We’ve definitely been tricked

There’s a commercial that was aired frequently during the World Series by some mobile phone company where a family uses some app that shows where the best treats are. The family talks about avoiding a house that didn’t give treats they like, and their eyes light up when they learn what houses are giving whole candy bars.

Greed. Instead of marveling at the fact that we have this awesome tradition where we knock on strangers’ doors and they give out free candy, they bitch about what one house is giving out. Maybe those people are struggling financially and can’t afford to give out whole candy bars, or perhaps they just don’t feel the need to compete for most popular candy-giver. Whatever the case, to bitch about the gift that a stranger has given you is nothing short of greed.

Of course, a little disappointment in your some of your treats is to be expected. As a kid I remember hating those peanut butter toffee things and wondered who on earth would eat them. Then there was the house that passed out apples from the tree in their backyard that had wormholes in them. But generally you didn’t bitch about free candy given to you by strangers. Trick or treat was a community event; we knew a lot of the neighbors and we were generally grateful for all of these gifts (unless we ate too much and got a stomach ache.)

Lest you think this is about “kids these days,” it isn’t. It’s about parents. It’s about society. It’s a theme we see repeatedly in our day-to-day activities: gimme gimme gimme. And how can we not expect these results when for the last fifty years we’ve been bombarded with marketing, which is the systematic art of deception. First it was “buy because you need this” then it was “buy because this makes your life easier” then it was “buy because you want this” then it was “buy because others will judge you for not having this.” Now it’s “buy just to buy.” What I’m noticing is a complete disconnect from other human beings in far too many people, and it crosses cultures and borders. But it started here in America. Screw whoever is hurt in the process of me getting my products! My cell phone causes people to be murdered over conflict minerals in Africa? So what! Slaves made my clothes? So what! Hundreds of thousands of people die every year in wars for oil so I can drive to the mall to buy, buy, buy? So what! It doesn’t affect me Me ME!

Bitching about greedy trick-or-treaters may seem trivial, but it’s these little things that add up. It’s the YouTube videos of greedy children rejecting Christmas presents they don’t like. It’s the woman who rips the Elmo doll out of another woman’s hand on Black Friday. It’s the parents who spend thousands of dollars on their children’s birthday parties to outdo the other parents. It’s the people who vote no on school levies because they don’t have children in the school district that needs the funding. It’s bitching about taxes because god forbid you contribute anything to America.

Greed. The ancient Greek philosopher Plato wrote his most famous work, The Republic, at a time when Greek democracy was in a freefall. His observations were that society had become greedy and individualistic and it was ripping apart Greek civilization. It led to constant wars and eventually the society collapsed. We’ve seen countless examples of this same theme throughout history, and we’re seeing it now in the United States.

We’re about to enter yet another Christmas season, the time when Greed is on full display and marketing whores drink from the cup of abominations. I’ve come to loathe this time of year and reject materialism outright. These days, if you give me an apple with a wormhole in it, I’ll cut it up, ask you if you want some, and thank you for the gift. To those who have been tricked into avarice, how about counting your blessings instead of bitching about not getting a whole candy bar?

The King is dead! But you may be able to find him in the Q’s. Or the L's. Who knows?

My laptop is dead.

You don’t know how much you depend on your laptop until it dies. I called a tech guy and he couldn’t get it to wake up from sleep mode even after I bought a new battery for it. Here comes the nighttime. Right now I’m borrowing one from Chris’s brother until I can get a new one, but you know, my stuff just isn’t there.

Case in point: Reflektor.

Reflektor is the new Arcade Fire album that came out today. Normally, I’d just download it from iTunes and be done with it, but I no longer have access to iTunes thanks to cheap parts from China, at least that’s what I’m going to blame it on since someone must be responsible for my woes! Still, I wanted the album. So I did what we did back in the nineties – I sought what we used to call a “compact disc.”

Back in the nineties you had these things called “record stores” where you went to buy round or square objects that held recorded music data on them. They used to be big, black, and plastic and you called them “vinyl.” Then they were little strips of magnetic material contained in square plastic containers. Next they were smaller discs; these are to what I referred earlier. I had a lot of these things called “compact discs” but over time found the convenience of MP3s too much to resist. Thus, I am part of the problem. I helped close the record stores.

The thing is, I loved record stores. I loved flipping through the discs looking for buried sonic treasures, loved to look at the covers and the funny names of bands and the displays of what we called “new releases,” which came out on Tuesdays in the United States and Mondays in the United Kingdom. I’d dig through the bargain bins to pick up older music for a few bucks, and I rarely left without a handful of new discs. Even when I was downloading music, I still visited the stores. It was a payday ritual – I’d reward myself for getting through another two weeks of work with some new music.

But the stores disappeared. Sure, people blame online music, but that’s only part of the explanation. The music stores started to disappear before MP3s existed, when big box stores started selling CDs for lower prices. Walmart began to hoard a larger share of the market until a quarter of all CD sales came from its stores. Like in so other many industries, Walmart succeeded in shutting down the independent guys. They weren’t the only ones – chains like Best Buy and Borders are also guilty.

Which is why I feel so dirty about what I did today. No record stores stand in my neighborhood. Melody Records in Dupont Circle, where I had purchased countless CDs, no longer exists. But I wanted that record. There are only a handful of bands these days that I make an effort to purchase on the day of release – U2, The National, and Arcade Fire are pretty much it. So I went to Target.

I hate the box stores, but what can you do when the indie stores have dried up? I go to Target because it’s a block from my house and there isn’t anything else – aside from CVS – where you can go to purchase toiletries and household goods. The minimarts in the neighborhood were all pushed out by “development.” There’s an indie pharmacy but you can’t just go there to pick up some contact solution; it’s predominantly for medicines. I support the small businesses if I can – I am a frequent customer at the indie coffee shop instead of the chains, and well, what can I say about Lou’s except it’s practically our living room – but Target is unavoidable.

The Columbia Heights Target is a frustrating experience. A certain demographic that shops there seems to have no respect for it as a place of business, as it’s often trashed. In addition, the shelves are frequently empty of the products you want and full of junk you don’t need. The prices are pretty ridiculous, too – Target advertises that you’re getting your products “for less,” but not at this place. Perhaps that would be tolerable if the prices of things weren’t missing so much and you get up to the register (after waiting forever) to find out what you’re buying is several dollars more than what you logically expected. What’s more, the employees don’t give a shit and let you know it. Try to get one of them to help you when they’re talking to each other – you wonder how they don’t get eye strain from rolling them so hard.

I went to the meager section where they sell products they call “music.” You aren’t going to find much that isn’t pop garbage. A whole shelf full of Katy Perry and Justin Bieber and that type of stuff was labeled “New Releases.” (They did have one copy of the Paul McCartney album, so apparently someone in the supply chain knows something about music.) I moved some of the Katy Perrys aside and tried to find Reflektor, but it wasn’t in the new release section, so I went to the “rock” section, which wasn’t even in alphabetical order. In fact, it was in no order at all. I tried to dig around to see if there were any copies of Reflektor there, but I didn’t see any. I went to the section labeled “pop” and briefly considered suicide since I don’t want to live in a world where people listen to the stuff I found there.

Target didn’t have Reflektor, the new album by the band who won “Album of the Year” at the Grammies for its last album despite being on an independent record label, a band so big that it got its own post-Saturday Night Live special, a rarity that only the biggest worldwide acts like U2 get. And I wondered, is the CD really so dead that Target doesn’t carry this record, or is it just that the employees in this particular store are so bad that they didn’t put it on the shelves?

That’s when I went to Best Buy. They had more CDs, but I found it strange to navigate the shelves looking for one. Several copies of Reflektor were on the new release shelf, so I grabbed one and came home to listen to it. I feel like I’ve violated my principles. Yet, what choice did I have if I want to support this indie band? Best Buy helped kill the record stores. Best Buy won.

If we had blogs in 1998, mine would have been poorly written

April in Paris. What more do I need to say?

As always, spelling, grammatical, factual, and emotional errors have been preserved from the original journal. Today’s comments are in red.

le 6 Avril 1998

Leaving Paris. I glance back for one last look at the city’s symbol, the Tour. The spirit has attacked my existence, challenging me to conquer it. Alas, I have no control, and have only to look toward the next venture to the city. Insanity was lost upon arrival; insanity returns upon departure. Good lord. I’m glad I’ve since learned how to write.

Friday, the debate about whether to go or not found the yes side a winner. Despite no guarenteed accommodation, we set out any way. Upon arrival, we sought a tourist office for booking, but found nothing. A stop in a hostel found us marching to another hotel, which proved to be successful. A venture to the Champs Elysées for Burger King, however, was not, as Burger King exists no longer. Yay! McDonald’s won. Boo! At least we got to see the Tour at night. We sat up till 2:30am. Yanni was on the telé, and we actually watched. We got a late start in the morning, about noon, & headed over to the Latin Quartier for eating, after I semi complained because we always go to the same places in Paris – the touristy ones. I don’t understand why, if Paris is Matt’s favorite city, why he won’t explore it. So we went to the Latin Quartier and passed by a Jean Louis David. Andrea got her haircut for $30 there. It looks awesome. After that little adventure, we found a café and ate good panini, croissants, et great chocolat chaud. Then we wandered. Through the rain. In April. In Paris. What more could you want from life?

I avoided using an umbrella, not just because Andrea kept hitting me in the head, but because the rain felt awesome. No words can describe April in Paris. No words I knew at the time, anyway. Apparently the only adjectives I knew then were incredible, awesome, and amazing. There I was, in this fabulous outdoor museum flavored with all of the spices of history, and I can’t find words to describe April in Paris? I mean, here is a city that smells of fresh bread every morning, that houses many of the greatest works of art ever conjured up from the souls of man, that has practically become synonymous with romance, and I can’t find any words. Geesh. We walked through Luxembourg Gardens, just wandered until we sat for awhile until wandering past the Arc down champs elysées, where we bought tickets for L’homme avec le mask de fer, version orignale. The Man with the Iron Mask. Was that Leonardo DeCaprio? While waiting, we ate at Haagen Daas, then saw the movie, which was good, except the end, which said Louis XIV was the greatest French king. It was quite embarrassing, really. French people in the theater actually laughed when that statement was made. Metro returned us to place de Republique, where Andrea prostituted herself before we went to McDonald’s. (A guy on the street offered her a credit card for some reason.) Oh, I forgot about Perry/Paris, the flour filled balloon. Enough said. No, not enough said, because I have no idea what this was. Anyway, we got back after 1:30am and crashed. [UGLY FRENCH GUY STARTING AT ME DESPITE BEING A METRE AWAY]

Got up late again this morning. Went back to the Latin Quartier against the wishes of Matt. Our café was closed but we found the Grand Bistrot with menus for 42 francs. Incredible food. Salade, turkey with Normandy sauce et frites, desert. A whole desert. Must have been dry. Fairly cheap. We hadn’t realized how close we were to Notre Dame and its scaffolded front. Every time I see it, it gets more incredible. Walked to Musée D’orsay. Line was too long. Listened to a violinist busking. It was awesome just sitting there, listening. It started pouring. I was wandering. We met back together after an hour and headed over to Gare de l’est but waited an hour to avoid the supplement on the earlier train. And here I sit. This was the best weekend of the entire semester.

There's something enchanting about Paris that you don't find in other places, but I can't put my finger on it. It's like you go in there with certain expectations, and you expect those expectations to be unattainable as expectations usually are, but it's as good as advertised every time. I've had similar feelings about New York. Sometimes you find yourself awed at the fact that you're there, as if it were a fantasyland that had come to life. I love Paris in a different way than I love most places, but I would say it is similar to how I feel about New York. I suppose you could say that there are certain places on this planet where there are things "happening," where people write books and paint masterpieces and somehow manage to capture what this thing is we call "soul." And I think the reason that Paris and New York are different from other places of the arts, such as Florence, is that they are the cultural and economic centers of their respective countries, whereas a country like Italy has its soul scattered over Florence, Milan, Rome, and others.

I feel like I've been sent back to 1998, because I'm struggling to find the words for what I want to say.

If we had blogs in 1998: What’s the French word for “hangover?”

And here we are with a night of too much beer in Strasbourg, France.

As always, spelling, grammatical, factual, and emotional errors have been preserved from the original journal. Today’s comments are in red.

29 Mars 1998

What a weekend. Strasbourg has to be one of my favorite cities in Europe. It’s the best of German France. Known as Alsace-Lorraine to the educated among us. La Petite France. Great company. We went to visit Andrea’s host brother Akky (spelling?) He goes to University of Strasbourg. Friday we got there about 5pm. We picked up Seck (still can’t figure out his name.) and went to a restaurant/bar where we ate flamkooke which is really a thin pizza type thing & is excellent. Drank some beer. Then we went to a birthday party – Jacques & Matthew, I believe. It was pretty crazy. I only recall bits and pieces. Lots of beer. Losing a chugging race. Putting U2 New Year’s Day On. Then having Pogues and Ash. Not mentioned – the host getting mad at me for changing the music. Claude. Can’t believe that one. making out with strangers I can’t believe Andrea & Matt found out. I’m embarrassed. I don’t remember smoking, as Andrea later informed me I was doing. I do remember tequilla. I remember meeting Olivia, who was all over Andrea. Quite strange. I remember the guy who looked like Scott Anthony, though I don’t know his name. I remember the gnome and the big kinder eggs and the answering machine present, which was a great idea. It was a garden gnome – someone had given it to one of the guys as a birthday present. I think it was some kind of joke. I still remember the gnome. I passed out as soon as Andrea made my bed for me. I don’t remember that.

Next day, walking around Strasbourg. Felt like shit. It’s a great city, it really is. I wish I could have enjoyed it more. I almost puked and passed out, while walking around, after we visited the cathedral. excessive misuse of commas in that sentence The cathedral was amazing. It had this awesome clock inside. I didn’t like the skeleton at that top, though. That was creepy. But I felt sick even before we walked up and down the 330 steeps in the spiral staircase. The view was worth it. Perhaps the building that stood out the most was the European Parliament building. It looked like something from space. After we climbed down, that was when the sickness was at its peak. Andrea got me some water from the Haagen Daas store. I wish I could have had ice cream. Bailey’s. Anyway, after that I felt ok. We bought postcards and saw an anti-Front Nationale demonstration. Front National is the rightwing, racist, extremist party of France. Think Tea Party with better food. Then we walked to La Petite France. It was an incredible day – warm, sunny, all the things you could ask of a spring day. I tied my fleece around my waist, leaving nothing but a mere t-shirt to block the spring air from my body. We got bratwursts. We had coffee at a café in a square on the terrace with a fire juggler as entertainment. I had Coke, but I didn’t drink it. I was doing the withdrawal shivering thing in response to the alcohol finally leaving my blood stream. Claude was there. I didn’t look at him. Mostly because I felt inferior. I didn’t want him to be like what the hell was he doing. I hope I didn’t hurt his feelings. I wish I would have talked to him. We looked at CDs. We shopped for wine and cheese. I bought Tropicana Pure Premium. It made me feel better, but then we walked around forever. But it was a great day. We ate French fries at akky’s. Lots. Then everyone came over for wine and cheese, mostly wine. I had none. Andrea had a bottle and a half. She was flirting with all the guys but denied it. I was bored and tired. But it was funny. I told her how I thought the Matt thing was annoying Friday. I hope she’s not mad. She pretended not to be. I felt drunk Saturday night though I hadn’t touched a drop.

We got up at noon Sunday. I could have slept longer. But now I can’t sleep at all, and it’s one o’clock am. Akky drove us home. Nice change of pace. He’s a really nice guy, very thoughtful and considerate, funny, tidy. I find it difficult to believe those guys were from Luxembourg.

1 April 1998

Actually, it’s 2am on 2 Avril. I’ve been writing my bullshit ITS paper, which actually is just good writing practice. I took care of most of the Ireland arrangements today. I can’t wait. Mostly I can’t wait for the Aran Islands. I hope that works out. Maybe I’ll try to call. I keep flip flopping on whether my EDP story is good or bad. I’ve finally figured out some themes. I hope she doesn’t mind the length. I’ll be turning in over 30 pages, twice what it’s supposed to be. I’ve enjoyed it, mostly. I hope Andrea will go to Paris this weekend. I know Matt won’t go without her, and besides, I don’t want to go with just Matt. It’d be too wierd, too much small talk. I won’t be suprised if it happens, though. I don’t know why I chose to write tonight. I guess I’m just in a writing mood. It sucks that I have to go to bed now.

Things I couldn't spell in college: weird, surprised.

Ahh, college.

 

If we had blogs in 1998: St. Patrick’s Day in Dublin and Erika whines way too much

In this episode of my 1997-1998 study abroad journal, I go to Dublin for St. Patrick’s Day. I got two days off school for it because I wanted to do “research” for my project. Which was true, to an extent. I was there to learn something cultural about a holiday in the country that was the focal point of my research. Unfortunately, I traveled with two people who weren’t compatible travel partners. If you’ve traveled a lot, you understand there are certain people with whom you can travel and some with whom you just can’t. I’m a wanderer; I don’t do schedules and itineraries. Some people can’t travel without having every minute of the day planned. I enjoyed this time in Dublin, even if at times it doesn’t seem so.

As always, spelling, grammatical, factual, and emotional errors have been preserved from the original journal. Today’s comments are in red.

*drawing of a clover* 17 March 1998 St. Paddy’s Day

What an interesting weekend. It started in Bruxelles; I should have known it would be disappointing, esp. since Andrea didn’t come. But Friday night wasn’t that bad, nor was Saturday. We touched down and went directly to the crappy hostel with the girl scout bathrooms and the fifty million people in the rooms. And it took forever to walk there. So on Saturday we went on down to Grafton Street to window shop and walked around. I don’t much remember the day, but it was a good thing we went into the tourist office, because we picked up the event guide for the holiday. There was actually loads of great stuff to do. However, it wasn’t quite organized. The Irish are actually new at it. I mean, America’s big cities have been celebrating it for a number of years. They didn’t even have St. Patrick’s Day t-shirts, though they had a logo. Saturday evening posed the greatest of all evenings. After a dinner at Beshof’s, we saw a wonderful fireworks display, brought to you by Aer Lingus. It told the story of St. Patrick. I only wish I’d known more of the story. Saturday afternoon proved to be expensive, as I bought the second part of Christy Moore’s Collection, & 2 U2 bootlegs, one of which I hope Andrea will buy. After the fireworks, we went to Fitzsimmon’s at Temple Bar to listen to some Irish music played by kids our age. It was great. By misfortune we happened to run into Roach and some other MUDECers, who followed us to Fitzsimmon’s. The place was jam packed, full of Guinness drinkers, as was I. I was full of Guinness drinkers?!? We finally got a place amonst the people who could actually see the musicians. It was grand.

Sunday came around; with it came Howth. The cliffwalk was well-worth the extra miles we walked following it. I’ve photos. I was pleasantly suprised by the place. I hadn’t figured Howth would be so grand. I’d been south before, but this put Bray to shame. Too bad we had to get off the path and walk past all the rich houses. We kept walking & walking till finally Emilee asked a lady where the hell we were. The lady drove us all to the Sutton DART station because we were so far. It was cool, because the Luxembourgeois, being the caring, friendly people they are, would have never offered a lift. That was one of the highlights of the trip. I love the Irish!

We ate a packed lunch on the train heading to Bray. Bray’s beach was great for looking for rocks – beautiful despite the absense of sand. I wanted to climb the hill, but fatigue had taken us hostage on Howth Head, and another hike up a hill was not in our futures. So we stopped at a place for coffee (& apple juice). Then we went back to the hostel for a rest. I can’t remember when the anger started, but I believe it was around this time. See, I was pretty upset about a lot of things. And it didn’t help that I was so tired & PMS was affecting me. But that’s when Erika started dictating what we would be doing. She refused to borrow money, so we had to go cheap everywhere. Well, that leaves out most of the great things about Dublin, i.e. great music and craic. So instead of going to a great place, we ended up eating in this shitty North Side café. (It really sucked staying on the North Side, because they thought the North Side was Dublin. Let me just say that of all the things I love about Dublin, the North Side is NOT one of them. I feel like such a snob saying this, but working class neighborhoods are not my idea of wonderful.)  

I feel I should inject a comment here, because this was a stupid thing to say. First of all, I never got far enough away from the city centre to be in any "working class neighborhoods." In 1998, however, there were still neighborhoods throughout Dublin who had yet to see the mighty paintbrush of the Celtic Tiger, so we were in a part of town that wasn't so pretty. Traditionally, the working classes lived on the north side of the river, while the wealthier, more fortunate people lived on the south side. I knew this at the time, most likely because I knew that U2 had grown up on the north side, and so, without any other knowledge about where I was, I came to the conclusion that wherever I was, it wasn't worthy of a visit. My comment wasn't just snobby, it was ignorant.  

So anyway, we’re eating at this working class café, the food’s shitty and more expensive than anyone thought. I mean, I paid £5 for the driest chicken I’ve ever had, and the next night I paid £5 for some awesome broccoli, cheese, & mushroom streudel. So we finally swallow the food, and then we headed over to Grafton Street to watch a carnival parade. We got there early but people piled in front of us, because the thing was poorly organized. & instead of enjoying the moment, Erika complained the whole time and was more worried about getting a picture than just enjoying it. I wish more people would have been dancing. Then I started thinking about how Erika wouldn’t shut up throughout the fireworks, sounding like a dumbass when she was trying to guess what was going on, not knowing anything about St. Patrick. It was quite annoying and somewhat embarrassing. Another thing that was somewhat embarrassing were the Shamrock shakes at McBathroom. When the end of the parade came up, we followed behind it. But then Erika ran up ahead just to get pictures. She didn’t even try to have fun. We went to bed then.

Monday morning – day of hell. There I was, in my favorite city’s big day, and having to spend it with the moaner. I don’t think a word passed without a complaint from her mouth. My foot hurts. I can’t afford it. (Then why the hell did you push Andrea for her ticket!?!) She put me in a foul mood – her confidence was no match for my mouth. I have no idea what that sentence means. Emilee was pissed, then I started taking it out on her. Put she kept saying, shouldn’t we ask and was all worried because I wouldn’t use a map. Just because she didn’t no where the hell she was going…That all pissed me off. If you know me well, you know I have an uncanny sense of direction. By this time I’d been to Dublin several times, so I knew the layout of the city pretty well. Another thing was, she kept asking "shouldn’t we ask...?" instead of just asking, which was annoying to the point that I started getting snotty with her. We saw Christchurch & St. Patrick’s, which were incredibly disappointing. (Oh, another thing on Sunday that pissed me off. Erika found 50 pence in a Coke machine, & spent it on Pepsi. So someone's choice of soda pissed me off? And she kept rudely asking for my candy. If I didn’t want it, I wouldn’t have bought it.) Those churches need to be given back to the Catholic church where they belong. Catholics in Dublin use a temporary cathedral because the English reformation took Christchurch from them. Same thing happened to St. Patrick’s. Erika didn’t go in because they cost money. This was me during the previous semester. I should have understood her concerns. I think it was the way she went about whining aloud and dictating what the rest of us could do. I just whined in my private journal, but I never prevented people from doing things - I just told them I'd meet them later if they wanted to do something I couldn't afford. Then came the eating fiasco. Another working class café. But that came after the Loving Spoonful shithole, this might mean The Lovinspoon, which is well-loved and the attempt at Mother Redcap’s. What is the obsession with goddam markets? All fruit looks the same.

*I had yet to learn to appreciate markets. I had yet to understand that markets represent the life-force of the world. I couldn’t see the beauty of a pepper or an apple. My comment above surprises me. I remember going to European markets and loving them. I loved the fact that the markets were located in some central spot in cities and how everything was fresh and how locals came to purchase food for their daily sustenance. Going to a market when you travel is the most local experience you can encounter. How many photographs have I taken of mounds of bananas or fish on ice or rows of tomatoes?

Mother Redcaps was a treasure and I didn't even know it. It had a tavern dating back to 1760 attached to it where many Irish musicians had played. The market moved out of the old place in the middle of the last decade. Many in Dublin got rich in the nineties and instead of restoring and conserving so many culturally significant places, they started demolishing them to build soulless highrises, the fate of so many cultural and historical places across the world. I found this petition to stop the demolition of Mother Redcaps. Not many signatures, I'm afraid. When we knock down historic landmarks, a little piece of our identity dies with them. What a shame.*

But the Factory Café (it was actually called that) was good. I had potatos with mushrooms & spaghetti sauce. And it was cheap. A good find for the situation, but no place I’d go back to. Next was the National Gallery. I saw the Irish artists then went and sat in Merrian Square and walked down Baggot Street. I so wanted to go to the Baggot Inn or Kitty O’Sheas, but no. We have to go to a cheaper place, but Erika didn’t even eat, which pissed me off even more. Because I spent £6 at this Cornicopia place, when I could have gone to Baggot Inn for just a little more. This was after St. Stephen’s Shopping Center, which I really didn’t want to go to because I had a wonderful Baggot Street experience and wanted to walk around the area more. But I decided to go in & ended up buying a sweater & an orange shirt, and I didn’t tell Emilee or Erika because then they would have made me show them. I still have the orange shirt. I think the sweater fell apart years ago. I was already getting tired of getting my stuff out for Erika’s use. I hate being inconvenienced constantly. Once or twice doesn’t bother me, but once or twice and hour bugs the hell out of me. So after St. Stephen’s I threw the dinner fit. Then Erika wouldn’t let us give her money and made us feel guilty the whole meal. I think I was secretly laughing. Then we went to the night parade (Bailey’s night parade), and stood on the wrong side of the street, but it was still really cool, despite the disorganization. The fireworks were excellent. It was all very exciting, but then Emilee again pissed me off by wanting to leave before it was over to go see more traditional music, and kept asking should we leave, which was even more annoying, and I was fuming. It’s ST. PATRICK’S DAY. Trad can be seen any night of the year. And what are the chances of being in Dublin for St. Pat’s? Besides, I’ve been to Ireland a number of times. I wanted to do something I wouldn’t normally do. I WANTED TO DO THE FESTIVITIES BUT GAVE IT UP BECAUSE THEY HADN’T BEEN TO DUBLIN, AND I’M PISSED. It wasn’t worth the time. Erika always thinks she’s right. Did she notice the train to Namur got in at 20:42 LIKE I SAID. How come everyone thinks I’m stupid. THEY’RE THE IDIOTS! *really thick exclamation point* I HATE PEOPLE WHO THINK THE WORLD IS ALL LIKE CUSHY SUBURBIA! *really thick exclamation point* FUCK THEM ALL! *really thick exclamation point* THEY CREW UP IN THEIR FUCKING NAÏVE CUSHY LITTLE (BIG) SUBURBIA HOUSES AND HAVE NO FUCKING CONCEPT OF HOW THE WORLD WORKS. I don’t understand this rant about suburbia. It may have had something to do with how they seemed afraid to do anything, like growing up in secluded suburbs made them afraid of cities. I don’t know. I don’t even want to be friends with Erika. She’s no fun and a one sided conversationalist. I’m sick of it. We remained something of friends until we had both moved to DC years later. I'm the one that encouraged her to tell Ryan she liked him during our senior year of college - they eventually married. But she had to stick her nose into something she had no business being involved in, and I haven't spoken to her since. I thought I saw her a few years after that when I was on a bike ride. She was whining on the side of the trail to her husband about how something hurt. I laughed because I remembered the whining all those years ago.

So that brings us to looking for a pub after the night parade. We went to Temple Bar & they were all crowded. Then I looked up Bars in Let’s Go. Big Mistake. (“That’s not going to help” – E) FUCK ‘EM. They don’t know what fun is. What horrible company. And you will definitely get skin cancer for being out in the sun for 2 hrs. THAT PISSES ME OFF. IT ALL DOES. The parade was awesome. I took a whole role of film. That’ll explain the actual parades & its American High School Marching Bands. (Oh – I forgot. The Guinness Brewery Tour was a waste of £2, except for the Guinness. The ads were cool. The tour was cool if I had been with different people. I wish I could have gone with Steph & Matt & Andrea. We got there at 8:30am and were in the front row. Cops were standing in our way because some bratty mouthy girls were back talking to them, after the group Boyzone, I think, passed. There was a kid that kept waving a flag in my face. But it was great. St. Paddy’s Day in Dublin. U2. Enough said. My flash is dead.

While this may sound a lot like it's whining about not getting my way, it's not exactly that. The thing is, I was interested in the history of Dublin City, and there were many historic places I wanted to visit to understand the city better. The point of the trip was to do just that, for it was central to my research project. These places included restaurants and pubs, and Erika didn't seem to understand this. While it was nice that they didn't want to go to McDonald's all the time like Andrea and Matt, popping into just any old place was missing out on the history of the city, its soul. Music and literature in Ireland are the pride of the people. To get to know the place, you need to go to the places Joyce went, the places he describes in his books, places like Davy Byrne's Pub. You need to know where Bob Geldolf and Christy Moore and U2 played their gigs in their youth, places like Baggot Inn. 

Of course, I didn't know as much about the city as I thought, because I didn't understand the significance of a place like Mother Redcaps and couldn't appreciate the "working class" neighborhoods. But how could I? I had never read Ulysses at that point. In fact, aside from reading Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man as a senior in high school and Paddy Clark Ha Ha Ha as a sophomore in college, I'd never read a single thing by an Irish writer. That was changing, as my research project required getting to know the culture and I had purchased several books, including The Complete Works of Oscar Wilde and Dubliners. But that hardly scratched the surface of the brilliance that is Irish literature. Eventually I began to understand. Today, my bookshelf is lined with books by Irish writers. I've pored through Ulysses three times. Heck, my online name for my first blog was Daedalus, not for the Greek architect, but for Stephen Dedalus, the alter ego of Joyce himself. By the time I began my internship at Glencree Peace and Reconciliation Center in the Wicklow Mountains, I'd become well-versed in Irish history. You had to be to understand the conflict that had consumed the Irish people for centuries.

History is not about the past. It makes us who we are and has shaped our world. It is a guide to the future. Often that guide tells us what not to do, but hey, that's just as useful as telling us what to do. The Irish stopped using their history as an excuse to fight and instead used it as an excuse not to fight. I think that's a damn fine idea.

 

Something fishy

A few years ago, I went to Paris for vacation. I'd actually gone to see U2 in concert, as I had purchased a ticket on a whim because I could. I flew to Paris, spent a few days there, flew to Beirut, spent a week there, and flew back to Paris to spend a few more days.

At that time, I hadn't been to Paris in a decade. The thing about Paris is that it's Paris. You're not going to return after a decade and find the place razed and rebuilt looking completely different than it had on your last visit. But you see things differently, at least if you open your eyes.

My previous trip to Paris was right after college. I had been hired as an intern at the Glencree Center for Peace and Reconciliation in Ireland and went to visit my friend Matt, who was teaching English in Tours, before heading off to Ireland for three months. By this time, I had already been to Paris five or six times, all as a college student. But I had yet to experience any real post-graduate life and was still traveling through as an inexperienced human being.

Fast-forward to 2010, when I had gone through a stint in the Army, learned Arabic, moved to Washington DC, worked in international development, lived in Bulgaria and Lebanon, and fell for digital media. In that time I had also gained a fascination for ancient history, comparative religion, philosophy, and literature, among many other interests. I went to Paris and knew what I was looking at.

The picture above is from one of two fountains at Place de la Concorde built in 1840. This one is the Maritime Fountain and represents the maritime spirit of France. The nude woman holding the fish as if it were her lover represents the fishing industry.

I'm sorry, but there's no way anyone back in 1840 didn't look at this statue and laugh under his breath. I'm trying to look at it through a historical lens, and knowing a little about art understand symbolism and that sexuality was a major theme in the art of the ancients on which this fountain is modeled. But good lord. Disturbed is the woman who wants a fish for a lover.

If we had blogs in 1998: Skiing in the Alps

It’s been a couple of months, I know, but I’m continuing my 1997-1998 journal from my year abroad in Luxembourg. In this episode, I’m getting tired of feeling like a third wheel as two friends go off on their own on a ski trip to Interlaken in the Swiss Alps. The thing is, I’d never skied before – five of the six who went on the trip had never skied – and we needed the one who had to show us how.

As always, spelling, grammatical, factual, and emotional errors have been preserved from the original journal. Today’s comments are in red.

6 Mars 1998

I haven’t been this pissed in quite awhile, and it’s another New Year’s anger, but it’s one of those things that keeps building till you explode. I have no idea what “New Year’s anger is. It sounds rather juvenile. I don’t want to explode, but this whole Matt & Andrea thing is making us all feel invisible, and I’m getting real sick of it. And now it’s almost one in the morning and they’re still not up here, and we’re going to be getting up in five hours and skiing for a day. So I’ll be in a shitty mood – even worse than I have been all week. I shouldn’t have even come for the weekend. What’s the point? Matt & Andrea prefer to be by themselves anyway. I guess we could have a just fine weekend with the four others, though none of us know how to ski. I’m just getting sick of this, & I’m beginning to wonder if it’s even worth it, I mean, putting myself through the feelings of invisibility. I hate feeling left out. Speaking of that, I wonder why I haven’t heard from Lynn in forever. It’s no surprise, people are always ditching me. I guess I’m destined to be alone until I find a suitable husband, if it ever happens. LOL. I don’t remember ever having that concern, so it’s funny to see it written here. [And how can I ever stay angry.]

The train ride today was long & uneventful, with Matt & Andrea once again isolating themselves from the rest of us. I’m beginning to realize why Erika felt the way she did, & I’m beginning to agree with the monopolizing part. Why did I not realize it before, when I could have told them when they asked me? Now I just have to sit & watch it, & I hate it. I hate the way things have to work. I wonder how much they’ll separate themselves from us tomorrow. When we went to Scott’s last night, Andrea wasn’t going to go because Matt wasn’t going. Then we changed our plans for the weekend because Matt didn’t want to get in at 6am on Monday, though what’s the fucking difference between getting in at fucking 9pm Sunday night & 6am Monday morning. It’s fucking ridiculous, & it pisses me off. Ooh...cursing. Because two friends have a secret relationship that everyone knows about? Dumb. I’ll never be able to sleep in this kind of mood. This sucks. I wish I would have stayed home. “I wish I would have.” Grammatical genius right there.

8 Mars 1998

Well, I’m leaving Suisse – on the train right now. The place was incredible, the company less so. The best time I had was skiing through the woods alone. Skiing is great, & it’s pretty easy. I would love to do it again in this country, minus the people that couldn’t do it. I can’t understand that. It was really quite simple. I fell a few times, but really not that many times. 

We dragged ourselves out of bed about 7am and left Balmer’s at 8am. It had been a late night on Friday, because Matt & Andrea didn’t get in till late, and because we had the long train ride before and because Thursday night we went to Scott’s the bar in Luxembourg City. Erika smoked. It was funny. But anyway, we should have been tired. But we were too anxious to be tired. We were scared, really. Andrea was excited. Poor Andrea, had to try to teach us all to ski. We took a train to Grindelwald, where we rented our skis & headed for the mountain top. I bought a pair of sunglasses. We finally got to the top about 11-11:30. Andrea had to teach us all. It was quite easy to attatch the boot to the ski. Then we started off on a really steep slope, so we all wiped out. First it was Matt, who slid on his butt down. He was pissed. Then Andrea had to go down to get him. Then Brad went down & wiped out, then I went down & wiped out, then Steph wiped out, then Lucy wiped out, but it was before she even went down the slope. It was all humourous. Then we practiced some snowplowing. After a long time, I decided I wanted to go down. So I took off. Brad & Steph came too. Every so often we’d stop & wait for the others, but they were incredibly slow. We never saw them again.We never saw Andrea and Matt until the evening, either. Apparently Matt has limited athletic skills and never got the hang of the skis, so he never even skied down the mountain, if I recall correctly. Andrea had my camera in her bag, so I didn't get to take any photos that day.

We took off and got to the train station at the bottom in over an hour. The trip was incredible, going through the pine, along a mountain stream, snowcapped peaks looming overhead, you feeling the peace that the setting has to offer. I felt incredible. We all took the train back up to the top, and zoomed down again. It only took me 25 minutes to get down, and I waited for Brad for ten-fifteen minutes after that. It was great. I wiped out on the second run, on account that I was going too fast and freaked out. I went fairly slow down a lot of it, not wanting to break things, logically. I bought a Sprite from the restaurant down the hill and waited. Steph didn’t go back up, but Brad and I did. By the time we got to the top, it was snowing. Tons of people were in the Teepee Bar, I guess because the ski conditions were bad. But we went down. I’m glad I had my sunglasses, because the rain beat against my face like life beats against my being. It was quite symbolic, actually. Me, in solitude, speeding past everything, and getting beaten by the rain. I took a different path down the third time, much like I have taken a different path throughout my life. Terrible metaphor disease strikes again. Also youthful stupidity. I wiped out badly, hitting a spot of grass, rolling a ways, losing my poles & my hat. My skis never came off. I hit my back, & it still hurts today. A bunch of people came over to me to see if I was ok. I would have liked to lay there longer, but I didn’t want to look like a fool. I wiped out again later on, and a bunch of kids passed by. I got to the bottom where Steph waited. We waited for Brad, then went down to Grindelwald, turned in our skies, & waited for the others at the train station. I neglected to mention that the people who asked if I were ok did so in three different languages, which I found delightful.

13 Mars 1998

As I often find myself doing, I’m writing this while sitting on a train. I never finished about the weekend, but basically it ended when we went down the hill. We went to a Swiss restaurant, which was excellent (rösti is a sort of hash brown dish – it’s wonderful.) Slips into present tense. So then we go back to Balmer’s and shower. Slips back to the past. Then we had to go to that horrible pub downstairs, where I stood there, not even in the circle, downing a beer so that I could go upstairs. Then Matt came down, though he had been sleeping. I’m sure he just had to rush to Andrea’s side, though much to his dismay, I’m sure, she was talking to another guy. Ha ha. I went upstairs first and went to bed. Steph came in last after talking for quite awhile to a guy from Kent State who was studying in Florence. We dragged ourselves out of bed Sunday morning. Andrea bought an expensive Swiss Army Knife. I almost forgot about the words I exchanged with Lucy. We were riding back from the slopes. When we came to our stop, we didn’t know we were supposed to get off. The conductor came & knocked on the window, and Steph & Lucy screamed, but Lucy’s scream started a dog barking and a baby crying, and I commented on that, so she went off. Everything seems fine now.

Andrea was sick all this week, and she’s not coming to Dublin. I wanted to cry when I found out because I was so disappointed. Erika’s taking her place. Back in the day when you could use someone else’s plane ticket. I wanted Erika to come anyway, but with Andrea and NO MATT. Poor Andrea, got ditched for spring break this week as well. I wanted so much to be able to help her. The thing that killed me, though, was when she was emptying her pouch, and she pulled out the shell that I gave her, and I had been so horrible to her all week, and I almost started crying. I swear, I’m a baby sometimes. But I just get so emotional.

Being at MUDEC was like being in high school. It was a small group of students - 100 at that time - who were thrown into new cultures and new experiences, sometimes with very little sleep, so these type of petty issues came up fairly often. Matt and Andrea were my friends, but we were all put off by their isolating themselves and pretending they weren't in a relationship when everyone knew they were. It seems rather humorous to me now. Andrea married her high school sweetheart, not Matt, and Matt disappeared to Boston, where I know through internet research that he is a professor of English at Boston College (I think). He also did some work with the Red Sox on archiving, and he presented a paper on something to do with travel themes in Victorian literature, which I found interesting because it's more evidence that the travel never leaves you. The last time I saw him we went to a Yankees-Red Sox game at Fenway more than ten years ago. He has no web presence, like he's actually living in the Victorian age about which he teaches. I'm sure he's married with children by now. He wanted to name his kid Britney Alexandria. I hope his wife said no to that. 

Matt, if you ever read this, I still owe you some baseball tickets. Come down and see Boston when they play at Nationals Park. Or I can meet you halfway at Yankee Stadium.