. I had gotten a return ticket, but the weather being very mild, I walked my way down, catching many nice sights along the way.

As an aside: I said I was surprised at how uncrowded both places where yesterday (I didn’t even have to line to get on the tram, despite supposedly boarding around peak hour): when I went by the tram this afternoon on my way to the park, it was way, way more crowded… Apparently, half of China come spend their week-ends there or something. In any case, beats me why any foreigner wouldn’t want to do that stuff on a weekday, when there’s nobody around.

The Food

Following Jonathan‘s recommendation, I checked out Very Good Rest (or more exactly: 極之好… As I’m not even sure I saw the Anglicized name anywhere): very good indeed, if a bit rough in the service, which I guess is just me needing to get over my Tokyo habits. Beware though: if you do not speak the local idiom, expect to choose from one of the five pictures available amidst a sea of hanzis. Being the adventurous one, I disdainfully ignored the pretty pictures, and went for something that my ever useful semi-reading skills told me contained beef, veggies, sweet and sour… Since the noodles didn’t have that tangy taste so characteristic of dog meat, I suppose I must have had it right…

Before and after my dinner break, I wandered around aimlessly through Mon Kok markets, not really about to buy any more crap at the moment (having just trashed a dozen metric cubes of it) but nonetheless enjoying the ambiance very much, as well as the many many “hourly hotels” scattered through the neighbourhood, equally sharing in the unintentionally ironic names (Hotel Virginia anyone?)…

Boarding is about to end and I’d hate to miss that one, so I’ll keep my adventures in Hong Kong’s very own armpit of Lon Kwai Fong for tomorrow.