Toy boat, toy boat, toy boat

It's pathetic. I'm hopelessly addicted to both YouTube and Wikipedia and everytime I wonder about something, I have to look it up on Wikipedia first, and then see if there are any YouTube videos about it. If I don't resort to YouTube, it's only because the Wikipedia search has led to me click on links and read about related topics until dawn. Last night I had a dream about Ina Garten, who is the host of the Barefoot Contessa, a cooking show in the Food Network. She was the 'page of the day' on Wikipedia yesterday. So last night I dreamt that I met her at a wealthy friends' house and that she was cooking dinner for the whole family (in France!?). I told her I love her show (which I've seen about twice) and she asked me where I was from and what time the show came on in Atlanta. I lied and said about 3:30 pm or so. Then I told her that I "love to just turn it on and watch you add shallots to a salad." Right after I said that, I realized that shallots do not go in salads and felt very stupid about having made a culinary blunder like that. Soups would have been ok, but salads, no way. Maybe my dream director thought the alliteration was fitting, but I remember being embarassed for the rest of the dream. Shallots in salads - what was I thinking? Anyway, I'm happy to report that the Ina Garten in my dream was very sweet and gracious. She was cooking dinner for my dream friends even though she is probably busy with a cooking show, cookbooks, and two popular restaurants. Yesterday I got on Wikipedia to look up "Inside Man," a thriller directed by Spike Lee of all people, and that led to reading all about Spike Lee, Denzel Washington, and Jodie Foster, Malcolm X, the Tuskegee Syphillis Study, congenital syphillis, the etymology of the word, the debate on its origin, as well as an extensive list of famous people who may have had syphillis. Fascinating, but a hell of a tangent. Among those who are suspected of having syphillis are:

Ivan the Terrible, Queen Elizabeth, Mozart, Charles Darwin, Robert Schumann, Charles-Pierre Baudelaire, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Gustave Flaubert, Tolstoy, Stalin, Hitler, Howard Hughes, and that is just the cream of the crop.

Incidentally, the film Barefoot Contessa is currently playing at the VO movie theater in Dijon, VO being French for voix original, non-dubbed version.

Cast of characters

I have committed to writing this blog. It is an opportunity to practice writing and let my friends know what is going at the same time. So I might as well introduce the characters that enliven the tragicomedy that is my life in France.

1. Moi - that's me. A Russian immigrant to the US at the tender age of 12, I apparently love culture shock. This is my second time in France, I was a student at a French University a year and a half ago. A glutton for punishment and high-quality food, I love life in Europe. It's slower and less clingy. I'm not one of the idle rich, which somewhat deflates my erstwhile enthusiasm. I love the Fiery Furnaces, picked herring and black bread, whole wheat spaghetti, pistachio flavored everything, fake crabmeat, Cantonese food, Manhattan, the stuff I learned in college, being left alone, B., and my mom. I have a nostalgia tumor lodged somewhere inside my mind, so I am often under its spell. Currently I am teaching high school students at "the most prestigious high school" of the city, mon oeil.

2. B. - the boyfriend. Part court-jester, 5-year old boy, professional chef, and medieval minstrel, B. is someone to whom being charming comes naturally and effortlessly. I envy him that. He loves to cook stirfrys, make his own pasta, play guitar, play capoeira, speak portuguese, chase me around the apartment, and the Phillip Glass of France, Yann Tiersen. I assume he also loves his family, although they're a handful. He is also a teacher at a "sporty" school, where in between classes students entertain themselves with such activities as handball, wrestling, swimming, and what can only be described as running around a forest with a map - which is also sport.

3. the assistants - there are many in this city. Some we know are I. - a British young lady from somewhere like Birmigham or Nottingham. She's nice and defiantly vegan, which I respect but would not attempt in France. She loathes twinkling Christmas lights and likes smoking chicha or nargile or what we call hookah. J. - who teaches English in the middle school of my school is also nice and Northern Irish. She has red hair. M. - is from New Zealand and she pronounces 7 like siiii-van. That astounds me. All others are a hodge-podge of young able-bodied foreigners from exotic locales such as Spain, Argentina, India, England, Ireland, California, and lots are from Kentucky. I don't know why.

4. My friends - they are wonderful and sadly spread all over the place. Some live in Minneapolis, Tucson, Atlanta, Cleveland, Puerto Rico, NYC, and even Russia. One of my bestest friends has recently went through a personal tradegy and I think about giving him hugs every day and cannot wait till he comes to visit, because I believe if anyone is suited to appreciate France in a unique way, it is him.

5. My parents - an odd couple worthy of a sitcom if it was entitled something like "Angry Domineering Russian Bear Dad and Quirky Emotional Loving Mom."

6. The apartment - lavishly spacious by Manhattan standards, it is nice and cozy by regular standards. It's on the fourth floor to us, and on the third floor to French people of a building that is technically older than the Constitution of the United States, and among its residents once lived a man who discovered the uses of iodine. There's a plaque. Sweet. Our place is up high and our bedroom is nothing but an attic with criss-cross beams providing many opportunities for pure slapstick and also a nice view of rooftops. We have a moonlight. Our stove consists of two gas hotplates wired into the kitchen counter, which is slanted but has a little border on the end which allows all the little crummies stay and make the counter their home. I consistently have to arm myself with a towel and go on a (what the household newspapers have called ) roaring rampage of revenge against the goddamn crummies. We don't have a view of the street and we don't know our neighbors, except for the old lady whose window looks into our living room who has a knack for opening her curtains at wholly inappropriate moments or times of the day.

7. My gym - I have recently joined a French gym. It has a name of a fictional South American country and it is the only gym I've ever been to where the patrons greet each other as they walk into the changing room or an exercise room. The ladies who frequent it seem to enjoy having makeup clog every single one of their pores as they sweat, while the men seem to like wearing the tightest workout pants possible, perhaps as a welcoming gesture to me, the newest member. Nevertheless, it's fun and they play old French, Canadian, and American music videos on a big-screen TV in the cardio room AND you can watch the trains go by.

8. the teachers at my school - they are absolutely insane. period.

9. the students at my school - the poor things are exhausted and overworked, which, strangely, does not stop them from being completely retarded 15 year-olds sometimes. They have classes from 8 am until 6 pm. I can't imagine what that is like.

10. The town - it's cute, not too big, not too small, very bourgeois, and beautiful. And there's great shopping.

P.S. Today one of my students asked me where in Manhattan would he be able to buy a pimp hat. I thought I heard him wrong. Later on, I could not get this image from my mind.

Reign of Terror à la Russe?

The death of Alexander Litvinenko ten days ago from radioactive polonium poisoning left me somewhat reeling at the far-reaching cruelty of the Russian government toward dissidents. Litvinenko was sure that it was the Russian government, more specifically former FSB agents that he accused as a dissident after an extensive military and intelligence service.
Litvinenko's revelations about FSB's participation in illegal assasination attempts as well as bombings of Russian homes as a scare tactic, was followed by his poisoning. Incredibly creepy - one day you're voicing your opinion and calling media attention to the injustices in your home country, the next day you go out for sushi with an Italian professor, and thirty days later you're dead. The Italian professor as well as Litvinenko's wife have also tested positive for polonium, although the doses they recieved are not life-threatening, yet possibly damaging as well. Litvinenko publicly accused the Russian government as being behind his affliction — which resulted in a media uproar in the UK and rest of Europe, and very public denial on the part of Putin's chronies. According to Wikipedia, "British authorities are investigating his death and it was reported on December 1 that scientists at the UK Atomic Weapons Establishment had traced the source of the polonium to a nuclear power plant in Russia." Damn. That's really fucking scary. After the death of Anna Politkovskaya, a journalist well-known for her opposition to Putin who was shot while coming out of her elevator, dissent or oposition to Putin's regime is a risk. Now that Alexander Litvinenko is dead, his widow and the Italian he met with could also be poisoned, who the hell could be next. There are rumors that Yegor Gaidar, a former Deputy Prime Minister has been poisoned while on a visit to Ireland, and that there may be others that are currently targeted by the Russian Secret Service. Not only is it frightening, it is also happening on such a scale that suggests that Putin's government is not afraid of an international scandal or uproar. The British police are currently investigating Litvinenko's death, but although the Russian police have stated that they are conducting an investigation as well, they seem to be going at it somewhat slowly and unwillingly. Anyway, it all just kind of seems incredible to me and makes me more distrustful of the idea that Russia is now a reformed, Western country. Its history is just too violent and opressive to settle down so smoothly. The regime is establishing itself as more and more as frighteningly tyrannical and those that have a problem with the war in Chechnya or Putin's cronies are forced to shut up - one way or another.

Je veux faire du shopping

I really really really want to go shopping. We've recently gotten paid, and although it's not that much money, it felt like freaking Christmas. Yesterday we went to Carrefour, the French equivalent to a Wal-Mart, but with an extensive cheese isle and a really good deli, fishmonger, and wine section. We bought as much stuff as we could carry, forgetting the esentials like any kind of protein or mineral water. We barely made it home with all our bags after having to take the bus, walk for 20 minutes, and be home on time for the electrician. Whew. Then, I went to get my hair cut at the coiffeur next door - it took an hour of waiting and 10 minutes of washing, cutting, and styling. I didn't mind really, cause I'm trying to grow my hair out, so I just needed it thinned, naturally it grows out all thick and weird. Now it looks like a combo of Jean Seaberg, young Mia Farrow, and Mireille Mathieu - not that classy, but boy-cut chic.
But back to shopping, I made a silly wish list for things that I want, and since it's my birthday and New Year's (fuck Christmas), I may just have to get this stuff:

1. kohl eyeliner (or liquid eyeliner)
2. black eyeshadow (I'm becoming a magician's assistant)
3. perfume (i love Kenzo, but also Alien, or the new Guerlain with the terrible title of Insolence - scratch that, I could never wear anything called Insolence)
4. a cardigan - a cute one please
5. those really faded grey jeans - I still want some though
6. fingerless gloves
7. black scarf - I may have to knit that
8. nice going out shoes that are comfy (see photo) - that might take the bulk of my shopping budget, but Andre or Beryl might be where I'd look.
9. long short sleeve t-shirt to wear under sweaters, I'm thinking metallic grey and maybe another one in pink or red.
10. headband - the one I got a month ago bent and now looks really strange, like I have a misshapen head, which I do not.
11. Fraiser season 6 or 7. I'm dying for this one. I just might have to buy it and have it shipped to a friend who then will bring it overseas.

All I can say is watch out H&M, I'm a-coming.

Oh and I've had to move from the old blog site because the old title was too much of a literary reference for me to handle. Seriously, who am I kidding? Salinger? So, now there's only one reference and it's a minor poetic one at that. Granted I feel a strong affiliation with the author, but it's one of the whishful thinking kind, a silent un-realistic admiration, and an affinity for all things intricate, romantic, and a bit out of touch.

I'm switching

I've decided to switch my blog, originally entitled Raise High the Roofbeam to this one, because I prefer it. There you are.