In my secret life...

…there are times when I hate France. Here’s why:

Up until a few months ago, the only Internet option in this village was a pokey dialup. Dropped connections, unreliable phone lines, frequent outages, fried modems. Then France Telecom installed DSL. Hallelujah?

Not so much. Every time a new customer’s hooked into the system, someone else is bumped out, disconnected. Yesterday it was our turn. Again. No phone, no Internet. No Customer Service you could count on either. Modern times, modern angst – French style. No wonder they so frequently take to the streets here.

Which is what I did: with research to do, online lessons to teach and promises to keep, the wretched and the weak (aka me) gathered up heart and France Telecom file, hiked over to the Post Office and called 3900 (Customer Service) from the PO phone. The odds are there to beat…

An accent from northern Africa answers. At least we both speak French and he seems to have a sense of humor. He runs through the list of standard questions, the last of which: “Are you calling from your landline?” I hear the edge in my voice as I tell him again that the reason I’m calling is because our phone is OUT, as in “it does not work,” so no, I am not calling from our home phone because it does not work. I am calling from the village Post Office phone. “Are you near your computer and router box?” he asks. No, I am not, because I am not at home, I am at the Post Office, I politely reply.

He asks for my cell phone number and tells me he’ll call me at home, on my cell, in five minutes. Twenty minutes go by before my cell rings. Pretty good, almost record time in fact and I appreciate it. He asks me to turn off the router box, wait three minutes then turn it back on. This, he says, will re-boot the system and all will be fine. I tell him that I’ve already done that, twice, before calling Customer Service. He decides to test the line. Announces that it’s not functioning normally. I don’t say that it's a good thing he’s on the other side of the Mediterranean.

Next, he proposes that we uninstall and re-install the router box. He is trained to assume the customer is in the wrong. He is trained to avoid confirming that the problem lies with FT’s phone line or Internet service. I do not share his illusion. Still, perhaps a reinstallation will fix the problem, so I follow his rather odd and lengthy instructions. Over an hour later, nothing has been repaired and now the router box is not working at all.

Mr. Customer Service calmly concludes that there “may” have been an “incident” and that, according to the report he’s reading on his computer screen, our phone service will be re-established in two weeks. Two weeks. No phone service, no Internet service for two weeks. This is unacceptable, I tell him with equal calm, explaining that I work online, that this is far from the first time our service has been interrupted and that I will be sending a very large bill to France Telecom. He gives me the appropriate department number and asks if there is anything else he can do for me, to which I reply: “What else can you do for me?” He can check back in the morning to see if the system is working (he doesn’t call).  Bonne fin de journée, au revoir, madame. No wait, I need you… I don’t need you… I need you… I don’t need you…

I need music. Now. At least the electricity’s still working (not always the case). I put on The Essential Leonard Cohen. There is no Essential Guide to France Telecom. No one would know where to start. So I’m counting on Leonard. Nothing can kill you in his tower of song.

He’s wrong though about that “ain’t no cure for love” thing. There’s a cure for Francophile love: going toe to toe with France Telecom on a regular basis. Descartes be hanged; these are Post Modern times and logic is dead. Even the French are pulling their hair out. Especially the women. Ever notice older women in France? Thin hair. Thin. Their service provider is probably France Telecom.

I listen to Cohen through both CDs then head to bed. As I drift off, I’m hearing France Telecom chant, “give me absolute control over every single living soul.” I punch back with: “I’ve seen the future, it is murder.”

When I wake up, I glance at the router box. Nope, the Internet angels have forgotten to pray for us. So I get dressed and head for the Mairie, where I ask Monsieur le Maire to call someone important, use a little muscle to rectify this mess once and for all (it’s election time). I learn that ours wasn’t the only line disconnected yesterday. But ours is the only line still out. The secretary tells me she’ll call France Telecom, give them our info and have them call me on my cell. Hours later the Mairie is closed and no one’s called. Sublimating, I eat M&Ms by the fistful, including the blue ones. Living in France sometimes drives you to drastic measures.

I make a command decision, to do exactly what France Telecom tells you never to do without their assistance: un-install and re-install our router box. The Customer Service guy from yesterday probably did something wrong, left out a step. He’s the expert (ah-hem) but who knows, maybe he screwed up. I glance through the manual, toss it on the floor and go to work.

Fifteen minutes later, it’s V-day in the trenches. We're back on boogie street.

In my secret life, I can count on Cohen.

 

Pour les nuls

The For Dummies folks are celebrating ten years of success. Back in the 90s, an American editor had the brilliant idea of publishing a practical manual for those who knew absolutely nothing about computers, at a moment when personal computers were not quite a household fixture, but were rapidly becoming so. They started in 1991 with DOS for Dummies by Dan Gookin, and now cover a wide range of topics. The collection is published in France under the title Pour les nuls, .

The French title was a brilliant translation coup: the word nul is as omnipresent in French life; it conveys a variety of meanings, from the obvious "null/nil/invalid" to "useless," "hopeless" and even "worthless"; it's a catchy word that rolls off the tongue as easily as dumb and dummy, with the same double edge of humor and disparagement.

Initially the books were translated into French for the French speaking market. Then in 2000, Vincent Barbare of Editions First was given the green light to expand the collection, using French authors on subjects culturally specific to the French. According to an interview with Barbare in last Friday's Midi Libre, success was modest at best until, in 2004, L'histoire de France pour les nuls exploded on the market.

Not all that long ago no self-respecting librarian in France would consider putting a Pour les nuls book on their shelves, whereas today the series is highly visible and collaborates with icons such as the Louvre (Le Louvre pour les nuls). Barbare attributes the Nuls' success to an interesting, fun approach that lets curious, modest French souls learn without knocking themselves out.

In the beginning, it was difficult to find authors to pen the French books, but now experts are clamoring at the gates. Some even consider a Nuls collaboration a veritable feather in their cap, un titre de gloire, as Barbare  puts it. So much so that Barbare, reluctantly, is forced to refuse proposals by some very well known authors. Obviously being an authority on a subject does not suffice; to be a Nuls writer, you have to know how to adopt the right tone, a nul voice that explains the subject matter with both expertise and humor.

The For Dummies collection is published in thirty-three languages, but its greatest sales -- and by far -- are in France. Why the French are "the most nuls" is an inviting question. Are they more curious than other cultures? Are they lazier readers (shorter chapters) or -- ahem -- are they more into efficiency (shorter chapters)? Is there a connection to the emphasis that French culture places on personal responsibility? Is it tied to the French tendency to claim (some) knowledge on (almost) every topic? To the French aversion to saying je ne sais pas ?

I don't know. Perhaps someone should propose the subject to Pour les nuls.

A "Barque de Poste 1818" is Reborn in the Cevennes

With the very passionate and eloquent Robert Mornet at the helm, local fans of the 1818 model boats that used to run on France's famous Canal du Midi banded together in the Cevennes to build their own 1818 barque. No real vestige of the historic wooden vessels remain. 

At Mornet's request, ship builder Alain Dorado recreated construction plans for the 1818 barque. Blueprints in hand in 2007, Mornet began to build an exact replica of the boat in his backyard, under the protective cover of an agricultural greenhouse. This weekend -- four years later -- the nearly complete vessel is being unveiled in order to paint it and finish the roof. Supporters gathered last night in the Médiathèque Intercommunale in the small town of Le Vigan, to honor the historic moment and the man who made the dream come true.

The Barques de Poste were canal boats, similar to stagecoaches in function: they were water coaches harnessed to one or two horses that pulled them from a towpath running along the canal. The same type of towing system was used along the famous Chesapeake & Ohio canal in the United States; many other examples exist worldwide. 

The French system was put into service in 1681, between Toulouse and Agde; other routes were added later. In the beginning, the journey took 4 days, traveling at a speed of 8 kilometers per hour. There was a boat change at each lock, to save both time and water. In all there were nearly 25 locks and a fleet of 40 Barques de Poste. The number of passengers transported on the canal reached 100,000 a year. Each boat could hold up to 50 passengers; there was no meal service, nor any sleeping accommodations. Travelers either brought food aboard with them or ate and slept in inns (auberges) along the way. The advent of the rail system spelled the end of the canal transport system: unable to compete with the speed and efficiency of the trains, Barques de Poste service was terminated in 1858.

Voyages on the new Barque de Poste will maintain historic authenticity: the crew, coachman (postilion) and all personnel will be dressed in period costumes. The boat will be pulled by horses when possible along the towpaths. For stretches where that isn't possible, a motor will be used.

The maiden voyage plans to make the historic Toulouse-Sète trip in 8 days, and if possible, go as far as Beaucaire in 8 more days. Round-trip. Under no obligation to book passage for the entire trip, passengers will have the option of getting on at one lock and off at the next. As in days long gone by, transportation will be charged by the kilometer: if you ride for 10 kilometers only,  that's the distance you pay for. In the spirit of supporting local tourism and businesses,  meals will be taken in local establishments along the route. The same goes for overnight lodging, for passengers and crew alike. 

The Barque de Poste plans to offer daily on-board activities, with musicians, story tellers, historic commentaries and exhibits. Monsieur Mornet refers to the presenters as "clandestins" (illegals), in a gesture of open criticism of French President Nicolas Sarkozy's hotly contested campaign against illegal immigrants.

You can find more information about the Barque de Poste on the web site for the project: http://www.barquedeposte.org/index.html  It's in French, but even if you can't make sense of the text, you can still enjoy the numerous photos!

Foires aux Vins 2010

It’s September and that means, among other things, that supermarkets all over France have set up their foires aux vins displays.

At the outset, the foires aux vins were an obvious marketing ploy for supermarkets to unload unsold wine stock at low prices. However the foires have changed over time. One of the most notable changes is price: some of the loss-leader wines are indeed marked down, but for many others the sale price differs little from the normal price. This year is different. YOUPIE ! (yippie)

With sales generally down for wines at “normal” prices, real bargains are more numerous at this year’s foires aux vins. Big buyers apparently purchased large stocks of certain vintages several years ago, hoping to rake in profits in the future. The financial crisis has forced them to change their game plan. For example, as last week’s Le Monde Magazine reported, some 2005 Bordeaux (on the market in 2006) are currently being sold below their initial 2006 market price, especially at this year’s (fabulous) foires aux vins.

Another lucky break for wine lovers/bargain hunters concerns ’06, ’07 and ’08 vintages that are often considered as less stunning than the 2005s.

Kick snobbery out the door! Individual taste is what matters. You can find deals in France right now on very good and/or excellent, very diverse wines from Bordeaux, Bourgogne, Côtes-du-Rhône, Provence, Languedoc-Roussillon, the Loire…reds, whites, rosés, even some bubblies and ciders.

To quote Arthur Vassincourt: “Ne ratez pas le coche !”
Don’t miss the boat…which for some means buying a plane ticket for France. Value is so very relative...

Reds featured in photo:

MOULIN-à-VENT: Château de Chénas 2009, Appellation Moulin-à-Vent Contrôlée
http://www.cavedechenas.com/
Gamay
Grapes are hand harvested
13% vol.

BROUILLY: Hospices de Belleville 2009 Thévenot, Appellation Brouilly Contrôlée
www.beaujolais-wines.com/
Gamay
13% vol.

TOURAINE: Domaine des Clémendières 2009 Appellation Touraine Protégée
http://www.vinsdeloire.fr/
Gamay
13% vol.

FITOU: Domaine Comerade 2007, Cascastel, Appellation Fitou Contrôlée
http://www.cru-fitou.com/
Carignan, grenache, syrah
Vendanges manuelles (hand harvested)
13.5% vol.

COSTIERES DE NIMES: Les Grandes Cabanes 2008 , Château Lamargue, Appellation Costières de Nîmes Contrôlée
Featured on various wine web sites
Syrah
14% vol.

Laurent Tirard's 2007 film MOLIERE

In 1644, Jean-Baptiste Poquelin, dit Molière, is a twenty-two year old actor whose talent for tragedy is obviously outweighed by his talent for comedy. However, despite his undeniably bad acting, the future founder of the Comédie Française stubbornly continues to stage tragedies. One day, after being imprisoned by impatient creditors, he disappears. Thus begins a

mysterious ten-year period unaccounted for in experts' records of Molière’s life.

French film director Laurent Tirard’s scenario imagines what may have transpired during those ten years and suggests that the experiences lived during those years fed the playwright’s genius to develop the psychological depth of the characters for which he is so well known.

The film resonates with Molière’s language as it situates some of his wittiest and most powerful retorts in the dialogue of everyday life. It sings and singes on the lips of the talented cast, beginning with Romain Duris as the young Molière. Fabio Luchini incarnates to perfection Monsieur Jourdain, a phantasmagorical bourgeois gentilhomme. Towards the end of the movie, Luchini is nothing short of spectacular in his finessing of a scene where the usually bumbling, too-eager-to-impress-nobility Jourdain drops his charade to express himself frankly and with such unexpected truthful wit that the Marquise (played by Ludovine Sagnier) is left uncharacteristically speechless. The scene is a key moment in the film in its depiction of the age-old French binary opposition of être and paraître (being over appearance). Edouard Baer and Laura Morante give equally notable performances: Baer as the opportunistic, back-stabbing but ever elegant marquis and Morante as Jourdain’s wife and Molière’s insightful, provocative muse.

Like Molière’s plays – intelligent, amusing music for the eyes, ears and mind – Tirard’s Molière puts its finger on an unchanging humanity. The cleverly imagined period piece is in perfect harmony with today’s values… listen up for the zinger on commerce with China….

Two web sites, in French, about the film:

http://www.evene.fr/cinema/films/moliere-3582.php

http://www.evene.fr/cinema/actualite/interview-laurent-tirard-moliere-duris-984.php

Coularou commérages

commérages = rumors

Winter is reluctant to loosen its grip. It snowed in the foothills last week, snow is forecast for tomorrow… and I’m beginning to wonder (again) if Montesquieu wasn’t onto something in connecting climatic conditions to people’s behavior. Geopsycho.

I’ve noticed of late an occasional Shining gleam in my reflection, not to mention in my neighbor’s eye. Now that the first two stones have been cast:

This past Wednesday, the “Coularou” club members (that really is their name) met for lunch at the village’s S. Restaurant, for their annual spring bash. The Coularous being civic-minded senior citizens, they alternate the meal’s venue every year. That way each of the three local eating establishments is equally patronized. This year it was the S.’s turn. The seniors were off and grumbling weeks beforehand. They say the service there is inadequate, the server cranky, the prices inflated, the food just barely average and the wine just barely drinkable.

Bref, word is that the owner-hostess-server is cheap and out to scam the clients.

The seniors must like to play the game. They grumble and criticize with confidentially reprobative eyes and knowing nods. Some develop post-meal digestive problems once every three years. And yet, every three years, they’re back at the S., forks and tongues on the ready.

The occasion was animated by the multi-talented Hervé. Composer, lyricist, pianist, singer, imitator and pharmacist…, he delighted the seniors with his talent and humor. The first course – steamed mussels – was met with decidedly less applause.

The mussels had surreptitiously decamped, leaving the diners’ bowls with mostly empty shells and broth. Complaints were politely registered. The chef/co-owner agreed that it wasn’t acceptable, while blaming the fishmonger, and offered to replace the mussels with another dish. No dice, countered the wife/server/co-owner (and my neighbor), “it’s not our fault.” Gazes averted.

Next course: lamb stew, with an original twist: one of the principal ingredients seemed to be pork. More knowing looks exchanged.

They say there were also problems with the wine, but the finale dessert and coffee were quite tasty. A good finish...

In lieu of a break on the bill, D. the proprietor-server, proposed to deliver éclairs to this week’s club meeting. The gesture was accompanied, however, with a request for a list of diners who’d ordered mussels. Most of them only attend the annual dinner and are not regulars at weekly club meetings. Apparently this is common knowledge ‘round these parts.

Who wouldn’t find this amusing?

Djemila Benhabib on the recent attacks on women in Algeria's Hassi Messaoud

Algerian author and activist Djemila Benhabib wrote the following text in reaction to the recent violent attacks on women in Hassi-Messaoud, in Algeria. The French version is followed by my English translation. Please get involved by sharing either or both versions as widely as possible.
____________

«Une femme libre, les scandalise! » Kateb Yacine

J’ai frémi de douleurs lorsque j’ai appris l'horreur dont sont victimes des femmes travailleuses à Hassi Messaoud. Une fois la nuit tombée, des dizaines de lâches armés jusqu'aux dents se sont transformés en justiciers de l’ordre moral, en traquant des travailleuses jusque dans leurs modestes logements pour marquer leur chair du sceau de l’infamie et leur infliger les pires sévices. Singulièrement, pour m’extraire du choc que je venais de subir par cette lugubre nouvelle, Kateb Yacine est venu à ma rescousse pour me dire : «Une femme libre, les scandalise! ».

Lorsque la ville sombre dans le noir, une pluie de malédictions s’abat sur ces travailleuses venues des quatre coins du pays pour gagner leur pain. Soutiens de famille pour la plupart, elles ont renoncé à leur milieu de vie habituel pour parcourir des centaines de kilomètres et nourrir plusieurs bouches. Leurs gîtes ont été saccagés et leurs effets personnels volés et, comme si cela ne suffisait pas, les viols et les tortures se sont multipliés et banalisés sans que cela n’ébranle, outre mesure, les services de police complices de ces atrocités. Qu'arrive-il à cette ville, l'une des plus sécurisées du pays où se bousculent les compagnies pétrolières étrangères? La ruée vers l’or noir obscurcit-elle tant les esprits? Que se passe-t-il dans cet îlot orangé du Sahara où poussent le laurier-rose et l’eucalyptus et qui fait courir les touristes européens friands de méditation, de nuits étoilées et de thé vert? L’histoire retiendra qu’à l’ombre de l’oasis où les torchères crachent leurs volutes de fumée vers le ciel et où le dollar est roi, coule le sang des femmes, témoins d’un âge qu’on pensait révolu. Les corps de ces travailleuses porteront, pour toujours, à tout jamais, les stigmates de ces nuits rythmées de leurs cris de souffrance. Saigner les travailleuses et ouvrir grands les bras aux compagnies étrangères pour pomper les richesses du pays, est-ce la conception du développement économique version 2010? Hassi-Messaoud aurait pu devenir une source folle d’espérance, elle qui a su transformer cette terre ingrate en symbole de richesse. Et pourtant le miracle n’est que mirage. Qu’est-ce que la richesse d’un pays lorsqu’elle se bâtit sur la douleur des femmes ? Aujourd’hui, au delà des maux qui submergent mon être, je suis traversée par une immense colère car j’ai le sentiment que la barbarie qu’a connue Hassi Messaoud en juillet 2001 (et qui a fait une cinquantaine de victimes dans le quartier d’El Haïcha - toutes des femmes - à la suite d'un prêche virulent d'un obscur imam) se répète.

Comment se faire une raison lorsque la vie des femmes n’est que broutille? Comment se faire une raison lorsqu’on les identifie aux tares de la société? Comment se faire une raison lorsque le travail des femmes est érigé en crime et que le meurtre est promu en norme sociale? Comment se faire une raison lorsque les commissariats de police se transforment en lieux de lynchage pour crucifier les victimes et célébrer les bourreaux? Comment se faire une raison lorsque la justice s’égare et que l’injustice est érigée en système? Que faire pour déchirer le voile opaque de l'indifférence? Que faire pour crever le monstrueux silence des interdits, cache-sexe de l’islamisme? Est-ce possible que la représentation qui rend sataniques les femmes, si chère aux islamistes, ait triomphé? Est-ce possible que la politique de l’amnésie générale du président Bouteflika ait fini par faire son œuvre? Est-ce possible que l'Algérie marche à reculons? Est-ce possible que l’Algérie régresse cruellement?

Il y a, au moins, une évidence qui rebondit à chaque fois que l’histoire balbutie à l’ombre des interdits et des injustices, nulle lumière, nulle aube ne peut se lever. En effet, le Code de l’infamie adopté en 1984 continue de nourrir les violences à l’égard des femmes en les subordonnant aux hommes. Si l’on ajoute à cela l’intoxication intégriste et la vétusté des sphères éducatives, sociales et culturelles à commencer par le système éducatif, inutile de se surprendre des terribles dérives actuelles. Tout ce qui permet à l’être humain de se construire et à un peuple de s'épanouir est proscrit et banni par le régime bouteflikien. Est-ce de cela dont ont rêvé les moudjahidates de la guerre de libération? Est-ce de cela dont rêvaient les marcheurs du 22 mars 1993? Est-ce de cela dont rêvaient les victimes du terrorisme islamiste? J’en doute fort. Aujourd’hui, j’ai mal à mon Algérie pour le sort qu’elle réserve à ses femmes. Le degré de développement d'un pays se mesure au degré d’émancipation des femmes, disait Engels. Et nous en sommes loin en Algérie, terriblement loin. Le développement y est tel un mirage. Exactement comme Hassi-Messaoud m’apparaît… comme un mirage, le mirage du développement. Quelle désolation ! --Djemila Benhabib, auteure de Ma vie à contre-Coran.

English Translation of Djemila’s text:

I trembled with pain upon learning of the horrors suffered by women working in Hassi Messaoud. As night fell, dozens of cowards, armed to the teeth, turned into dispensers of moral justice, hunting down these women in their modest homes, marking their flesh with the seal of infamy, inflicting the worst abuses on them. As I reeled from this lugubrious news, Katib Yacine’s words came to my rescue: “A free woman offends them!”

As the city sinks into darkness, a rain of curses crashes down on these women who have come from the four corners of the country to work. Most of them are the sole providers for their families; leaving their lives behind, they relocated hundreds of kilometers away in order to feed hungry mouths. Their cottages have been ransacked, their personal belongings stolen, and as if that were not enough, the rapes and tortures perpetrated against them have multiplied and have been trivialized – without inordinately troubling the police force, a party to the atrocities. What’s happening to this city, one of the country’s most secure, where foreign oil companies are nearly tripping over each other? Have people’s minds been that darkened by the rush for black gold? What’s going on here in this Saharan oasis of orange, oleander and eucalyptus, this haven for European tourists partial to meditation, starry nights and green tea? History will remember the blood of women flowing in the dark corners of the oasis where flares spit their curls of smoke up towards the sky, where the dollar is king. These women bear witness of a time we thought in the past; their bodies will forever carry the stigma of these nights punctuated by their screams of suffering. Bleeding women and wide-open arms welcoming foreign companies to drain the country’s wealth: is this 2010’s conception of economic development? Hassi-Messaoud, whose hostile land was transformed into a symbol of wealth, could have become a wild spring of hope. But the miracle is merely a mirage. What is the wealth of a country when built upon the suffering of its women? Today, above and beyond the pain engulfing me, I am filled with incredible anger, because I have the feeling that the barbarism that took place in Hassi Messaoud in July of 2001 (with 50 victims in the neighborhood of El Haïcha – all women – following a virulent sermon by an obscure imam) is happening all over again.

How can we accept it when women’s lives count for so little? How can we accept it when they are considered as a defective element of society? How can we accept it when the work of women is set up as a crime and murder is promoted as a social norm? How can we accept it when police stations are transformed into lynching stations for crucifying the victims and singing the praises of their hangmen? How can we accept it when justice goes astray and injustice takes its place? What can we do to rip the opaque veil from indifference? What can we do to break down the monstrous silence of what is forbidden, the G-string of Islamism? Can it be that this representation of women as satanic, so dear to Islamists, has won out? Can it be that President Bouteflika’s political posture of general amnesia has finally done the job? Can Algeria be moving backwards? Can it be that Algeria is regressing cruelly?

There is at least one obvious fact that rebounds each time history falters in the shadows of bans and injustices: no light, no dawn can rise. The Code of infamy adopted in 1984 continues to foster violence on women in subjugating them to men. If we add to this fundamentalist intoxication and obsolete educational, social and cultural circles, beginning with the educational, we shouldn’t be surprised by today’s terrible trend downwards. Everything that permits human beings to develop, all that allows a people to grow is proscribed and banished by the Bouteflikien regime. Was this the Moudjahidate dream during the war for liberation? Was this the dream of the March 22 protestors in 1993? Is this the dream of the victims of Islamist terrorism? I very much doubt it. Today, I ache for the fate my Algeria’s women. The degree of a country’s development is measured by the emancipation of women, Engels said. And we’re far from that in Algeria, so very far. Development is like a mirage there. Exactly as Hassi-Messaoud appears to me… like a mirage, a mirage of development. What anguish!

--text written by Djemila Benhabib, author of Ma vie à contre-Coran

--English translation of text by Jean Leslie Baker