In a daring follow up to the jingoistic blog of last Thursday, I thought I'd better prove to my French friends that I really do appreciate the wonders of francophanie so they won't cancel any more drinks rendez-vous...
So here goes... all the splendours of la France that deserve kudos:
1) Aires every 10 km on the motorways
2) Croissants, fougasses, etc etc etc
3) Fresh produce that doesn't taste like water
4) 24-hour bakeries
5) Flyovers and underpasses instead of roundabouts
6) Cheap, good wine
7) Philosophy
8) Museums and collections of art that are unrivalled
9) Loverly countryside
10) Brilliant health care system (despite a scary tendency to prescribe suppositories)
11) Mimosa Festivals and Citrus Festivals
12) Socca
13) Some things can only be expressed with French swear words
14) Culture and culture both
15) An actual separation of Church and State
16) One of the first countries to allow for civil unions
17) Café culture
18) TGV and good train systems
19) Some of my favorite people are French (and named Marion)
Please add your own and together we shall celebrate the French!
Related Links
Fête du citron
What some random guy thinks are the best things about France
Eurovision 2008
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Bloody Frogs (for those sensitive to slurs against the French people, look away now)
The French complain of everything, and always.
Napoleon I (1769-1821) Napoleon Bonaparte. French general.
Ahhhhh! The French! Because they do not want to have to work an extra year in public service to earn their pension, they're striking. Again! And Again! Yesterday fishermen blockaded the Calais port to protest a rise in marine fuel prices (this will help how?!) and today the whole freaking nation is striking to protest that fact that Sarkozy is actually trying to make plausible pension reforms. Pfft.
So, all this boils down to the the French can do what they please (it is nice to see action against government, the English could take a lesson) but not when it affects my holidays! (Ah, now do you see... it is all about me). So, instead of ferrying my way to Paris to see Miss Sheila, oh, pardon, DR. TUREK, I'm here on my computer, waiting for the laundry to finish, contemplating going into work to print out A.B.'s emails.
There's not even any point of trying to just hang around Dover because the motorway is so backed up with lorries that they recommend bringing food and water in case of queues... can you imagine?! Don't even get me started on the British Motorways... the system is absolutely ridiculous. But that's really a rant for another day (pretty much any other day)- today we're focusing on the French.
Ah, the French, those kings of grammar and dictation, those masters of croissant and the smell of french bread in a can, those whinging frogs who take their benefits and government services for granted and burn cars when the government dares to suggest that perhaps they should work for their money...
Well, enough of this, it's time to hang the laundry on the line.
Related links:
Bring food and water for a trip on the Motorway?!
French Industrial Action
Napoleon I (1769-1821) Napoleon Bonaparte. French general.
Ahhhhh! The French! Because they do not want to have to work an extra year in public service to earn their pension, they're striking. Again! And Again! Yesterday fishermen blockaded the Calais port to protest a rise in marine fuel prices (this will help how?!) and today the whole freaking nation is striking to protest that fact that Sarkozy is actually trying to make plausible pension reforms. Pfft.
So, all this boils down to the the French can do what they please (it is nice to see action against government, the English could take a lesson) but not when it affects my holidays! (Ah, now do you see... it is all about me). So, instead of ferrying my way to Paris to see Miss Sheila, oh, pardon, DR. TUREK, I'm here on my computer, waiting for the laundry to finish, contemplating going into work to print out A.B.'s emails.
There's not even any point of trying to just hang around Dover because the motorway is so backed up with lorries that they recommend bringing food and water in case of queues... can you imagine?! Don't even get me started on the British Motorways... the system is absolutely ridiculous. But that's really a rant for another day (pretty much any other day)- today we're focusing on the French.
Ah, the French, those kings of grammar and dictation, those masters of croissant and the smell of french bread in a can, those whinging frogs who take their benefits and government services for granted and burn cars when the government dares to suggest that perhaps they should work for their money...
Well, enough of this, it's time to hang the laundry on the line.
Related links:
Bring food and water for a trip on the Motorway?!
French Industrial Action
Monday, May 12, 2008
The Pink Bucket
'Tis the season for BBQs... lots and lots of BBQs.
As a vegetarian, there is the general concern that any vegetarian offerings will be chucked on with the meat and that all juices will meld with the nice tofu steaks and bean burgers. Not wanting to defend myself against the general banter that accompanies the voicing of this concern, I tend to stick to cheese and chip sandwhiches and the occasional nibble of an overly mayonaise-y potato salad (note: in the UK, potato salad is literally just potatoes and mayonaise... *gack!).
But! In addition to the UK being generally friendlier to vegetarians and doing moderately less mocking, I have also procured a little pink bucket bbq! Sinéad brought it home for me on Friday in advance of a very bbq-y weekend. It is important to note that because shopping is so crap in Oxford, she schlepped to High Wycomb, just to get me a present! (*gold star for Sinéad)
As a vegetarian, there is the general concern that any vegetarian offerings will be chucked on with the meat and that all juices will meld with the nice tofu steaks and bean burgers. Not wanting to defend myself against the general banter that accompanies the voicing of this concern, I tend to stick to cheese and chip sandwhiches and the occasional nibble of an overly mayonaise-y potato salad (note: in the UK, potato salad is literally just potatoes and mayonaise... *gack!).
But! In addition to the UK being generally friendlier to vegetarians and doing moderately less mocking, I have also procured a little pink bucket bbq! Sinéad brought it home for me on Friday in advance of a very bbq-y weekend. It is important to note that because shopping is so crap in Oxford, she schlepped to High Wycomb, just to get me a present! (*gold star for Sinéad)
So we had a little veggie grill for veggie hot dogs on Saturday at Pete and Kate's birthday bbq bash and we took the bbq along to Nat and James' on Sunday for yet ANOTHER bbq (with colleagues) except that I forgot the veggie dogs and ended up eating a high percentage of Helen's grilled haloumi.
Not only that! but this Sunday coming, we'll be using our little pink bucket again (menu as yet undecided). All in all, my little pink bucket bbq is fab and cost effective. Just what anyone could ask for!
Related Links:
You can buy one too!
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Observations from Delhi
Thoughts on my time in Delhi, noted at the moment of realization and brought home to the UK in scribbles on scraps of paper.
Delhi Observation #1
There is a visible smog inside the airport.
Delhi Observation #2
All the street dogs look alike.
Delhi Observation #3
All the men on motorbikes are wearing helmets, but none of the women who, by the way, ride side saddle.
Delhi Observation #4
The ice cream in Delhi is better than in the UK.
Delhi Observation #5
My hotel is in a rubbish location.
Delhi Observation #6
It takes ages to get anywhere; Delhi is expanses of nothing with pockets of something hidden here and there.
Delhi Observation #7
Homosexuals are known as Men who have sexual relations with other men as in "The Society for..."
Delhi Observation #8
There's no recycling in Delhi.
Delhi Observation #9
There is such a thing as a Mahaburger.
Delhi Observation #10
A cow lives on the median of an 8-lane road.
Delhi Observation #11
There are cold beverage carts selling cold beverages in the far left lane of the expressway.
Delhi Observation #12
You have to go through a metal detector to go to the cinema.
Delhi Observation #13
Burgers and club sandwiches are only available from room service between 7:00 and 10:30 AM.
Delhi Observation #14
It is not uncommon for a motorcycle to be going 120m/hr on the road and for the driver to have the helmet looped around his wrist.
Delhi Observation #15
Instant coffee is made with hot milk.
Delhi Observation #16
Bourbon Creams in Delhi are a very light, sickly brown color.
Delhi Observation #17
MacDonalds delivers.
Delhi Observation #18
There are no actual napkins; one has to use facial tissues.
Delhi Observation #19
Toblerone is the most common chocolate bar for sale.
Delhi Observation #20
Horns are used to indicate. It's expected that this is the case and people request more horns with signs on the backs of their vehicles.
Delhi Observation #1
There is a visible smog inside the airport.
Delhi Observation #2
All the street dogs look alike.
Delhi Observation #3
All the men on motorbikes are wearing helmets, but none of the women who, by the way, ride side saddle.
Delhi Observation #4
The ice cream in Delhi is better than in the UK.
Delhi Observation #5
My hotel is in a rubbish location.
Delhi Observation #6
It takes ages to get anywhere; Delhi is expanses of nothing with pockets of something hidden here and there.
Delhi Observation #7
Homosexuals are known as Men who have sexual relations with other men as in "The Society for..."
Delhi Observation #8
There's no recycling in Delhi.
Delhi Observation #9
There is such a thing as a Mahaburger.
Delhi Observation #10
A cow lives on the median of an 8-lane road.
Delhi Observation #11
There are cold beverage carts selling cold beverages in the far left lane of the expressway.
Delhi Observation #12
You have to go through a metal detector to go to the cinema.
Delhi Observation #13
Burgers and club sandwiches are only available from room service between 7:00 and 10:30 AM.
Delhi Observation #14
It is not uncommon for a motorcycle to be going 120m/hr on the road and for the driver to have the helmet looped around his wrist.
Delhi Observation #15
Instant coffee is made with hot milk.
Delhi Observation #16
Bourbon Creams in Delhi are a very light, sickly brown color.
Delhi Observation #17
MacDonalds delivers.
Delhi Observation #18
There are no actual napkins; one has to use facial tissues.
Delhi Observation #19
Toblerone is the most common chocolate bar for sale.
Delhi Observation #20
Horns are used to indicate. It's expected that this is the case and people request more horns with signs on the backs of their vehicles.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Eid Mubarak!
It was just Eid. Not Eid ul-Fitr, Eid ul-Adha. The one with the slaughter.
Days before Eid, there were suddenly thousands of cows on the road. Pulling eight-year old boys into traffic, bucking against the stick used to herd them, tied to trees, looking mournful and muddy. And sometimes, once in a great while, there would be a sparkly cow, doused in glitter, adorned with tinsel, sashaying up and down the dusty avenues. As a fan of general livestock, I was in two minds about these processions of fancified bovines (and the occasionally herd of eight or nine goats on a string). On the one hand, how exciting! Pretty cows! On the other hand, I knew what awaited them come Eid. A slit throat and an undignified disembowelment, followed by apportionment to hordes of impoverished women with trick-or-treat satchels, gathering their meat where they may.
Modern tradition states that the families that can afford a cow will have it slaughtered on Eid: 1/3 goes to the family (the best bits), 1/3 goes to distant relations, and 1/3 goes to the poor. In the villages, it's pretty clear who gets the last third ad which families are responsible for giving it, but in the disparate life in the city, there are so many poor people unaffiliated with richer families, so they go around and collect their share from whomever they can. The slaughter happens in the street, followed by immediately skinning and disembowelment.
I wandered around Old Dhaka on Eid, responding to the million "How are you?!"s and "Your country?!"s, my eyes firmly to the ground which was, literally, awash with blood. The gutters ran red, the cobbles directed blood spills in rivulets across the narrow alley paths. I saw cows in various stages of slaughter: sparkly and fighting against the harness as it was led to the imam, hooves bound, frantic as the large knife approached, just after, as the imam gave way to the butcher, and in various bits along the road. Skins were piled fifty deep along the road; hooves reached from the laps of the passengers in rickshaws, the ankle bones still swiveling with the motion of the bicycle on cobbles; carts of collected jaw bones brandished not quite clean skulls, and beggars tugged at the last bits of intestines, floating down the bloody gullies at the edge of the street.
Interestingly, I didn't find myself overly disturbed by any of the process other than the danger of getting blood on the hem of my jeans or smacked in the head by a passing joint of beef.
Related Links:
What up with the two Eids?
Days before Eid, there were suddenly thousands of cows on the road. Pulling eight-year old boys into traffic, bucking against the stick used to herd them, tied to trees, looking mournful and muddy. And sometimes, once in a great while, there would be a sparkly cow, doused in glitter, adorned with tinsel, sashaying up and down the dusty avenues. As a fan of general livestock, I was in two minds about these processions of fancified bovines (and the occasionally herd of eight or nine goats on a string). On the one hand, how exciting! Pretty cows! On the other hand, I knew what awaited them come Eid. A slit throat and an undignified disembowelment, followed by apportionment to hordes of impoverished women with trick-or-treat satchels, gathering their meat where they may.
Modern tradition states that the families that can afford a cow will have it slaughtered on Eid: 1/3 goes to the family (the best bits), 1/3 goes to distant relations, and 1/3 goes to the poor. In the villages, it's pretty clear who gets the last third ad which families are responsible for giving it, but in the disparate life in the city, there are so many poor people unaffiliated with richer families, so they go around and collect their share from whomever they can. The slaughter happens in the street, followed by immediately skinning and disembowelment.
I wandered around Old Dhaka on Eid, responding to the million "How are you?!"s and "Your country?!"s, my eyes firmly to the ground which was, literally, awash with blood. The gutters ran red, the cobbles directed blood spills in rivulets across the narrow alley paths. I saw cows in various stages of slaughter: sparkly and fighting against the harness as it was led to the imam, hooves bound, frantic as the large knife approached, just after, as the imam gave way to the butcher, and in various bits along the road. Skins were piled fifty deep along the road; hooves reached from the laps of the passengers in rickshaws, the ankle bones still swiveling with the motion of the bicycle on cobbles; carts of collected jaw bones brandished not quite clean skulls, and beggars tugged at the last bits of intestines, floating down the bloody gullies at the edge of the street.
Interestingly, I didn't find myself overly disturbed by any of the process other than the danger of getting blood on the hem of my jeans or smacked in the head by a passing joint of beef.
Related Links:
What up with the two Eids?
Monday, October 22, 2007
Indicators, Frü, and Americans
A little bit of patience is paying off in the employment department. Though I'm still in my same role as Personal Assistant to someone who does cool things (case in point, she's currently in Tanzania and I'm planning her trip to Nigeria in December), I've managed (with a leg up from a number of folk) to be allowed to participate in some work for the Disaster Risk Reduction team. So this week I'm furiously scrabbling away at producing a synthesis on the work that's been done on DRR indicators. It's not a difficult task, but I'm a bit stressed about it if only because if it's something they find useful, I might get a few more interesting bits of work.
Onto a much more tasty topic: Frü, closely related to Gü. Lemon cheesecakes... flirty little puds... Sinéad and I just got back from Tescos where we couldn't decide if we wanted plum and pear crumble or apple ginger crumble or zesty lemon cheesecakes... so we got all of them...
This week brings many Americans (none of whom can have my Frü). Michelle is here from Canada via Dubai and Ruth and Josh are honeymooning in Kent (in Britain?! in November?!). And all are attending what will be the Halloween Bash of the year- hurrah!
That's the long and short of it for the moment... trees are changing, the weather's frigid, I have crumble in my belly, and the laundry's done - life's not too bad.
Related Links:
Characteristics of a Disaster-Resilient Community
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm....
Onto a much more tasty topic: Frü, closely related to Gü. Lemon cheesecakes... flirty little puds... Sinéad and I just got back from Tescos where we couldn't decide if we wanted plum and pear crumble or apple ginger crumble or zesty lemon cheesecakes... so we got all of them...
This week brings many Americans (none of whom can have my Frü). Michelle is here from Canada via Dubai and Ruth and Josh are honeymooning in Kent (in Britain?! in November?!). And all are attending what will be the Halloween Bash of the year- hurrah!
That's the long and short of it for the moment... trees are changing, the weather's frigid, I have crumble in my belly, and the laundry's done - life's not too bad.
Related Links:
Characteristics of a Disaster-Resilient Community
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm....
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Blackberry Crisp and Driving Lessons and Marge's Replacement
My arms are a scritched and scratched and covered in nettle rash... all for the want of blackberry crumble. Being from a city in the States, I'm unfamiliar with the concept of being able to walk around and randomly eat fruit that grows on public foliage. It's really just not a done thing. So, in the excitement that is blackberry (bramble) season in the UK, I've thrown myself wholeheartedly into a tradition which most British people have got their fill of before their teenage years. Sinéad, loving partner that she is, has encouraged me in this pursuit and accompanies me around footpaths whilst I fling myself into bramble bushes and emerge with a grand total of three blackberries and stinging arms. Having returned home slightly scathed, there's now a blackberry crisp bubbling away in the oven which will taste all the more exciting because the berries were were there to be plucked by anyone... but it was me who got them.
Related Links
Exchanging for a UK Licence (yes, that's how they spell it here...)
Triple Berry Crisp
When I'm not pursuing the joys of fresh roadside fruit (mmmm, taste the exhaust), I'm zipping around British roads in a snappy orange car with a big Learner pyramid on the top. For those Americans who wonder why I'm doing this despite the fact that I've been driving since the age of 15, it's because the UK, despite recognizing the driver's licenses from a gajillion countries but (I think for political reasons) not the US. So I have to start from scratch. I've passed my theory test and I have to pass my practical. In order to do this, I need to be affiliated with a school because I need a car to take the test in and I can't be insured on Sinéad's car because she's had her license for less than three years. It's all very complicated, very expensive, and a right pain in the butt. There are some interesting differences in how they teach you to take the test. For example, you can't sit at an intersection with your brake lights on because of the fear that you will dazzle other drivers. What?!?!?! Try sitting in rush hour traffic in DC and see how dazzled you get by the brake lights. Whatever.
All this brings me to Dunster, Sinéad's new car. A high end Peugeot 106. I say high end because we only paid £250 for Marge and we put £650 into Dunster. Classy chicks that we are. No power steering, though. I shudder to think.
Related Links
Exchanging for a UK Licence (yes, that's how they spell it here...)
Triple Berry Crisp
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