Pastisgaston

Polish Inspiration

2008-07-24T14:55:00.002+02:00

http://www.purpledesign.pl/

I came across the above link will moving through my social networking platform. Just nice to look at and listen to the music.

Carla Bruni II

2008-07-18T05:48:00.000+02:00

Madame La Presidente

2008-07-18T05:41:00.000+02:00

A Night with a Hotel Inspector. The Reality of Illusions Part 5

2008-06-06T21:24:00.004+02:00

The pre-dinner walk was fantastic. The grounds are well maintained, colourful and with nice scenic views as this small video clip demonstrates.

A Night with a Hotel Inspector. The Reality of Illusions Part 4

2008-06-05T16:05:00.002+02:00

The next moment can only be described as trauma in full blossom.

I felt as if I had been struck by lighting. I blinked again, thinking perhaps I wasn't seeing right. But no, I was not mistaken.

“Which idiot”, I thought, “could possibly put such a hideous, ghastly and nasty thing smack bang in your line of vision when you walk through the door into the hotel?”

I couldn't believe it. No, really! Why?

“Why not?” I heard those oh so familiar spirits whisper into my ear.

Some 21^st century, bright media marketing, sell it to the punters, twit, brainless bozo and dork, all rolled into one, had decided to put a giant LCD flat screen television in a corner of the actually quite small lobby. You could not avoid it. Like a ghost, it haunted you. The 4pm screening was a selection of the hotel bedrooms. As was the 8pm screening, the 10pm screening and the 10am screening the next morning. Must have won an Oscar. Did I miss the category for “best tasteless advertising”? I thought the Ryanair flight the day before had won that. Must have missed something then.

Never had I come across a more tasteless clash of styles. Brash commercialism collided head on with an otherwise nicely proportioned, intimately lit and comfortable lobby. In the middle was a large 3 seater sofa, a coffee table groaning under the weight of magazines and newspapers, but being very British about it: “keep a stiff upper lip”. Opposite the 3 seater were two antique looking comfortable armchairs. Dividing the seating area from the area immediately in front of the entrance stood an old mahogany sideboard displaying some hotel material. The lighting was discrete and warm. The colours a little on the dark side, browns and greens but nicely balanced with plenty of indirect lighting. To the right, blending in but still functional was the reception desk. We had hit the check-in rush.

Given our key, we walked past the young and conscientious porter who was calmly observing our passage out of the side entrance. Probably had back trouble, poor lad. Our room turned out to be in another part of the complex which once housed the stables. The original stables were below and what might have been the servants quarters were located above them. A somewhat steep set of stairs, being in the centre of the building, led up to the rooms which were located directly under the roof. Walking upright was not possible, you had to duck and more or less bent down in submission walk down the corridor to our room. I suppose the advertising guru with his ultra modern TV was having a go at me, snickering quietly to himself.

The room felt stuffy and I opened the windows and looked onto the courtyard. The main building was directly opposite us and smaller buildings to the left and right. It was all pleasantly laid out. The garden furniture looked invitingly on a sunny day, sipping a Pims and enjoying the peace and quiet.

“Don't touch anything” I was told. “We have to inspect the room first” The soft gentle features of this lovely lady had become business like as she took out her laptop and booted it up. “Can you take the printed report so that we have a written back-up, and so that our thoughts can match?”

“I thought our thoughts are always in perfect harmony” I thought to myself as I took the wad of paper that made up the report. All 29 pages of it.

I settled down on an armchair, took off my shoes and put my feet on the corner of the bed. Barely settled down, I had to get up because the whole thing was being pushed back.

“No dust here” she muttered. “That's unusual”.

Having gotten up, I walked to a bedside table on which stood two small bottles of water. One sparkling and one still. Next to them was a glass placed upside down. Picking it up, it was only by accident that I noticed that they had not been cleaned properly. Smeared marks were on the rim. I decided to drink out of the bottle instead.

“Oh dear”, I said. “Marks on the glass here”

“Make a note of it” came the somewhat strained reply as she glided her finger sensuously along the top of a picture frame. This act created a dust storm the size of a molehill.

“So the report says to tick “no” if we find one speck of dust” I said.

“Hmm” came the muffled reply from the wardrobe. More dust.

“How am I supposed to hang up my dress in this?” she exclaimed. “I'm taller than this thing. Iron needs to be cleaned”

“Yes, and the ironing board is so delightfully and beautifully placed here by this table” I replied. “So discrete. Fancy a cup of tea?”

“No, but check the tea and coffee facilities will you?”

Absent mindedly I picked up the cups. “Lipstick marks on one of them cups here”.

“This room is disgusting. Bed cushions stained. Bad choice of colour of the bed cover. It can show everything. Ugh! Let me check the bathroom....”

Ninety minutes later the room inspection was done and the findings recorded. My mood had begun to change from not just looking for faults but at this point wanting to deliberately find them. The TV was not properly tuned, the bathroom was only superficially clean.

I began to wonder how I would have reacted had I been a proper paying guest here. The rate was £200 (€250, $390) including breakfast and dinner. We would pay and get reimbursed later. I had been captivated by the building and the hotel grounds. The Rolls Royce, there for a wedding, had added a nice touch. The place had charm and ambience and for a quiet, naughty and self-indulgent weekend, perfect. The hotel was heavily pushing the relaxation buttons. Would have I noticed the dust and dirt under normal circumstances? Was the hotel's own expectations in line with that of the guests when it came to cleanliness or were guests becoming too distracted by the illusion that was slowly engulfing us? And would we actually care? Who was setting the excellence benchmark? The report was not coming out on top here.

I was feeling the lack of sleep. After munching away on a not very exciting ham and cheese sandwich and sharing a pot of tea which alone cost £7.50 ( €9.50; $14.50) we decided to go out and explore the grounds before heading off for our fine dining experience.

To be continued. Photos of the hotel can be seen on the slide show on the blog site.

A Night with a Hotel Inspector. The Reality of Illusions Part 3

2008-06-04T23:32:00.003+02:00

To the uninitiated, England is a curious place. It is a strange mixture of unusual acts and beliefs they lovingly call “tradition” and some of the most progressive thinking in Western Europe. However, what they consider to be casual, others would think as being sloppy. Their reservedness, the quiet English “understatement” seems to have given way to brashness. The cliché “no sex please, we're British” has been torn down by the likes of Cosmopolitan telling young women what they should have “achieved and with whom and under what circumstances” by the age of 30. It has become a country seemingly at odds with itself, seizing the all the opportunities given and yet trying to maintain a semblance of tradition.

If you don't know any better, you would like to believe that the English are a genteel folk of tea drinkers, mingling in polite society, discussing the weather and generally being quite civilised. But then, the British are a multi-cultural mix today. Nobody describes the contradictions better than Bill Bryson in his wonderful book “Notes from a Small Island”.

The 22 hours on the go of my previous day had left their mark and I awoke the next day feeling slightly groggy but to the welcoming smell of freshly brewed (French) coffee drifting past my nose. The hot and sunny humid weather with the evening entertainment of spontaneous thunderstorms and flash flooding, which I had experienced all week at home, was not apparent here. It was that mild pleasant English weather. Not too hot, not too cold, just pleasant, not wanting to kick-up a fuss. It just wants to be there, in its own unassuming pleasant and gentle way. Aaahh!

Keeping out of the cross fire of the “conversation” amongst the 3 generations of women sharing my space that morning, I installed myself in an armchair and was given a cookbook to study. Best keep a low profile. A small hill of orange marmalade toast was placed by my side and another coffee. My brief was shut up and speak only when spoken to. Well, I can do that although others may beg to differ.

Studying the cookbook, it was further evidence that this too was a different England. For me, England challenges. It stubbornly provokes. Coming from a more classical background, I love the formality of dinners, the matching of wines and food, the style of a dinner party. I was raised and trained that certain wines, in fact, even down to a certain Chateau "xyz" are best suited to a particular dish, which out of principal must be prepared in such and such a fashion. It has a sense of being well ordered and cosily comfortable. The surprise is limited to the taste of familiar experiences and the memories associated.

Food in England has improved no end, to the point that many people claim that one can eat far better and more cheaply in London than in Paris. My “Chef du Matin” that morning, Jamie Oliver, and a whole host of true chefs and chef celebrities took the media exposure in their hands and have transformed the gastronomic scene. Using the multi-cultural influences which are so abundant in Britain, they have questioned and provoked the established schools of culinary thought and produced some exciting and truly sensational tastes. This was supported by the readiness of the retailers to make the ingredients, no matter how exotic, easily accessible.

To underline this experience, the lad Jamie, has even changed the cooking language. Instead of “take 3 courgettes” he writes, “take your 3 wonderfully formed courgettes”. Cooking becomes sexy and fun. Instead of “mixing” you “whiz” everything in the mixer.

So, every time I am in England, I sense the presence of a huge question mark and the words “Why not” drifting through the air.

The domestic disputes having being more or less subjected to a temporary ceasefire, and after being appropriately fortified by a cup of tea, my gorgeous and wicked hotel inspector and I took off on our mission of being a leisure couple. Pulling it off would be as simple as the the game plan: She was on duty, I was in for the ride. It would be fun. A great night after a great dinner followed by an even greater breakfast, all taking place in this blissfully quiet, sedate and secluded hideaway of hotel. Aaahhh. Images of “The English Patient” pleasantly drifted by.

In the garden of England, otherwise known as Kent, not far from Maidstone is the small village of Lenham. It is picturesque sort of a place, one or two Tudor style buildings, the usual array of small town shops and pubs. But like most English towns, they seem to have been left to develop naturally with the result that the SUV's jostle for the limited parking and the remaining traffic clogs up everything else. Leaving Lenham one drives through very narrow country lanes with vegetation sprouting in all directions. The curves are sharp and there is no telling if there is any oncoming traffic. Nor are there any thoughts spared about which side of the road one should drive on. The middle will do fine because the road is about as wide as the car, so pray that when someone comes from the opposite direction you can inch past each other. Wonderful.

The directions, thoughtfully provided by the hotel on it's website, mentions that at about ½ a mile outside of Lenham, the road would fork and we had to turn left. There would also be a sign. Indeed, it was there. But it didn't seem to be having good day. Like a wilting tomato plant, it slouched around, bearing its message almost grudgingly. Looking at it, it seemed to blankly stare back at you and whisper that yes, I suppose I should tell you that you are at the right place. Just drive on, you'll get there, if you really must be that inconvenient and disrupt the quiet, placid surroundings.

We drove on and a little while later, we were smartly greeted by a proud and bold sign bearing the hotel's name and pointing to the gate. Beyond was an enormous park lands, greener than green lawn tall and proud trees and a drive that seemed to extend to the horizon. Grandeur came to mind.

Driving in, we followed the drive for ¼ of a mile and came to a large Edwardian building. This had to be it. Red bricks, large windows, wide window frames. Greenery and shrubbery everywhere.

Further down from entrance leading to the reception was a scene right out of the film starring Anthony Hopkins and Emma Thompson “The Remains of the Day”. An old Rolls Royce was parked further down the chauffeur sitting inside and a member of staff, carrying what appeared to be a silver tray was standing there and talking to him. A pity that the white gloves were not being worn.

A young woman, most certainly of high breeding stood there holding a glass of champagne the faint hint of snobbery smirking its way across her face. As the Rolls drove by, she turned and followed it in her gaze, the champagne glass being delicately held between her dainty fingers on an even daintier hand. The more modern cars parked seemed to distort the picture somewhat but I chose to ignore their existence and so they simply vanished.

I felt right at home. Exchanging a cheeky smile and a twinkle in the eye, the lady by my side and I lifted our heads and together we strode inside. The pleasure and the experience was about to begin.

To be continued.

Modern Careers

2008-06-04T11:15:00.001+02:00

Capturing the imagination: Carla Sarkozy, née Bruni. France's first lady.

http://tinyurl.com/3lb27o

A Night with a Hotel Inspector. The Reality of Illusions Part 2

2008-06-03T19:16:00.002+02:00

Forget Sex and the City. This is much more realistic. I had a dirty weekend. There was passion. There was begging and apologies. There was disappointment. There was sheer amazement at what can be possible. And there were lots of fun and games.

Let me tell you that spending a night, in fact, a whole weekend with a hotel inspector will change your outlook and make you see and do things you have never done before. The earth will shake, it is a memorable experience. It will change your life forever. Trust me!

Those who may have seen “The English Patient” starring, amongst others, a caring Juliette Binoche and an enticing Kristin Scott-Thomas may think that travelling in those days must have been a romantic experience. It probably was – the mysticism of distant places, the exciting smells and sounds and the lure of fascinating people. Something affordable for the select few and who clearly knew how to maximise the experience.

I know I am a snob when I say, wouldn't it sometimes be nicer if this aura of exclusivity would still remain and not have everything opened up to the often unappreciative masses herding themselves around everywhere and consuming everything without any appreciation?

My tale starts at the exceedingly quaint and quiet airport in Baden-Baden, where for less than the price of an average train ticket, an Irish mass air lifter would hurl me across the channel and deposit me at an airport north of London. Baden – Baden airport handles about 12 flights a day, not much more. The security is as professional as everywhere else but the people are human. There are no queues. The restaurant is crap and the shopping is limited for those interested. But, with on-line check-in, you can make it to the gate stress free and still have had a leisurely dinner at home, a pleasant drive to the airport and catch a smile from the security people. Baden-Baden airport once used to be a Canadian Air Base and never have I seen a more tree filled airport than that.

It being a Friday night, things are a step busier but the influences are not home made, they waft in from outside.

“Good evening. Ryanair wish to announce that due to the late departure of the inbound plane, the flight no. Frxxxx to London Stansted will be delayed by 30 minutes”.

A short text is sent to England announcing that I would be late. “Love you squillions. Xxxxx” I swoon in anticipation before settling down to try and concentrate on my book. But of course, every Tom Dick and Harry are travelling too, and as enthralling as the book is, concentration is not easily come by. A French woman and her son strategically position themselves next to me. The son can't sit still nor can his mother's mouth remain shut. A gentleman of slight oriental origins speaks into a mobile phone and tells someone, “I want you to cast your mind back 23 years, who do you think I have with me...?. No! Go back to.....” and then he hands his phone to the French woman and she lets loose a salvo of words and sentences. What an interesting combination I thought: an Pakistani male with a French woman. “Oui, j'habite a Strasbourg” she blurts into the phone in a voice which drills itself right into my skeleton. But this international combination was only a facade because as the “those passengers who have paid for there priority boarding or checked in on-line” were bussed to the plane, he was discussing some property deal with a fellow Englishman while she, apparently of a more democratic mindset took the “normal passengers”. Nor did they sit in the same part of the plane. Ah, no couple to people watch. Madame proceeded to make another round of telephone calls to all and sundry and then loudly ruffled through various newspapers which, when we were called to board, she calmly left on the chairs for some poor person lower down the food chain to collect and put in a bin. Ah, such style to casually deposit a copy of Le Figaro on the chairs. Only the French can do this with such grace, a flick of the nose and an elegant release of the fingers. There is romance in travelling after all!

Opposite me was a couple who later turned out to be German but were of the indistinguishable jet set type. He was dressed in a fine navy blue suit, a still crisp very white shirt (it being now 9:30pm), cuff links on his shirt sleeves. His tie perhaps a touch too red. Gray hair, beautifully groomed, adorned his somewhat squarish, slightly tanned face which was in deep concentration as he read what must have been a very important business report. His legs were crossed revealing black socks at the correct length (no leg showing) and very well polished black shoes. He was a in a class of his own as was his more casually but still smartly attired wife who was flicking through a more upper class woman's magazine. It was only when he was reading a local Baden-Baden paper did she dare interrupt him with some snippet of gossip.

The plane finally decided to land (45 minutes late) and once off loading those returning from paradise, it swallowed us heading for paradise. Ryanair is an Irish budget airline, or low cost airline. By some methods of creative accounting and rewriting the rules for double-entry bookkeeping, it manages to ferry people from A to B in Europe at virtually next to nothing. If you book early enough. The fare itself came to €9 ($14) but all the taxes, surcharges and what have you brought the total fare to €36 ($56) round trip Baden-Baden to London. For this you get a sardine style seat and free advertising: “Get €40 worth of phone calls with a €10 phone card from ....fish communications” and “ Had a long day or having a long day? You have to be at your peak performance all the time” I listened with anticipation of the weekend ahead but declined to buy the miracle potion that was supposed to invigorate everything and maintain my immune system. Immune from tacky advertising I wondered? Later during the flight we were invited to take advantage of the “free delivery” of the lottery scratch cards available for purchase from the flight attendants on the plane for £1 or £2. You've got to give it to the Irish – they could sell you your own grandmother.

Part of the fun of flying for me is to see how far one can push the limits. In the years of commuting back and forth between England and Germany, I would give the check-in girl my reference number and declare that I didn't have any luggage, no hand luggage, there was just me as I stood there.

“Do you have any luggage, Sir?”

!!!!!!!!!

“Good evening. This is my reference number, I have no luggage and the sharpest thing I have is my tongue”. The German check-in girls smiled and took it with humour. Their English counterparts couldn't cope.

So, as I patiently waited in line to the neon sign proudly stating “UK BORDER” at Stansted Airport, I noted that I had hit the jackpot once again. He probably is a really nice bloke, great to have a drink with and could probably, off duty, tell you a whole host of really funny stories. But on duty, well, he treated everyone with professional contempt. I shuffled up. He looked at me. Looked at my ID card. Looked at me. Scanned the ID card (Folks, com'on, we're in Europe), looked at me, looked at the ID card. “Would you mind taking off your glasses, sir?” He looked at me and the ID card again and then handed slowly and deliberately, handed me my ID card. “I'm still me” I mumbled and strode off before they could enforce the “Assault warning” hanging behind them.

Land side, a woman spotted me, and imitating the last scene in “Love Actually” where a dopey Hugh Grant playing the Prime Minister is greeted by his new girlfriend, running up to him and throwing herself in his arms, I too was hurled upon, smacked a kiss and told “You're late”.

to be continued.

A drive through the English countryside.

2008-06-01T22:48:00.003+02:00

Driving though a small English village about 50 miles south of London. Narrow roads, many cars and quite a few bumps in the road as well. The village post office on the left and ahead, before we turn off to the right, a country village pub "The star" which is quite nicely lit up in the evenings.

Everything is very green and it is difficult to imagine that there is a major international airport just 10 minutes away.

The Reality of Illusions Part 1

2008-06-01T19:32:00.003+02:00

We will fight them on the.......

2008-05-25T19:02:00.004+02:00

Every May Europe goes to war. It is a war which has lasted for 53 years and is one which does not stop fascinating. It is the strange phenomenon called, well here we have the first conflict. The French call it “Concours de la Chanson”, others call it the Eurovision Song Contest, yet others call it the biggest kitsch show around. It has a dubious reputation. Few will openly admit watching it but everybody does because it allows them to ventilate healthy nationalism in a battle in which nothing more than a few egos get killed. But the contest provides an excellent panorama of Europe and the European idea and the eternal conflict between governments, European institutions and the attitude of European citizens. Who again need to be differentiated between what George W. Bush once described as “Old Europe” and “New Europe”. On that score he was given the correct thing to say.

The beginnings go back to 1956 when, the dust having settled somewhat after the Second World War, an institution called the European Broadcasting Union was set up to technically allow cross border transmission of television programs on state run stations. One central idea was, and still is, to have a music competition of singers (now bands) each representing their own country and then having first a jury, later the public, vote on who was the best singer, now performer. Nobody was and is allowed to vote for their own country. The winning nation would then host the contest in the next year. At first, only individual singers were allowed. They had to sing in their native language and were accompanied by one orchestra for the whole contest. At the end, or given your point of view, the highlight, was the awarding of points. The host venue would then “switch live” to a person in the country declaring that country's votes. There was almost a standard phraseology: “Good evening Paris, this is Berne calling. Here are the results of our voting” and then they would go through the list. It would start at 1 point and then work it's way up to the coveted 12 points. So popular was the show at the start that the phrase “La France (or whoever), douze points” became synonymous with saying “you've hit the target”. The scores were always read out and repeated in both English and French. In the core, not much has changed here except the opening up to groups and being able to sing in other languages other than your own.

The commercial success of the Eurovision song contest was never as great as the political success for which it was ultimately designed. In the 53 years, only ABBA (winners in 1974) and Celine Dion (winner in 1988) emerged as the most commercially successful. Even today commercially successful musicians and bands give the contest a very wide berth because of its political feel as well as the kitsch reputation it has.

The “Eurovision” bit is about Europe. In the 1950's and 1960's that was a cut and dried affair. It meant central Europe up to the Iron Curtain in the East and Ireland in the West. Then it was expanded to the north to incorporate the Scandinavian Countries. The term Europe was then stretched to include Israel and later, although only 10% of it's territory is in Europe proper, Turkey. Later still, Cyprus and Malta joined in. It started to grow and grow and in this year's contest had swelled up to 43 countries including all the states that once were Yugoslavia and even more exotically including countries such as Armenia, Azerbaijan, Belarus and Russia. Europe had, in the course of time after the Cold War reshaped itself and split into smaller countries. But also, what is now deemed Europe is open to interpretation. Turkey is a part of Europe when it comes to the Eurovision song contest but is no longer a part of Europe when it comes to its own wish to become a member of the European Union. The Ukraine suffers from a similar situation in it's delayed joining of NATO, for fear of upsetting another European country, Russia, which, at least politically, shares a border with China. Where Israel comes in in all of this is a little mystifying.

The ordinary television viewer of course is not stupid. Where politicians and organisers believed in an idealistic situation in which the best performer would win purely on artistic merits, the public took the obvious ethnic path and started voting in ethnic blocs. Germany and Austria always gave each other “douze points”, as did Spain and Portugal and the Scandinavian countries did a real “menage a trois”. The Irish and the Brits may have been at loggerheads in Northern Ireland but every May they awarded each other the “twelve points”. So successful were the Irish in winning this contest that they begged to not have to win because hosting it was putting a severe financial strain on the Irish broadcaster RTE.

According to public belief, these blocs have continued to evolve. All the Balkan states generally awarded each other 12 points. The Ukraine dutifully gave Russia 12 points in yesterday's contest, a gesture which I think was not reciprocated. But this year a few things were different. Austria had decided not to take part – so Germany had lost a traditional ally. Also, now with 43 countries competing, the whole contest was extended to 3 days, 2 semi finals and the final. Traditional bloc awarding was now not always possible.

Host nation was Serbia which had won the contest from Finland in 2007 and the whole show was staged in Belgrade.

The Eurovision Song Contest is an expensive thing to run. This year's final cost about €10 – 15m for a 3 hour show. Financing comes from various sources. One third is carried by the so-called “big 4” (Germany, France, United Kingdom and Spain). In return, they automatically qualify for the finals, irrespective of the, often dismal, quality of their songs. Germany sent in the “No Angels” a group of initially 5 girls, now 4 women, who were pieced together in a casting show in the early 90's. They disbanded and two years ago reunited to try and fill their somewhat depleted savings. They went to Belgrade with a song titled “Disappear” probably in anticipation on how they would succeed.

France was represented by, as today's Le Monde wrote, “Le Dandy electro-pop” Sebastian Tellier. He is a 33 year old musician and who is popular in France. His first claim to fame is that the only part of his head which is not covered by either massive amounts of hair or large dark glasses is his nose. The second claim is more devastating. He sang his song in English. This outrage prompted the French Minister for the Interior to explode in fury and voicing his opinion that everyone should boycott watching the contest on TV unless M. Tellier sang his song in proper cultured French. I am not actually sure whether it was a co-incidence or not, but the finals of the French football league were held at almost exactly the same time as the song contest (FC Lyon vs. Paris St. Germain. Lyon won 1-0 in extra time). There were probably a few domestic scuffles between couples wanting to watch the football on France 2 and the song contest on France 3. Alors, at the end, Tellier decided that for the sake of the artistic quality of the song, it had to remain in English.

Speaking of which, the 23 miles between France and England take on eternal distance when it comes to pop music. The UK representative, one Mr. Andy Abraham esq., of a gentle 80's musical persuasion demonstrated quite well that what may work in the UK doesn't always go in Europe. ( The UK is only a part of Europe when it is convenient). And Spain? Yes, moving on swiftly!

Old Europe has become a little dated and tired. Not only at the contest, but in European sports fixtures as well but also, in my experience, in personal attitudes too. It is the new Europe in the East which have nothing to lose, who have all the dynamics and who want to show that they too are Europe. Yesterday, there was, once again, a clear East-West divide. The Eastern contestants were glitzier, cleverly combining local authenticity with modern day pop. They were more enthusiastic, adventurous, one Baltic nation coming over as a group of pirates. They were only topped by the Irish contestant coming dressed as a Turkey and singing a Turkey song. Ah well, not all to everyone's taste, that is true. However, so powerful and enthusiastic are the Eastern countries that the Western European countries are slowly contemplating of withdrawing from contest for no other reason than for the accusations of the bloc voting in the Balkans and further east as well as mumblings of financing by the Russian Mafia. At the end of the day, it is easier to simply walk away than to get into the fray and compete. This too is Europe.

So, what did the East have to offer yesterday? The youngest came from Albania who at 16 sang quite an impressive ballad. Just north of the border, Croatia offered a combo including a 75 year old rapper (called 75 cent) dressed in a white suit and “playing” an antique gramophone. The group from Azerbaijan performed a cross between Dracula and The Rocky Horror Picture show. The Armenian singer sang a somewhat sad but melodious ballad. The Romanian male / female duo was good, but only when he sang in his rich tenor voice. Then there was the Ukraine who combined a catchy song with a piece of eye candy who, by miracle, managed to sing while carrying out quite a gymnastics performance whilst still remaining, even if skimpily, dressed throughout her performance.

Then there was Russia. Dima Bilan's song, titled “Believe” and according to various newspapers today, he left nothing to chance. Back in 2006 he narrowly lost to Finland at the contest staged in Athens. Dima Bilan is apparently hugely popular and successful at home in Russia. So along with an investment of €10m, he was accompanied by a violinist playing on a legendary Stravidari violin worth several million Euros. The trio was made up by Olympic figure skating champion Evgeni Plushenko who exchanged his ice skates for a pair of roller skates and was dancing pirouettes and the like while Dima made noise. I think he might have sung, but that's taste.

And he won. Russia, a European country (up to the Ural mountains but nevertheless with a border to China), with enormous amounts of investment and a talented young singer (conveniently ignored in the papers today) who has already collected a large selection of awards, also in “the West”, will stage the Eurovison Song contest in Moscow in May 2009. Exactly what time it will start will be interesting, given that Moscow time is 2 hours ahead of Central Europe.

Today's papers, if they mentioned the contest at all, went back to the traditional trench mentality with thoughts of surrendering. Comments written on the newspaper's forums echoed this. I doubt it was like that further east. But the battle was fought. The losers are also the winners, the winners are the heros. The organisers will look to see who else will join "Europe" by May 2009. The Kosovo is certainly on the list, as are candidates such as Morocco, Tunisia, Algeria and Egypt. Reports say that 100 million people watched the contest, some as far away as Australia and New Zealand.

For another year, singing voices will be silent. The next stage in the European war will be fought in the European Football championships hosted by Switzerland and Austria. No doubt, about 200million football experts in front of their televisions will tell the professional players on the fields, how to play a proper game of football.

Finally, ever diplomatic, the Swiss paper in Zurich wrote that in yesterday's song contest, Germany came 23^rd and the United Kingdom last. In actual fact, Germany, Poland and the United Kingdom came joint last, each sharing 14 points. Russia won 272 points.

All the fun including videos, profiles etc. etc. etc. can be seen on www.eurovision.tv

A bientot a Moscou en Mai 2009. Salut.

Where the locals go

2008-05-25T15:59:00.004+02:00

The weather was fine, the temptation was there so I drove the 45 minutes south to have another look at Strasbourg - not the tourist area, which although impressive, but off the beaten track. There is not much physical distance between the two but they are a world apart.

Finally having found a parking spot to the west of the cathedral, I wandered through the quiet back streets. There, the facades have not been touched for some time so their weather beaten look give the area character. Others would say slightly seedy. But it was here where the little corner shop still exists, open on Sunday, and selling the essentials from fruit to bread to wine and spirits. The pace was more leisurely, the smells more intense and the voices more colloquial and louder. It being mother's day, one woman saw a friend carrying an enormous bunch of flowers for someone and she exclaimed in a loud voice that it was such a nice gesture but really not necessary. People from the neighbourhood sharing a common joke and spending the time to exchange the street gossip.

There were plenty of small, run down restaurants, the menus being considerably cheaper than maybe only 300 meters away where all the tourists throng. But then they don't look the part either. Just a few chairs, a table, oriental fare, Italian places. Closed on Sunday's because they want to not because they have to.

Walking across behind the cathedral, I walked past a large group of young American tourists who were briskly walking towards one of the many cruise boats which were expecting them, ready to ship them around the river and canals which surround the heart of the town centre. It seemed that they were completely unaware of the different Strasbourg which lay literally on the the other side of the boulevard behind them. At the front of the cathedral the groups of tourists were dodging the beggars who had strategically positioned themselves at the cathedral entrance and the African tradesmen peddling their assortment of hats, belts and wooden elephants.

In another part of town I found a Turkish shop, the door and the loud radio invitingly open and loud. It was a mini-supermarket selling absolutely everything. The fruit was fresh, milk, tinned food, fresh meat and an extensive and varied range of spices. Further on one side were the typical Turkish teapots, cooking utensils and further along clothes hung carelessly from coat hangers and a large selection of shoes where piled in a long line below. It was a mini-bazaar, everything was there all a little untidily scattered around. The floor was worn, the light was more on the dim side but then who cares.

I found the pine nuts which, at €6.99 for 125 grams, were too expensive. Resisting any further shopping experience I stepped back into the sunlight. First impressions can be seen in the slide show on Strasbourg.

The Day after the Weekend before - part 5

2008-05-15T13:33:00.003+02:00

The grand finale was timed for 10pm, the fireworks. To be honest, fireworks are not really my thing so it was with some trepidation that I went into the centre of town where the best viewing could be had. On the way we passed a building housing a competitor to Vincent's insurance company. On the balcony above, I spotted Mme Criqui, competitor to M Rebert, standing like an Eva Peron look alike as the crowds thronged below. Not only does her son produce far superior cakes, Mme is the town's leading fashion statement.

Moving on, we came to the point where the police had erected safety barriers. Behind them stood a small tower of loud speakers emitting the nicest music I had heard in 3 days. Ambient music in what sounded like a choir of Gregorian monks singing REM's "Losing my Religion". For a good 20 minutes I waited with a growing feeling of relaxation as the ambient music soothingly worked its way through the quietly talking crowds, and watched the lights colour the house facades in shades of red, blue and white. You simply could not avoid being soaked into this enticing atmosphere.

In all of this, Madeleine, well over 80, and who no doubt will dance everybody into the ground at the Fete de Musique in June, trotted past with her beau and entered a building. She now had revealed to us where she lived. It was the same building where last summer a neighbour of hers must have left the chip pan burning and which subsequently brought out the pompiers to test if what they practised actually worked.

Half an hour late the lights stopped and the music changed. All eyes went to the cathedral tower which had been equipped with white and red flares. The start of the show was the setting off of these flares thereby creating a picture as if the tower was ablaze with fire. This dramatic introduction, accompanied by a crescendo of music was outdone by a truly spectacular fireworks display and accompanying music. It seemed to go on for ever and when it was finaly over, the crowd cheered long and hard with delight until slowly, almost reluctantly drifting away.

The festival was over. The "Harmony of some town" still managed to fill the Place de la Republic and Smiler seemed to have taken pity on some DJ out of work and given him shelter and food in return for some entertaining noise. My heart dropped, but by midnight the DJ seemed to have exhausted himself and all became blissfully quiet.

Tuesday morning, thankful for not having any appointments, I found myself in a state of emptiness. I could not face the daily dose of emails, articles etc. which make up part of my working day. The mutterings of a politician in Paris, Berlin or London who try and determine my life left me bored. I had dipped into a different world, colourful, sincere, honest and very very lively. What we normally have to deal with, the world of business, politics, commerce felt hollow and empty in comparison, almost insignificant. Unwilling to re-adjust but needing to, I decided that I had a new office from which I could work. The bench by place 52 & 53 at yesterday's fishing competition, where I had spent 3 pleasant hours in the sun would now become my special office. Armed with a batch of papers I made my way there. The ducks were back, mother and the 9 ducklings swimming around. The weight watcher's faction of the trout jumped out of the water to see what was going on. I sat down and started to begin the grudging process of readjustment.

The Day after the Weekend before - part 4

2008-05-15T13:28:00.000+02:00

By Monday afternoon, the continuous “polaltz” polka-waltz combinations were beginning to get the better of me. It was time to regroup and explore something else. Part of the festival is of course the local food. Food here is the tarte flambee, a thin water and flour based base which is traditionally topped with crème fraiche, onions and bacon. Other versions are available in restaurants throughout the area and it is usually considered the pizza of the Alsace. It is placed on special wooden boards and baked in wood fired ovens. It is staple food here and not festival of any size, shape or colour would be worth its while without a tart flambee stall. There was also the usual BBQ food around, local bratwursts, marinated pork chops and French fries. The local vineyard, Cleebourg was prominently positioned in the Place de la Republic and beer stalls were scattered around as well.

The restaurants participated as well, each turning out their specialities. One was promoting “baeckeofe” a stew consisting of 3 different types of meat, usually beef, porc and lamb and a whole selection of vegetables and left to simmer for several hours. The others had the tartes flambees. The local Chinese restaurant was promoting a speciality too: Beijing Duck.

The more interesting things were to be found in the artisan market. I ignored the home made jams and marmalades because we make them ourselves and made a beeline for the saucissons, a cured, garlicy sausage made of various meats and best eaten with a fresh baguette and rinsed down with a good heavy red wine.

There were several stalls but one caught my eye for two reasons. The first being that they had the cheapest prices, the second being, they had some rather interesting selections. We tried and tested our way through each saucisson and ended up buying four: duck, wild boar, ostrich and..... donkey. The latter aroused my curiosity. Eating such foods in France is not that unusual because the traditions go back hundreds of years when the population was so poor that it was forced to eat what ever came around and somehow cook it into an acceptable fashion. Hence the fact that horse meat is readily available and eaten, 265 varieties of cheeses, many made from unpasteurised milk. There are probably scores of other delicacies which have moved onto a secret parallel market as the health and hygiene fanatics and bureaucrats in Brussels determine what is good for European stomachs and what not.

Local suppliers are the key. Madame Burger in the next village south of here is our apple supplier. She is a small weather beaten old woman who shuffles around on her surprisingly large farm. We dropped in just before the weekend and found that business had been good. All except the last crate had been sold. We picked a few and as always, her interpretation of how much a 1kg is differed from ours. It is the same ritual. You take a bag, select your apples and go and put them on the scales. You might be at 1.1kg but she says, in the local dialect, ah, that is not a kilo, go get another apple. It would be rude not to do so. She leads a quiet life now, patiently waiting for this year's crop to grow. We were told to come back on November 25, when the new season would start. No doubt, business will be brisk.

Artisan food is still an important but of our daily fabric here. While the supermarkets offer everything through the normal channels, it is the artisan who, in a proud tradition, continues to make exciting food. Included in these was Patrik, whose mobile shop was simply called Chez Patrik, specialising in saucisson. We tried one, porc with beaujolais and the taste exploded in my mouth. There were others, porc with choucroute (pickled cabbage). He cut us a slice of smoked ham which simply melted and letting out a pleasant not over smoked taste. Asked whether he simply did the markets or if he sold from his shop, he said both is possible. Good food is worth the drive, even if Patrik's shop is 70 km away.

In the end, I had bought the wrong saucisson. It pays to taste and to compare. Our collection could not compare with that of Patrik's but at least we know now where to go to replenish stocks.

The Day after the Weekend before - part 3

2008-05-15T12:40:00.003+02:00

By Monday, the lack of sleep had taken its toll but I had never expected that a fishing competition would be the ideal way of recovering. I arrived at Gaston's pond just after 9 where things were just beginning to get started.

Being a trout on Pentecost Monday in Gaston's pond is no joke. First of all, you have been removed from your previous surrounding and immersed into this new area so a lack of orientation is understandable. Secondly, later, unless you are on a trout's version of a weight watcher's diet, you have to avoid the sheer endless row of temptation dangling in front of you. You have to do that all day. The fatter you are as a trout, the more prized you become, clearly contradicting the dieting principles. Only the cousin Carp has a higher price tag. Orientation and resisting temptation is the order of the day. Eat without getting hooked on it.

Higher up the food chain, the ducks, who last Monday were still oblivious to the upcoming peace shattering invasion had begun to beat an orderly retreat. In the middle of the lake is a small island. The ducks had converted it to an airport control tower and all remaining ducks were given clearance for take off. They took off in pairs avoiding the closing of airspace in the form of 10m long fishing rods. Later we noticed that the light aircraft didn't make it. A young mother with 9 ducklings stayed behind and with female supremacy chose to ignore the males lined up on the bank, fishing rods at hand.

I strolled around until I saw Vincent who, as it became abundantly clear that morning, was net”working” again. Vincent is a local businessman who clearly has his ducks in a row. He is not only on the committee of the local fishing club, he also on the committee of the local faction of an insurance company and probably on every other important organisation in the town. His wife works in a beauty parlour and his once photogenic daughter sits in the jeweller's shop located almost under our house. Vincent's work is in PR for his own small local business empire. He has the stomach for it, both physically as well as entrepreneurially. After the parade on Sunday, he was strategically located in the lobby of the Marie where a local artist was exhibiting impressions of the town. You could barely enter the building without squeezing past his stomach and if you were a desirable, shaking his hand. Vincent and I do not see eye to eye because we live where he wanted to but somehow couldn't. When I saw the familiar bulge and the green T-shirt at Gaston's pond I felt it prudent for the enjoyment of both our respective days to move to a more unobtrusive location.

I found a bench on the far corner of the lake. A few minutes later an elderly man, slightly stout equipped with a competing stomach and limp joined me. Not much was said until “Bertrand” with an uncharacteristically serious expression on his face, slurping from an Orangina bottle in one hand and carrying a Bratwurst in the other and fishing rod jammed under his arm, stumbled past us. Bertrand is the town comedian. On most mornings, he and his wife can be seen walking down the Rue Nationale with plastic bag in hand and waving and shouting to all passers by. Most of them respond which prompts a joyous counter response. He must be in his mid fifties but has the cheerful disposition of a young child. He never misses a rubbish bin. It was this that prompted me to open the dialogue with the person sharing the bench, commenting on the rubbish bin bit. This prompted my neighbour to say that he was probably looking for bottles which have a deposit. He then told the story of how the largest supermarket in town, just north of the border had all but removed the containers used to recycle glass and that two entrepreneurial Russians were now making a small fortune in collecting the glass bottles.

He continued, in a deep guttural voice to convey the impression that he was a man of authority, stature and vast experience and also that he too was an ace fisherman but didn't like such competitions because you were lined up too close to the next competitor, the fish didn't do what you wanted them to do. Also, the mere detail, that fishing competitions were forbidden in Germany, a fact which caught me by surprise because I had met people who had taken part in them in there. He also, later in the course of general conversation had, with the greatest authority, informed us that the trout were the dumbest fish around. How this was ascertained remained unchallenged because in his view, any fish so hungry that it would eat a metal hook, simply had to be stupid. Unless they are on the weight watchers program I thought.

Places 52 and 53 were the two closest to us. They were soon occupied by a husband and wife couple and their cocker spaniel. The wife was out to kill such were her organisational skills. In a matter of seconds she had her rod ready, bait hooked , holding net placed. She was not to be trifled with. We were impressed. Her husband had a more leisurely approach. The dog provided moral support.

By this time, still some 15 minutes before the start of the first round, we were joined by another elderly gentlemen with a youthful air about him. Why was abundantly clear. He had joined the ranks of fellow countrymen who were fans of the latest sport craze: Nordic walking. This activity involves high speed walking and propelling yourself forward with the help of two thin metal sticks. A company in Finland with too much aluminium in stock and sales plummeting came up with the concept that normal skiing rods could be relaunched as summer walking sticks. The marketing campaign was enhanced by the scientifically based facts that this new concept, if trained properly, (another quality based revenue generator), could do wonders with all the muscles in one's body. Germans, always open for new ideas in the well being and fitness worlds were quick to respond and sales shot up.

Despite his obvious health, we were subjected to the long and dramatic encounter of his 25 days spent in hospital so far this year. Not being outdone, the other spectator had to provide an even more life threatening and even more dramatic tale of his emergency triple by-pass operation. That topic now thoroughly exhausted, they then moved on to the culinary qualities of their respective wives whom they loved dearly despite the terror they imposed on them if they would dare to be late for lunch. But of course this was deemed impossible because each wife was the best cook known to humanity. An exchange of eating experiences soon followed probably leaving any trout listening hungrier than before.

At last the competition got under way. In the first round the fish almost leaped into the holding nets voluntarily. The catching was swift and easy and required almost no effort. Provided you were at the right part of the pond. The husband and wife combo were not one of the lucky ones, catching only a couple of normal sized trout. Later, in round two, when both gentlemen and limped and Nordic whisked away to enquire as to the state of what was in the cooking pots at home, one angler caught a carp which was so strong and putting up such a fight that it snapped the fishing rod. The game was over for the Angler the only compensation being that he might just have caught first prize.

As I walked away, three hours later, I felt a buzz of faint excitement about this competition. The leisurely pace was encouraged by the quiet excitement of trying to lure the fish and the hope that whatever bit the line, it would be the ticket to the first prize. This surprised me. As two two people sharing the bench joked: Says one sports person to an angler, “fishing, that isn't a sport. You don't even break into a sweat” Replies the other, “try fishing with out a permit, then you'll sweat”.

The Day after the Weekend before - part 2

2008-05-15T12:30:00.002+02:00

Sunday 4:30am, it was over. The peace and quiet was shattering, however by mid-morning, the traditionalists were out there, costumes and all. The weather had kept its word, it certainly was going to be an intensive experience.

Our first port of call was Celine's troupe from Seebach, a town just a few miles away. True to form, they did their performance to perfection and still being, in our opinion, the best group in the area. During a break we went to her and paid our compliments. It transpired that she had been with the group for about 4 years. The group come from all walks of life and we should, no must, it is expected of us, join. Every Friday, 8pm at the school. Practice and participate. Fascinating idea, given that my two left feet would instantly ruin their reputation – but why not try and learn it. The idea has legs.

The highlight is as always, the parade. What it isn't, is a celebration of local commercial organisations waving a large, glaringly loud charity buckets as I have observed in other places. What it is instead, is a maintaining of the area's identity and roots. The costumes, the dances, the traditions, passed on from generation to generation. The youth will knock themselves out to noise of DJ Chris, DJ Otto and whoever else, but then they will, maybe not wholly enthusiastically, turn out on Sunday and show off their heritage. It brings in the crowds and they came in droves. The town was packed solid and a fun loving and good humoured parade with 24 groups danced, walked, rode, carried, squealed, waved, smiled their way through the streets. For me, the best part is at the rear of the parade. One horse sensing what I was looking for proceeded to make a me present of its droppings right in front of my feet. I had to wait for the remaining 2/3 of the parade to be rewarded, but there they were, the two characters from the cleaning department, with shovel and cart. Their job was to clear the little gift the horse had made for me. The most appropriate implement for the job is a shovel. But where you have cobble stones, a shovel does not always work so you use your hands – the crowd squealed with delight.

The Day after the Weekend before - part 1

2008-05-15T12:24:00.002+02:00

It seemed strange to encounter that state resembling normality after what had become quite an intensive weekend, a pot pourri of sounds, sights, colours all competing for attention. Smiler, almost by tradition, would wrap up the day at around 4am and by 9am the first stalls were being prepared, extra seating being set up outside M Rebert's and by 11am the first clarinet and tuba sounds in the 1- 2-3 waltz tact with a little polka thrown in for good measure were to be heard not drifting but scuttling through the streets.

Friday night with DJ Otto was, as expected, long, loud and bothersome. He actually finished reasonably early at 3am. It was the second in the 4 consecutive nights of the sleeplessness cycle and suitably groggy the Saturday wore on. Saturdays are actually a mixture of normality and anticipation. By mid afternoon the little tourist train chugged around with a ohmpa, ohmpa, ohmpapa band chirping away inside. Somewhere, a cloned version of this was perched playing merrily away. But the focus was on stocking up. Smiler showed us how to do it on a professional basis as he and some of his family proceeded to empty their cars with volumes of food and beverages which were rapidly coming to their “to be consumed prematurely” date.

The highlight was in the evening, in the great tent where the local cover band “Star Light” were performing. We went around at 11pm and the place was heaving. Where just 24 hours before, some poor girl was trying to propel herself to stardom to a small crowed which more or less granted her fleeting attention, this Abba like group of musicians had the crowd listening, talking at quieter levels and practically queuing to get to the front and hit the dance floor. It was packed, younger and old waltzing away and enjoying themselves. They were playing the music what people like here. Easy listening, melodious and in harmony. It fits the countryside and the area, even if it might not be quite your taste. But this becomes irrelevant.

At the other end of town, the fun fair, boasting two new attractions, a Ferris wheel, 40m high and a gut wrenching piece of technology called Salto Mortale. It was a giant pendulum and the goal was to have those sitting in their seats to swing back and forth in an ever increasing radius until they would be perpendicular and suspended, upside down, for a good 15 seconds. The whole “experience” lasted a good 10 minutes, so great value for money, if this sort of excitement is up your street. I took a rain check.

DJ Chris, of whom I did not have the fondest of memories last year would provide the night cap over at Smiler's. It was not your quiet piano bar, leisurely drink, outside atmosphere on a warm balmy May evening. Still, I was also a little disappointed that, having feared the worst, he failed to deliver. While he still managed to play the knob of the bass speaker with supreme delicacy and deadly effectiveness, it had not actually improved in quality. Had I been Smiler, I would have complained.

Fin de Festival

2008-05-13T07:47:00.002+02:00

Fishing Competition

2008-05-12T13:44:00.002+02:00

Celine's Dancing Troupe 2

2008-05-11T23:46:00.003+02:00

Celine's Dancing Troupe

2008-05-11T23:29:00.004+02:00

Les Grands Fromages

2008-05-10T13:00:00.006+02:00

Mr Grumpy drew the short straw today, his stall being the furthest from the centre of the market which now was completely removed from the Place de La Republic which, naturellement, had to make place for the weekend festivities. However, the Saturday crowd at the Vignette did have better scenery because the olive seller had set up shop on the opposite pavement and therefore no view being blocked immediately in front of the pavement tables. Clearly, some pragmatic decision making with the current tenant in the Marie (right next to the Vignette) had been made between the two Saturdays. The down side was however that in the interests of bodily health, safety and well being, all being fairly modern concepts here, the road had been blocked off to traffic. For this reason the weekly instalment of “L'adventure entre l'auto et l'amour”, starring “jeune homme” and “femme fatale” would have to postponed to next Saturday. Probably the reason why half the tables were unoccupied. I doubt the Patron was too concerned in view of the cash till probably demanding overtime payments and a mini break by Tuesday morning.

Returning from the bank (Celine, right on cue, came hurtling out of her office wearing a short purple dress, brown high heeled shoes and.... a new hair style – the Meg Ryan shaggy dog look), I walked into the battle between the Gendarmes and Ali Baba or was it the opposite?

Ali Baba runs the town's premier gourmet Kebab eating house after the previous Italian “Oh My Sunshine” had been forced to close down in mysterious circumstances and shop remaining unoccupied for quite some time. He is of medium build, a somewhat stocky man, his nationality being reflected in the colours of his clothes – red ¾ length trousers and a white t-shirt and sandals. His short shaven hair, darker complexion gives him a meatier appearance, his glasses giving him a somewhat intellectual note.

When he first opened his eatery, Ali Baba displayed his affluent success by driving a Renault Vel Satis, an individualistic car, capturing an individualists imagination but not the general population's so production was halted. Strangely, Ali Baba seems to have exchanged his French wheels for German ones and moving up the car ladder at the same time. Looking at his number plate, his new car came from the Departement Cote D'or (21) with Dijon being the centre of administration. Dijon of the mustard fame. He didn't seem to have had the time or the opportunity until now to get it re-registered here in our Departement.

Gendarmes in France seem to work in groups of three. They drive around in mini vans, the Gendarme sitting in the passenger seat entrusted with the task of operating quite a large flat screen tablet PC steered by an over dimensioned joy stick which probably is linked to the nation's Gremlin database. The third one sits in the back, probably bored and out of work due to the absence of “paperwork”, the computer having been introduced to make things more efficient and so now joins the other two for the ride and potential excitement. Today he won the jack pot, struck gold, earned his lunch so to speak.

Crossing the Place outside our house, I saw Ali Baba swerve his Teutonic wheels into a vacant parking space, opposite his gourmet cave and in front of M. Rebert's cake shop, where they were already 6 deep, clamouring for his delicacies. The Gendarme's van stopped just at his side and they all climbed out and surrounded Ali Baba's car. Today's A-team was a mixed affair. Mme La Boss, a woman was assisted by two male colleagues, one being allowed to operate the space invaders gremlins program and the other in for the ride. The constellation might have been intimidating to the ordinary person however not so for Ali Baba. Mme La Boss had the physique to give her status and the due respect it naturally commanded. In profile, her legs were Y-shaped, starting small and narrow at the ankles but gradually expanding to a frighteningly wide diameter at her hips. These proportions were perfectly and impressively matched from behind and her torso was suitably voluminous enough to be comfortably well supported. Her head was large, roundish and conveyed a “I do not do humour” message. The word dainty did not immediately spring to mind and clearly, Mme Le Boss expected to be obeyed at all times and in all circumstances. The game boy operator and his side kick were mere match sticks. There was no real collegial warmth present in this little party.

Ali Baba was not having a good morning. He got out of his car more or less throwing Mme his wallet, expecting her to extract from it whatever paper she might need, thrust to her a fist full of other papers and continued to speak loudly about whatever injustice he was being accused of. The Saturday crowd at the Tabac next to M. Rebert's were in for a treat. In the local restaurant entertainment ratings war, the Tabac clearly had the advantage over the Vignette. Being a man of food and the priorities dictated by the stomach, Ali Baba, after having more or less flung everything at Mme La Boss, proceeded to cross the street with his large bag of onions. He was shouted at to come back but the loud response was that it was imperative that the onions find a less traumatic haven in the confines of his gourmet cave and this was more important than anything else. Meanwhile, one of the assistants in M. Rebert's shop, responsible for handing over mini mouse size portions of nibbles in return for large denomination bank notes was seen darting across the street into the cave, probably to pledge support and solidarity. She darted out again and immediately followed by Ali Baba, seeing an acquaintance let loose a salvo of comments and crossed the street. Mme Le Boss was not amused and made her sentiments clearly known. But Ali Baba, his culture not really accepting female authority, even if in uniform, wasn't playing ball. At this point, les jeunes match sticks joined in the discussion, but of course, their physique was not on the same scale as Mme La Boss, so their authority was not really much on par. But being men, they did get a response, which received a counter response and so the ping pong game continued.

By this time, Mme La Boss strode, no, marched to the van which had been moved some distance away and out of crashing range of cars being driven confused Wilderbeast and the local jeune hommes looking for the elusive femme fatals as their cars were being unfairly redirected down less scenic routes. The space invaders operator must have manipulated the console because Mme La Boss was holed up in the van for considerable time, or searching deeply in to the Gremelin's database with increasing frustration because Ali Baba seemed to have a clear record.

During this time, round after round was being ordered at the Tabac. Another friend of Ali Baba, sensing the injustice being applied entered the discussion with the Gendarmes. A Wilderbeast car with a number plate showing he was from well outside the tourist trap catchment area, but having learnt the logic of French traffic rules, began to apply them promptly at the point where they did not apply. The convoy of cars which had begun to bank up in Mad Alley, sending emission values sky high there, were probably thankful to be let into fresh air and proceeded to make a hasty escape. A woman from another Departement near Paris thought this to be a good idea and repeated the problem. However, her kindness was interrupted by one of the jeune matchsticks, sensing that he could communicate with this person (not the Wilderbeast previously), walked up to her car and explained to her the local intricacies of our traffic system.

Mme Le Boss was still holed up in the van, probably trying to reboot the space invaders console which must have voluntarily crashed because the Gremlin's database kept drawing blanks on Ali Baba. Just along from M Rebert's, an out of age femme fatale was having her hip line closely studied by her husband or partner, probably adjusting her trousers so that the tan line would be continuous. A young man in a wheel chair risked life and limb as he rolled across from Ali Baba's cave to M Rebert and back again.

By this time, sensing that it would be time to prepare for the lunch break, one of the jeune matchsticks walked across to the van. After a few minutes, Mme La Boss marched briskly back to Ali Baba, the jeune Matchstick trotting meekly behind her. Further words were exchanged, more paper handed back and forth until Ali Baba was allowed to attend to his whimpering and neglected onions and the A-Team, with Mme La Boss firmly at the helm, marched and trotted respectively back to the van and moved on.

No curtain calls were made as the show had to go on.

Midnight Stroll

2008-05-10T01:01:00.006+02:00

It was time to survey the scene. Smiler's establishment was heaving because DJ Otto had fairly mainstream music on his turntables. Earlier in the evening as I sat on the Place outside our house smoking a cigar there was a steady stream of tomorrow's tax payers shuttling between our end of town and the other end where the fun fair had set up shop for the next 10 days.

Behind Smiler's is the large Chapiteau which could easily fit 500 or more people. It was there that at about 1/3 capacity that Saori Jo http://aperock.free.fr/saorijo/ somehow didn't really come to shine.

Outside the tent in a bus shelter, the local Muslim faction had it figured out. Great acoustics, improvised jam session with two or three teenagers pounding out a great rhythm on 3 bongo drums. No crowd, but they didn't care, they were in for the fun of it.

DJ Otto had been relegated to the furthest corner in Smiler's beer garden, so he should be in direct ear shot of Granny Sway's flat.

Wandering through town I crossed the Place de La Republic. The stage which had been set up last weekend has now been joined by a tent and some stalls. Where the market will take place is a little bit of a mystery.

What the French do well are light shows and lighting up buildings. The other end of town was quiet and peaceful. Part of the houses were however being lit up by changing coloured lights.

The Pentecost slide show is up and even though the date is wrong (new camera), the pictures were taken this evening.

Let's Party!

2008-05-09T19:51:00.003+02:00

DJ Otto has spent most of the day setting up his stage and a steady flow of rock could be heard drifting through the warm air. Weather conditions are deemed perfect, see weather link on the right side of the page.
The slide show, also in the right hand column, will be enhanced with a special segment showing all the photos we can make. Sleep will not be of the highest order, so if you can't lick 'em, join them.

Below, the official program for Friday and Saturday.

Clicking on the picture should enlarge it so that the text can be read.

Spread the word folks, we're on the world map for a few days.

Gilbert

2008-05-06T22:11:00.003+02:00

Today there was the necessity of a small celebration so we strolled across the road to Smiler's establishment. We chose a table outside and soon Katja was there asking if we wanted to eat. We declined and ordered what turned out to be a passable Demi Rose served in two small but stemmed juice glasses.

Surveying the scene of the upcoming festivities we were interrupted by the arrival of Gilbert.

Gilbert is one of those characters who simply cannot remain unnoticed. We have often observed him making the rounds. His humbleness is carried with the greatest amount of dignity imaginable and he simply captures my imagination. I do not know him, what he did, what he does and I am not sure if the picture I paint of him would survive reality. I almost want to retain the illusion but I am also curious to one day speak to him and find out who he really is.

He does remind me of an airport cleaner I once observed. Somebody must have impressed on him that his job was the single most important one in the whole airport and it was with this pride that he emptied the bins in the airport terminal. The pride and dignity I saw in this cleaner is similar to what I see in Gilbert.

Gilbert is always, well, almost impeccably attired. On Sundays he sports his Sunday best, in summer a beige suit, in winter a navy blue suit and always a crisp white shirt and matching tie. During the week he is dressed more casually but it has a smart touch about it. Gilbert does not do casual by nature. He does not walk anywhere, he almost glides, like royalty in exile, carrying his slender, almost skinny frame slowly but surely to his destination. His somewhat wrinkled face is oval shaped, medium length grey hair and a moustache lends his eyes a quizzical look of slight contemptuous amusement. He carries a small mens handbag and often smokes a cigarette en-route to his destination.

He glided in and passed our table, barely nodding to us, murmuring a bonjour in what could be construed as the irritating fashion of an important person greeting someone and fleetingly recognising him without really being able to place him in the scheme of things. We returned the courtesy in the appropriate manner deemed fit for mere mortals such as we are, happy that we were at least, acknowledged.

Having done his polite bit, he moved on to the only table that stood out. It was a large wooden garden table with six large, sturdy and well cushioned wooden garden chairs. As if he personally owned one chair, he proceeded to lower himself into it and take up residence in it and which now seemed to have transformed into a throne. Gilbert does not need to order. His drink, a pastis, arrives automatically, without haste but also without undue delay. He regally and politely thanks Katja and turns his attention to the newspaper in front of him, as if he had ordered it as part of the evening ritual.

In slow and deliberately precise movements he turns the pages eyes wandering from article to article. He does not seem to read, instead he studies with casual and bored briskness, soaking in the news and observations. You can almost see how he stores the facts and gossip and how these translate into comments in conversational topics with others who are privileged enough to engage in some form of discourse with him.

Having finished what he might deem as news fit to be read, he calmly and deliberately folded the newspaper. He leaned back, opening his handbag and extracting a small pouch containing cigarettes. He lights one, leans back at an angle, head held high, legs crossed, inhales and slowly blows out the smoke. Here sits a man at ease with himself and his surroundings. He does not want much but it must be just right. He oozes the need for a balanced perfection, everything has its place, its time. It is then that he opens a pocket and extracts from it a watch on a chain. He flips open the lid to ascertain whether he has outstayed his time allocated for Smiler's bar. Recognizing that he has a few minutes left, he adopts his accustomed posture and proceeds to finish the cigarette.

He looks out, contemplating at what I don't know. Then, as the cigarette is finished and perfectly extinguished in the ashtray, he arises and briefly nodding to us, proceeds to walk to the street, legs slightly o-shaped. He turns the corner and is gone. The performance has been, once again, simply perfect.