…AKA there’s no time like the past….
Spotted this week in Paris, in the English-language publication “FUSAC”:
Wanted: Someone to go back in time with me. This is not a joke. Write to 35483@fusac.org. You’ll get paid after we get back. Must bring your own weapons. Safety not guaranteed.
I have done this only once before.
So, what are you waiting for?
AKA Leffe-Lovers’ Left Bank Lunacy
Bookpacking had the good fortune to find ourselves at a loose end in Paris this Monday evening with a partner in crime; having serendipitously bumped into a fellow vagabond, from the same part of the globe as ourselves, that we see every year or so in France through work. After a suitably literary event at Shakespeare & Co, we hit the bars of Rue Descartes where the lure of Leffe at only €4 per pint was to prove our undoing. We made our way unceremoniously up Rue Mouffetard to savour the Kwak in The Mayflower, as the full force of Belgian brewing was unleashed on our unsuspecting British bodies.
We were following in the footsteps of some of the biggest names in western literature; such as Papa Hemingway himself. The big man was scathing of F Scott Fitzgerald’s lack of drinking prowess, shamelessly shaming him in his famous Lost Generation memoirs A Moveable Feast. Despite writing the classic ‘Gatsby’, for anyone who’s done a bit of digging, Fitzgerald is publicly pilloried for eternity – thanks to the jugular-targeting judgments found in his competitive ‘friend’s’ diary. We can only be glad that the sole epistolary witness to Monday’s over-hydration is a little more discreet.
The Paris landmark Hotel de Ville is the scene of the well known Robert D’Oisneau picture Le Baiser de l’Hotel de Ville. But there wasn’t much love on display today as students and lecturers of the 8th arrondissement started their non-stop walking protest.
La Ronde Infinie des Obstines (literally the “unceasing circling of the stubborn”) takes its inspiration from the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo in Argentina, who protested the disappearance of their children under the Junta. The protesters intend to walk – night and day – in circles before this piece of establishment real estate. Until when, we asked? “Until we get what we want,” said a bearded middle-aged man holding a sign.
What they want is an end to the reforms of the education system initiated by unpopular President Sarkozy. French universities already suffer from large class sizes, and Sarkozy’s attempt to increase teaching hours whilst allegedly cutting back on research is the last straw for some.
Striking and protesting are intrinsic parts of the French psyche, ever since the events of 1789, and Hotel de Ville is emblazoned with the revolution’s enduring motto Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité. Napoleon made his name putting down a Parisian revolt and the barricade-loving Communards were one of the reasons why Baron von Haussman (under Napoleon III’s patronage, nephew of the original Bonaparte) built such wide boulevards in the 1850s.
A few days earlier a national strike had been called, though in these times of job insecurity, some did not answer the call. The Palace of Versailles closed, RER double-decker suburban trains were down to 1 in 3 on some lines, but the Metro ran almost normally.
But the nation is unhappy, and in two successive visits Bookpacking has come across demonstrations in the education sector. The passing of the spirit of ‘68 is sometimes lamented, but if the recession continues to worsen, those cobbles – which make such excellent ammunition – could be dug up once again. The day before the strike, the street outside the Sorbonne was lined with CRS (paramilitary riot squad) vehicles and the entrance guarded by police in body armour.
For now, the university staff and pupils of Saint-Denis are happy to make their point peacefully. Like planes stacked over Heathrow they circle, waiting for the right conditions to descend. Will it be a happy landing, or will they run out of fuel first?
(see their website for a video: La Ronde Infinie des Obstines)
Leaving the high street and stepping into a great period piece pub like the Palace Bar, there’s a sense of time stood still. Patrick Kavanagh, Brendan Beehan and Flann O’Brien must have enjoyed the same sensation when they nursed their pints among the hacks in Fleet Street.
The tide of conversation ebbs and flows; groups come and go. Movement, yet rest. A laugh in one corner, a dispute in another. It’s all here: lovers; friends; colleagues; strangers; tolerated drunks. There’s stilted conversation with a visiting boss and the fizzy flirtation of the newly courting.
A television shows Man Utd v Inter Milan with the volume set low, while a fan revolves slowly far above, like a drone surveilling the friendly mob. Wars happen elsewhere and economic woes become abstract; any relationship problems recede as rounds arrive. The foetal familiarity of a welcoming pub keeps a bad world at bay; the only clue to any external environment is the TV’s gentle roar of a football crowd.
Old leather seats are ranged against the back walls, like a doctor’s surgery. A surprising amount of light makes its way to the back, silhouetting ornaments on the semi-partition: a horse and jockey are suspended over a hedge. The next obstacle for this frozen pair would be a hurling stick: not cod, for once.
Contrasting conversations swirl into one generic river of noise that lulls me into a pleasant lassitude. Then a raucous laugh cuts through the bar, jarring me wide awake – the crack of the craic. A gesticulating man on a mobile stands half-hidden by the partition’s opaque glass. His right side casts a large shadow on it, creating a bizarre mismatch with his exposed life-sized left.
Streams of chatter come from the islands of conversation spread across the lounge, pooling around me in a rich reservoir of dialogue. Two professors discuss the merits of a certain girl: presumably a pretty protégé. Fighting over teaching rights, perhaps? A serious tourist couple map out their mini-break over Lonely Planet. Endless variations of the same themes: X had a baby, Y passed away, Z’s stressed at work.
All the planet’s a stage, but tonight I’m an observer not a player. Alone in a crowd, the vignettes keep flowing, as I become one with the walls and fade into the Palace’s furniture.
But you can judge a potential lover by their choice of reading, according to tonight’s whimsical lurv article in the London Paper. Using years of research by leading sociologists – or maybe just having a bit of fun drafting a press release – Penguin’s dating site has come up with a few general book genres and some ideas about the sort of people you’d find reading them.
Wait, did we just say Penguin’s dating site? Brand extension has a lot to answer for, Mr Branson. Or does it; because for flirting booklovers the most exciting flashes of electricity can come when we find an interesting other who loves the same literature as us.
If an art gallery is supposedly a great place to meet potential partners (choose your exhibition very carefully we say), then why shouldn’t a mutual appreciation of the same piece of print be the spark that spurs an epic love story?
Savvy vagabonds have been using the Nationwide Building Society’s transaction charge-free services for years now. But even this trusty institution is tightening its belt in these lean times. However, as this article points out, it’s only a half-notch; it still remains a good bet if you want to withdraw your wedge abroad. Check it out to see if you’re paying through the nose and being hit with a hefty hike for what is essentially a couple of computers talking to each other.
TNT Magazine had its latest travel show this weekend and a high calibre of guest speaker contributed to a full house. Bookpacking was unable to get in to hear Paul Kilduff telling the tall tales behind Ruinair - How to be treated like Sh*** in 15 Different Countries and Still Quite Like It – a rant-turned-book, as Times Online called it.
After kicking our heels in a coffee bar for an hour, we eventually got in and heard Mitch from Eastern Trekker extolling the delights of Eastern Europe. Having just returned ourselves, we can confirm that it’s a fascinating region and well worth a visit. Credit to Mitch, he talked about the region with a real passion and love, but he didn’t push his own product once.
But they saved the best till last. A lot of the younger crowd had gone home, but there was still a good turnout to hear modern day tales of derring-do from Lonely Planet author Frances Linzee Gordon. From Ethiopian war zones, to aborted helicopter rescues and covert exploration of Saudi Arabia in disguise – this young lady has already lived quite a life.
Her inspirational talk about going off the beaten track touched on travel principles that aren’t a million miles away from the ones we listed here last week, but this woman is hard core. Sometimes you can feel that travelling is a self-indulgent frippery for the decadent dilettante; but on the road Frances has clearly gained a lot of sociological and psychological insights into the people and places she’s explored/logged/photographed. When she checks the FCO website prior to her trips, she probably knows more than the people writing the advice.
With a useful mixture of common sense, a veteran’s insight and some life-coaching pep, it wasn’t hard to see why she’s on the LP roll of travelwriting honour. We like it when the good people give of themselves for free, and Bookpacking will definitely be incorporating her tips into our next travel plan.
Are some countries better than others? Or are some countries merely further along the path of linear development? What is development? Is it the rule of law, a welfare state? Is it a low tolerance of corruption?
Alternatively, is it manners? Is it the observance of queues, or are these cultural red herrings distracting us from the real meat of the matter? Has relativism robbed us of the right to judge?
Nazi Eugenicism was an elaborate way of using science to justify the categorisation, denigration and dehumanisation of their enemies; so we must be careful not to allow a thin veneer of unreasonable reasoning to disguise innate animal prejudice and distrust of the different.
But taken to its extreme, a refusal to judge leaves us morally paralysed. Female circumcision is a ‘cultural’ difference; ethnic cleansing becomes just the latest swing of history’s pendulum – state A’s response to the last atrocity of state B. 90 years ago the Weimar Republic was born, but its destruction is attributed to its feeble plutocracy; the church was too broad, the tent too big, and it was easily pulled down from the inside.
The prompt for this philosophical meander was this post on the Kiev Post, which generated pages and pages of comment. “Self-hating” is a term US right-wingers love to throw at domestic critics of the government. Do these protestors, for reasons of personal psychology, see only the bad? Or are they justified making these criticisms from such position of inside knowledge? Labelling someone ‘anti-patriotic’ is a tried and trusted shotgun scatter of mud that sticks. It ignores subtleties or detail to take out anything in its path, regardless of who’s right.
‘Self-hating’ is one way of pulling the rug from under this writer, without considering the validity of anything she’s said. But we can also ask ourselves, what function does this article serve? Especially when it won’t be read by the people who supposedly need to change their behaviour.
The debate echoes that on race. And it’s hard one, because science and convention demand that if you discover something fundamentally different about a particular strain of society, you publish it. Yet, even if others are different, is it always helpful to point this out? In the same way we wouldn’t dream of staring at a handicapped person, labeling a whole race or country is a dangerous game. Give a dog a bad name…
Neutrality is easy to explain, harder to practice. Does relativism offer answers, or just a little extra leeway?
