Shameless Self-Promotion: it's the American Way

Sometimes, I just can't help it: At the end of the day, I'm still American. I'm also an extrovert, which means I thoroughly enjoy making a fool of myself in front of others. I relish every letter I have published in the paper, every time I'm singled out at the piano bar and every time I get up to sing karaoke. So, it goes without saying that I'm very proud of having managed to get through to David Lee Roth this morning on his new syndicated radio show. (I was on at the top of the 7:00 hour.) I even got a mention in the show's corresponding blog: (The topic of discussion was band members touring under their original names despite having broken up. PA has a new piece of legislation called the "Truth in Music Advertising Act", and I called in to bring it up.)

"Another caller says that in Pennsylvania, there is a bill that states that bands can only be called their original name, if the original members still have a stake in the claim."

The only way this could have been better is if I would have gotten a chance to try to convince Dave to have the G-Bros. on his show when he broadcasts in the 'Burgh.

Too bad he doesn't speak French...

Cherchez la femme...

Where has La Dauphine gone?? I can't find your blog and Neillou doesn't link to you anymore. Boohoo! If you're reading this, let me know where I can find you!! I don't like to lose track of blogs I like...that almost happened with Librarian Extraordinaire (now Happy Villain).

[Sniff] 'suis triste sans toi...

Taisez-vous, already!

The stories are true: Pittsburgh's famous three rivers have started running black and gold, replacing their usual hue of brownish-blue. The entire city has caught Steeler Fever, and, despite the ubiquitous UPMC, there is no vaccine in sight.

All this craziness over the Steelers going to the Super Bowl this year makes me think back to January 2004, when I was living in France and missed perhaps the biggest Super Bowl uproar ever: I missed the whole of America not-quite-witnessing Janet Jackson's nipple. That's ok, because there are plenty of real nipples floating around the French media...just pick up a 3 Suisses catalog or tune in to a bath soap commercial. Maxim in France is no different than Playboy...it's a wonder the two are able to coexist in the newsstands.

...but I digress. France is a nice respite from sports talk. I never had to listen to anyone talking about touchdowns, boneheaded refs or their weird sports superstitions. Even during soccer conversations, I was able to stop the gabbers right in their tracks when I'd announce that the only thing I know about French soccer is that Bernard Tapie tried to fix the World Cup one year.

I'm getting sick of the talk already...actually, I've been sick of it since we won the first playoff game. People seem to think that the entire fate of our city is irreversably linked to the success or failure of the Steelers: when they lose, our city is terrible: horrible at retaining young people, lousy tax structure, too many bad neighborhoods, numbskull politicians...the list goes on. But when the Steelers win, suddenly everyone is SO proud to be from Western PA: There's so much to do here! Look at all we have to boast about! We have George Romero! And Donnie Iris! And Andy Warhol! And great sammiches! And we have a great regional accent, yinz guys n'at!

And I'm not exaggerating the exclamation points, here, folks. I just want us to win the Super Bowl so everyone will just SHUT UP. I'm always proud to be from Pittsburgh, whether the Stillers are good or lousy...the city itself has more "fair-weather fans" than the Seattle Seahawks. Sheesh.

Photo: A friend of mine posing with the indispensable Terrible Towel. Yes, we were scathingly drunk at the time.

Dirty Little Secrets, Part I

I hate to admit it, but sometimes I think of my French as a chore. I've always hated reading French...the occasional newspaper article doesn't bother me; neither do poems, modern plays or children's books, but I've always hated reading classic French literature. This creates a problem, because the thing about admitting to people that you've got a degree in French is that they then expect you to have an extensive knowledge of Guy de Maupassant or Baudelaire.

I could probably name a few things each of these men have written, but I couldn't tell you much beyond that. There are a few French authors I enjoy, namely Victor Hugo, Sébastien Japrisot and Marcel Pagnol...and from the African set, Ousmane Sembène, but for the most part, I regard having to read French books as a bothersome chore. I'd much prefer to listen to a radio broadcast or converse with actual Francophones than bury my nose in a book (actually two books, since frequent trips to the dictionary keep me hopping back and forth, especially for Japrisot).

It's not that the stories are bad; on the contrary, French literature is home to some of the most engaging, exciting stories ever written. I guess I've just always had a deep suspicion and dislike of so-called "classics". My mother has an extensive library of books from her teenage years, the likes of which I don't think I'll ever pick up. I can't believe she was reading Ivanhoe at 14...voluntarily. I never understood what led one book to be labeled a "classic" and another to be cast aside. Surely this was the brainchild of some marketing dope somewhere down the line. Well, I didn't fall for it! I've never read a book simply because it was a "classic"...I have, however, read books that happened to be classics because I was curious about them, like East of Eden. And, just for the record, my curiosity has absolutely nothing to do with Oprah Winfrey and her stupid club. I've already read Night, thank you very much! (Excellent book, by the way.)

I think that what I've written above wrongly paints me as a "non-reader"...one of those "I don't know art, but I know what I like"-types. I'm actually quite the opposite: I love to read, and spent many hours of my childhood collecting and reading books by Beverly Cleary, Lynne Reid Banks and Roald Dahl. I sought out books by these authors based purely on the fact that I had enjoyed the book read immediately prior; there was no idiot from the New York Times writing up lists and telling me which books to read.

...but I digress. I never really had a desire to read classic English literature, let alone classic French literature. Perhaps this is why graduate school didn't really appeal to me. There is far too much emphasis in foreign language departments at American universities these days on literature, and not enough emphasis on language. Many of my classmates graduated with a French degree on paper, but they wouldn't be able to wash their socks in France. I guess what really bothers me is that studying literature alone has no basis in practicality; being able to recite Racine won't get you fed and clothed in a foreign country.

Ceci n'est pas un urinoir

There is something to be said for participatory art, but this is just ridiculous:

PARIS - A French performance artist was arrested for taking a small hammer to Marcel Duchamp's "Fountain," the factory-made urinal that is considered the cornerstone of conceptual art.

The porcelain urinal was slightly chipped in the hammering, which took place Wednesday during the final days of a Dada exhibition at the Pompidou Center. [full article]

The article goes on to report that at least three of the other "original replicas" of this piece have been urinated on by men over the years. I wouldn't even give them credit for "making an artistic statement"; I'd just attribute the whole thing to laziness. Walk a few extra feet to the sink, buddy. Let's face it: after one person's done it, it's no longer an "artistic statement", it's just copycatting.

Photo: My photo of "Fountain", pre-vandalism, taken in 2002.

Decorative Accents: First in a series

Pardonnez-moi for being really French about this blog lately...and by "really French" I mean "taking a long-ass break during which I did not give one thought to my poor neglected blog".

So, Happy New Year...Bonne Année.

I received a pre-printed Christmas card from some friends a few weeks ago. Below the usual cutesy greeting inside, it had the family's names neatly typed in all caps (another pet peeve of mine):

HAPPY HOLIDAYS
JAKE, PATTIE, JOHNNY & DESIREÉ

Note the misplaced accent on "Desirée". This is a major pet peeve of mine. Americans have, for the most part, realized that there is an accent in the name Desirée. They cannot, for the life of them, seem to figure out exactly where it goes. At least the accent was over an actual letter and not as I usually see this girl's name spelled:

Desiree'

I have seen this mistake countless times, and every time it never ceases to annoy me. You've probably seen hundreds of instances of this on everyday signs:

Rhythm House Cafe'
Cafe' Paris

I wouldn't even go so far as to give these people credit for confusing their Italian with their French; this is just pure uneducated stupidity. I wish Lynne Truss would find a French alter-ego to write a book as filled with rage about French punctuation errors as she did about English ones. She's sort of the Lewis Black of grammarians, if you know what I mean. Needless to say, I greatly admire her approach to the subject...

5, rue Sésame

The French are getting their own crop of home-grown Muppets. Sesame Workshop has announced plans to create locally-minded versions of Sesame Street that better reflect the culture of its international audiences. The French version is titled 5, rue Sésame.

The only American character that made the French cut is Elmo. The new cast includes Nac, a Big Bird-type; Griotte, a handicapped version of Prarie Dawn; and Yoyo, a Tellyesque fellow. Maria and Gordon have been replaced by Titouan, a retired grandfatherly type, and Juliette, a young student. Mr. Hooper and his store have been replaced by Baya, a character of Arab descent, and her bakery.

According to the New York Times, these changes were necessary to more accurately impart Sesame Street's message to French youngsters. I have to say that I agree with the changes--if I were a little French girl, I would hate having to watch American shows dubbed into French. Maybe that's why I watched virtually no French television while I was there. (It could also be because I didn't have a TV for most of my stay, but I digress.)

What initially sparked the changes was Elmo's demeanor--His 3-year-old persona lacked "sufficient Gallic irony". And it's true--French shows for kids can't be all sugar and spice. They need to have a grounding element that reflects the culture, good or bad. My suggestion would be to put Elmo on two packs a day and see how it goes.

Make New Friends...

Bus drivers have a special place in my heart.

No, I'm not talking about the average bus driver with a superiority complex, barking out "Pay on exit!" to public transportation newbies boarding his precious conveyance. I'm talking about Isabelle--my bus driver in France.

Actually, she wasn't a bus driver--she was a conductrice du car, which in French means "motorcoach driver". I was told that there is a distinct difference between the words bus and car: One is able to both stand and sit in a bus, but in a car, one may only sit. Since my bus went back and forth between Tours and a small group of villages about 30 minutes away, it was a car, used for longer distances (with comfier seats).

Isabelle is special to me because she was my first "friend" in France. Yes, I lived with a family, but they never used the familiar form of 'you', tu, with me. They always called me vous, which is more formal and made me feel as if I was not really welcomed as part of the family. Isabelle was the first person to ever call me tu, and I remember that day as one of the happiest I spent in France. It was the same feeling I had the first time I realized that I could understand every single thing a French person was saying without having to translate it into English first; it's this incredible feeling of acceptance and belonging, which is important when one is alone abroad.

Isabelle came to call me tu because I called her that first, by accident. I thought she would be offended by my mistake, but instead she just laughed and insisted that we call each other tu all the time. Befriending a stranger in France is definitely not an easy feat (which I will explain in further detail in a future post), and so her reaction was somewhat shocking to me. She really was so sweet to me; she would pick me up early so I could ride with her to the beginning of the route and we could chat before she picked up other passengers. She'd listen to the problems I was having with the family, answer questions I had about the city, and introduce me to people. She is the one who introduced me to my best friend in France, Caroline. In addition to all this, she'd tell me about her own plans for the future.

She always talked about how much she loved Brittany and wanted to live there. When I left Touraine, the local suburban bus line was having some troubles and the future of Isabelle's job was in question. I'm happy to say that she and her husband recently moved to Normandy to open up a tabac (newsstand).

I'm so grateful that Isabelle came into my life; she really made all the difference. She isn't driving buses anymore, but I'm sure her new life in Normandy is much more fulfilling than she had in Tours. She certainly deserves that.

Photo: Isabelle (left) and Caroline standing in front of our bus at the Fil Vert station in Tours.

Joyeux Anniversaire à Moi

Yesterday was my birthday. It really was an enjoyable one: the weather was beautiful, and Marc gave up watching the first quarter of the Steelers-Ravens game to take me all the way out to Beaver to see the Granati Brothers' scrapbook on display. Then we headed to a bar to finish watching the game before coming home to a huge pan of homemade lasagna, courtesy of the "other" birthday girl, my momma.

That's right, folks: I'm the gift that keeps on giving--I was my mother's birthday present 23 years ago yesterday. The Beatles' song "Birthday" was written for us! I always make a point of playing it as soon as we both wake up.

I got some very nice gifts. I got some Lancôme makeup from my parents, a Hallmark gift card from my little sister (I keep that place in business!), and The Golden Girls Season 2 DVD from Marc. He also gave me the most adorable card:


Pepe!!! He sure knows how to make me happy. The front of the card shows Pepe sitting at a sidewalk cafe with a delivery truck in the background and says, "I have a birthday kiss for you..." and on the inside, "...where would you like me to deliver it?" Personally, I think it should have said, "I 'ave a birzday kees for you...where would you lak me to dileever eet?"

My aunt also got me a gag gift of sorts--it's a "kinetic frog" thing for my desk at work. It's got two metal frogs that revolve inside a metal ring. Both the ring and the frogs have opposing magnets inside, so they go in opposite directions. Round and round and round they go...it's the perfect thing to keep me mesmerized for hours when I should be doing actual "work". Get it? Frogs. Ha ha.

Thanks to all who made my birthday a happy one :-)

What Are Big Sisters For?

I did end up at the Pens vs. Canadiens game on November 10. A friend of mine happens to be the team's head of season ticketing and graciously allowed me to use her seats for the night. I took along my 15-year-old sister, who is totally obsessed with Sidney Crosby, our new rookie.

We walked in just as they were getting ready to sing the anthems, and as the soloist sang the opening bars of O, Canada, some idiot sitting across the aisle from me starts booing. What was he booing, exactly? The song lyrics? Maybe he's just not a fan of Molson Light. Whatever his motivation, he should keep in mind that the time to display poor sportsmanship is during the actual sport.

I managed to promptly embarrass my sister by screaming loudly, "Allez, Thibault!" when our goalie took the ice. She told me to quit cheering in French, and I told her that I was just trying to say his name the right way. I was secretly proud of being dubbed the "embarrassing older sister" when, two nights later, I caught her cheering in French at the TV screen.

Later in the game, the camera operators thought it would be funny to show a Canadiens fan on the jumbotron next to a picture of Pepe Le Pew. It was amusing, especially when people started booing and the idiot from across the aisle yelled loudly, "Goddamn French!" It was just too funny for me to get upset. The guy had had at least 6 beers by that point and was regaling us with his oh-so-tastefully chosen soundbytes every few seconds.

It was a great game...I actually had fun. I'm contemplating attending another one in the near future. I guess you could say I've been bitten by the bug...


Photo: Jocelyn Thibault, goalie for the Pittsburgh Penguins, salutes the fans after successfully fending off the Canadiens during a dramatic shoot-out on November 10. Photo courtesy of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette and taken by Peter Diana.

Les Violences, Partie III

I called my best friend in France a few days ago to have a chat. I didn't mention the riots to her at all, but she said she had watched several foreign newscasts and said the Americans were saying that "France is on fire". That, of course, is an exaggeration; it's true that the most severe rioting took place outside Paris where literally hundreds of cars were set aflame, but my friend's region of France was relatively unscathed.

My friend lives just outside of Tours in the Loire Valley. When I first found out that I would be studying there, everyone I talked to said that the language was "pure" in that region. Upon arrival in Tours, I understood their meaning: the language is pure because there are no immigrants there to mess it up.

Tours is not diverse in the least. I think I saw all of two black people and maybe 5 Arabs the entire six months I was there. That considered, it didn't surprise me to find out that most of the copycat violence that has been perpetrated in the area since the rioting first broke out involved young teenagers of indeterminate race who were "just doing it because it's funny" (translated from La Nouvelle République). In other words, the "race rioting" in Tours cannot really be labeled as such due to its lack of races to begin with. Teenagers around there are just joining in out of boredom, not outrage.

Maybe it has been a blessing in disguise that Tours is not more diverse. I, for one, would personally prefer the city to be more well-rounded demographically...but who am I?


("I'm Jean Valjean!" - Ok, I couldn't resist that one.)

Les Violences, Partie II

This is interesting:

Both of the following articles originated with the Associated Press. Somehow, *magically*, one of them got slanted in curious direction. And by 'curious', I mean 'fair and balanced'. (I've taken the liberty of italicizing the offending passages in the second article.)

---
ABC News:

AUBERVILLIERS, France Nov 5, 2005 — Marauding youths set fire to cars, warehouses and a nursery school and pelted rescuers with rocks early Saturday, as the worst rioting in a decade spread from Paris to other French cities. The U.S. warned Americans against taking trains to the airport via strife-torn areas.

A savage assault on a bus passenger highlighted the dangers of travel in Paris' impoverished outlying neighborhoods, where the violence has entered its second week.

Attackers doused the woman, in her 50s and on crutches, with an inflammable liquid and set her afire as she tried to get off a bus in the suburb of Sevran Wednesday, judicial officials said. The bus had been forced to stop because of burning objects in its path. She was rescued by the driver and hospitalized with severe burns. [see above link for full text.]


Fox News:

AUBERVILLIERS, France — Marauding bands of Muslim youth set fire to cars and warehouses and pelted rescuers with rocks early Saturday, as the worst rioting in a decade spread from Paris to other French cities. The United States warned Americans against taking trains to the airport via strife-torn areas.

A savage assault on a bus passenger highlighted the dangers of travel in Paris' Muslim-filled and impoverished outlying neighborhoods, where the violence has entered its second week.

The African immigrant attackers doused the woman, in her 50s and on crutches, with an inflammable liquid and set her afire as she tried to get off a bus in the suburb of Sevran Wednesday, judicial officials said. The bus had been forced to stop because of burning objects in its path. She was rescued by the driver and hospitalized with severe burns. [see above link for full text.]

---

Yellow journalism at its finest, folks.

Les Violences, Partie I

A colleague of mine at work announced a week and a half ago that he was jetting off to Paris and wouldn't be back for two weeks. I hadn't really met him yet, so I walked down to his office to wish him well and chat a bit about France. His going to France made me somewhat nervous, because he happens to be blind. France is not the most handicapped-friendly place; here, we are lucky to have the Americans with Disabilities Act, which provides people with disabilities the opportunity to enjoy life as much as the rest of us. This hasn't exactly caught on over there. Sure, France is home to Louis Braille, who is responsibile for perhaps the greatest stride in communication for blind people, but that doesn't come in too handy when you're trying to cross the street and six thousand mopeds are barreling down the road toward you.

So, I was nervous for my co-worker.

Then, the riots broke out.


I am terrified for him now, especially because I know he was planning to venture immediately outside the city and explore a bit. I don't think he was planning to explore the HLMs, but still...he doesn't speak any French. He can't see anything, and when I heard about a disabled woman being burned to death while on public transportation, I was horrified. I hope he comes home safely.

It is hard for me to put into words how I feel about this. I can understand it from both angles, though it is hardly justifiable from either. You would think that the French state would have taken a lesson from the US, in what we as a nation experienced in the 60s with the Civil Rights Movement. It is true that there is a great deal of prejudice amongst Frenchmen of European descent against Frenchmen of African or Arab descent. These people are just as "French" and should have equal rights. It is such an ordeal for them to get their identification papers, that is no wonder that people have the time to go marauding through the streets and inciting violence.

Jacques Chirac should have recognized that the Paris banlieues were a powderkeg--anyone who has studied French postcolonial culture could have pointed that out. The discontent and hopelessness of life in the slummy suburbs has been dramatized in countless novels, films and plays. The plight of the post-colonial citizen is one of emptiness and despir, of rejection and life as a second-class citizen.

Give these people a chance at a real life, and the violence will stop.


I have more thoughts on this topic, but I will post them a bit later.

What's Wrong With This Picture?

A few days ago, my mother sent me a forward.

Under normal circumstances, it wouldn't have warranted my attention, as she sends along the usual innocuous prayers to St. Theresa, "You go, girl!"-type lists, and myriad jokes. But THIS forward-this was different.

What initially caught my attention was the fact that my mom hadn't forwarded the message correctly and the image that was the subject of the email was conspiculously absent. This led me to read on out of sheer curiosity (I have included the missing photo for your viewing satisfaction):
---

What's wrong with this picture?

If you look closely at the picture above, you will note that all theMarines pictured are bowing their heads. That's because they're praying.

This incident took place at a recent ceremony honoring the birthday of the corps, and it has the ACLU up in arms. "These are federal employees," says Lucius Traveler, a spokesman for the ACLU, "on federal property and on federal time. For them to pray is clearly an establishment of religion, and we must nip this in the bud immediately."

When asked about the ACLU's charges, Colonel Jack Fessender, speaking for the Commandant of the Corps said (cleaned up a bit), "Screw the ACLU." GOD Bless Our Warriors, Send the ACLU to France!

Please send this to people you know so everyone will know how stupid the ACLU is Getting in trying to remove GOD from everything and every place inAmerica. May God Bless America, One Nation Under GOD!

What's wrong with the picture? ABSOLUTELY NOTHING
---

"Send the ACLU to France!"

Is this a totally ridiculous statement, or what???


I'll gladly join the ACLU if the bozo who penned this email is footing the bill to send us all to France. Think about it--is France really so bad that it would be a punishment to send someone there? If France is Jack Fessender's idea of hell, I'd gladly perish. I could definitely see myself spending the rest of eternity munching on chèvre, rillette, and escargots and gulping down plenty of Vouvray. I'd never have to work on a Sunday, I'd get a nice, leisurely lunch every day, and I'd start every job out with six weeks of vacation time. There would never be a shortage of fresh bread chez moi, and every May 1st I would walk the streets breathing in the sweet smell of lily of the valley. Ça, c'est le paradis!

I don't really care about prayer in the military. I can't comment one way or the other on what the freakin' ACLU has to say about it, either--all I know is, once you bring France into the mix, THEN I have something to say.

After this episode, I doubt that my mother will be sending me any more forwards anytime soon.

L'Amour dans tous ses états

Last night, I had the great privilege of seeing Manon Landowski and André Nerman in concert. The show, entitled L'Amour dans tous ses états (Love In All Its Forms), was an enthralling series of theater vignettes interspersed with classic chansons. I especially liked Manon's rendition of Mon amant de Saint-Jean; she gave it just the right amount of sweetness and sadness.

The show itself was wonderful--the songs and scenes chosen were perfect for showing the different ways that love plays out, from the couple who just needs a good argument to make them realize how in love they are, to the golddigging woman who has convinced herself she is in love with a rich man until she finds he's really penniless.

The issue I had--and, as I think we've all learned by now, I wouldn't have a blog if there weren't an issue--was with the show's title. L'Amour dans tous ses états was the most fitting title I could think of, after having seen the show. For advertising purposes, however, the Alliance Française decided to change the title to Bons baisers de Paris, translating it as From Paris, With Love.

This upsets me on multiple levels: First, the original title (and its direct translation) was absolutely perfect for conveying the content of the show. Why mess with that? Second, the translation between Bons basiers de Paris and From Paris, With Love is loose at best--and doesn't really convey what the show is about. Lastly, those two titles tend to reinforce something I find undesirable about Americans: namely that they think that everything that is French must come from Paris by default.

Of course, this is not so, but when you say you've lived in France, Americans automatically ask if you were living in Paris. Last I checked, France had many more major cities that could be asked about. I can't tell you how many of my friends and acquaintances still refer to my time abroad as "When you were living in Paris." This bothers me, as France has many more cities to offer with tourist destinations more exciting and awe-inspiring than the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre.

So, I was disappointed in the title-swapping that went on...the show was geared toward francophiles to begin with, so why even try to market it to a wider audience? We had the theater pretty much packed as it was--I don't think changing the title had anything to do with ticket sales. There was a table of two elderly couples immediately in front of me that evening, and they were very vocal about the fact that they couldn't understand a thing. I don't know where they got the idea that the show would be in English...oh, wait--MAYBE it was because the TITLE was in English! I think they were expecting Maurice Chevalier-style "French" songs, which consist entirely of heavily-accented English.

Needless to say, they had four very unsatisfied customers at the theater last night.


photo: Manon Landowski, from regardencoulisse.com

Nostalgie

A while back, I posted about the Pittsburgh Penguins having earned the right to first pick in the 2005 NFL Draft, and in so doing, were bequeathed the right to teenage phenom Sidney Crosby's rookie season.

I was excited that we'd have yet another bilingual player on our team. My 15-year-old sister, however, was excited that we'd have a teenage player on our team. She begged me to watch the game with her on TV last week. I agreed, figuring that I could just fall asleep if it got too unbearable (I'm chronically allergic to sports).

It turns out that the Pens were playing the New Jersey Devils. This would seem like an ordinary match-up to any average hockey fan tuning in, but for me, it brought back a flood of nostalgic memories.

My first boyfriend was a hockey nut (His younger brother was actually drafted by the Pens about a year after we had broken up). He was also a francophile (but has since kicked the habit, so I hear). He loved the New Jersey Devils, and, in true 14-year-old fashion, I set out to memorize every player stat and jersey number I could in hopes of impressing "Paul". Paul was one of my best memories of high school--I still can't believe that my parents let me date him. He was 19 and a freshman in college; I was naïve jailbait. Paul took me to my first (and so far only) professional hockey game, and I was trying my darndest to pay attention so that I could actually talk with him about it later. I figured that out of all the sports, hockey was most worth my attention, since at least I could work in the French angle.

After all these years, the only name I remembered was Martin Brodeur, the team's goalie. Brodeur, miraculously, is still playing for the Devils 8 years later. 8 years! I've gotta hand it to the guy--hockey players age like dogs. I suppose it's one of the more rough-and-tumble sports that's not too friendly to a guy after hitting 30.

The reason good ol' Marty remains the last one standing of the 1997-1998 New Jersey Devils in my memory is because I always got a kick out of hearing the sportscasters say his name:

Mar-TAN Bro-DOOR

At least they put the accent on the right syllables!

I told my sister that I'd take her to a game the next time the Montréal Canadiens "Mon-TREE-All Can-ADE-y-ENNS" come to town (November 10). I won't really be interested in the game much--I'll be too busy trying to get on Canadian TV with my cleverly-worded French signs, bien sûr!

Cherchez le cheval

Due to "popular demand" from my last post, I did a little research into the French habit of horsemeat consumption, and here are a few interesting tidbits for you:

The official term for the phenomenon is hippophagy. From Wikipedia (which, as we all know, is not the definitive authority on anything, but informative nonetheless):

According to legend, the French taste for horse meat dates from the Battle of Eylau in 1807, when the surgeon-in-chief of Napoleon's Grand Army, Baron Dominique-Jean Larrey, advised the starving troops to eat the flesh of dead battlefield horses. The cavalry used breastplates as cooking pans and gunpowder as seasoning, and thus founded a tradition.

Today many European countries including France, Italy, Romania, the Netherlands, Spain, Portugal, Switzerland and Belgium consume horse meat in notable volumes. In France, specialized butcher shops (boucheries chevalines) sell horsemeat, as ordinary butcher shops do not have the right to deal in it.

I don't know about the claims made in that article, but I know that the last part about special butcher shops is wrong. Those shops do exist, but other places do have the right to sell horsemeat--it was for sale at my local Atac supermarket in Tours. You can't miss that huge mass of bright (and I do mean BRIGHT) red meat lying there.

Another interesting discovery was a film on this subject (from the NY Times):


Result of Eating Horse Meat--1908

PLOT DESCRIPTION: The plot and comedy content of this Pathé film are both summed up by its title. The incredibly stupid hero buys horse meat at the local butcher then takes it home and wolfs it down. As expected, the dimwitted diner begins behaving like a horse himself. He gallops around the city, knocking over people and props with furious abandon. Arrested by the gendarmes and thrown in jail, the hero finally overcomes his delusions. Too bad: With a little luck, he could have become another Nijinsky, or might even have won the Kentucky Derby.

From what I read, there is no breed that is off-limits to this sort of thing. Presumably, you would not want to butcher an animal that had some sort of value, such as a race or work horse. There are farmers who breed horses specifically for butchering, but I couldn't find a listing of specific breeds.

So there you go--maybe I answered your questions, maybe I didn't--but it was interesting to try to find out more about the subject.

Tastes Like Chicken...er, Not Quite

Sharing the photo in my previous post with you all, along with reading about Spam in Neo's blog, put me in mind of the only unpleasant culinary memory I have of my time spent in France:

I ate horse.

Before anyone goes all PETA on me, let me explain:

My first night in Tours, I was invited to dine at the home of my host family's friends. I had come in on the train from Paris that morning and hadn't taken a nap (trying to get acclimated to the time difference, like a good little international traveler). I didn't realize that this family followed the "tradition" of late-night eating on weekends. Now, dinner time in Europe is generally two hours later than dinner time in North America, but I was already used to that, since my family normally doesn't sit down together until nearly 8pm on a regular basis. We arrived at the house around 8 and I was delighted to see that dinner was sitting on the kitchen table, already prepared.

But we didn't eat at 8...

...we didn't eat at 9...

...we didn't eat at 9:30...

...we finally sat down at the table at 10pm, having sat around shooting the breeze for two hours straight. I was STARVING! I had been trying not to overdo it on the munchies (which were SO good, I was really having a hard time) in anticipation of that delicious-smelling dinner I knew was awaiting us on the kitchen table. I was famished by the time we all sat down.

Needless to say, having not slept all day after a long international flight and a train ride, I was exhausted. Combine that with the fact that among the 10 dinner guests were two 11-year-old boys and a 9-year-old girl, and you can imagine that things were a bit chaotic.

The hostess put the meat course down in front of me, mumbling something as she did. As a rule, I shy away from eating too much meat in Europe--I like my steaks pretty rare, but definitely not "rare" by French standards. I can't eat meat that has a warm outside and a totally raw, cold center...but, I digress. I took a small piece of the meat and heaped up on the mushrooms and other yummy offerings on the table.

End of story? Not quite. Several weeks later, my host father and I got into a discussion about what foods we liked and disliked. I said I wasn't a fan of blood sausage, (except boudin, that's so good, but you have to eat it blindfolded, otherwise you'd throw up right there on your plate) and said I wouldn't eat brains, liver or horse. He looked at me in surprise and said, "But, we ate horse at Michelle's house--don't you remember?"

I was absolutely horrified. I couldn't get the image of Philippe, the horse in Beauty and the Beast, out of my head. Looking back on that meal, I did notice that that "beef" didn't have quite the texture I was used to. I had chocked it up to the preparation being different or something to that effect. I sat there, racking my brain, trying to figure out when exactly Michelle had announced that we were eating horse for dinner, but I had been so exhausted and my brain had been so overstimulated from hearing wall-to-wall French for the first time in my life, that it just got by me.

I suppose eating horse isn't so much different from eating beef; when you think about it, they're both beasts of burden...but for some reason, horses have more of a "personality" in American culture. There aren't any movies (that I know of, at least) about children befriending cattle. Have you ever seen a movie about a cow who overcame the odds in a national race? How about a cow saving someone's life? What about a magical cow who could fly? I've never heard of a half-man, half-cow. We have a separate name for cow when we're eating it--calling it "beef" removes it just enough from the living, breathing animal to make it palatable. We don't have such a moniker for horsemeat.

So, I ate horse. I'm not proud of that fact...although it is a conversation piece when people bring up how other peoples of the world eat dogs or termites.

Merci Mille Fois!

I would just like to take a moment to thank Johnny Retail for designing a new title graphic for me.

He used a photo I took while visiting Chinon. It is a statue (by Roulleau) of Jeanne d'Arc totally trampling a bunch of Brits on a charging horse. It's by far the best statue of her I've seen--a great "action shot". Here's the full version:



Somehow, I thought it would be an appropriate header for this blog. Just pretend those Brits are Americans and we're all set.

Stuff This!

I have a cold.

It's not a bad cold, but just enough to give me a stuffy nose.

Do you know the first thing most people say to me when they find out I've got a stuffy nose? They say, "Your nose is stuffed? That must make it a lot easier to speak French!"

Do you remember how Peter, the disgruntled main character in Office Space felt when someone said, "Sounds like someone's got a case of the Mondays!"? That's how it makes me feel to hear people ask about how my stuffy nose improves my speaking abilities. It actually makes it much, much harder, seeing as four vowels and two rather important consonants in French are made using the nose as the sole point of egress for the air. I understand that most people who say this to me are trying to be funny or trying to incite me into a rant. They think it's funny to imply that French people are stuffy snobs, so that if a Frenchman has a stuffy nose, he can actually speak better than normal.

I blow my nose in your general direction.