Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Travels
This is likely to be a long, rambling blog post. So be warned. Other things to remember while reading are, but are not limited to, the facts that I’ve forgotten how to speak, read and write English and that I’ll probably become more and more tired of writing as this progresses. That means that quality and coherency is likely to reach pitiful levels towards the end of these recollections. Good luck.
I embarked on my journey one week ago on a train from Paris to Avignon. I arrived in Avignon unscathed and went in search of a hostel/cheap hotel. First stop was the Office of Tourism from which I was directed to the one hostel in Avignon. I had to cross a bridge (not the Pont d’Avignon, we’ll get to that) and the weather was beautiful so I walked slowly taking in the view, which was incredible—filled with medieval palaces and bridges and whatnot. I got to my hostel, which was quite sketchy but exceptionally cheap. I threw my stuff into my empty dorm room and set off for the Palais des Papes (palace of the popes). The palace looks pretty remarkable from the outside but the inside is far less so. I took some time exploring and then read outside enjoying the sunset, again a truly beautiful view. Rather tired from the day’s journey, I bought a small dinner and went to sleep on the early side.
The next morning, before heading to Nimes, I had to check out the famous “Pont d’Avignon.” There’s a pretty famous French children’s song called “Pont d’Avignon” so I felt obliged to check it out. The bridge is pretty funny. It’s a bridge that leads out about halfway across the river and then just stops. It does nothing. Presumably, at some point the bridge went somewhere. Maybe construction stopped as a result of strike. Or a vacation. Or a 3 hour lunch break. It’s always hard to tell, here in France.
When my train stopped at Nimes, I stood dumbly waiting for the doors to open when the train started to leave, continuing on its course. As it turns out, in France, one needs to actually open the doors. You’d think they’d have machines for that but then again I think that technology comes right after air conditioning which is tough to find in Europe, so who knows. Anyway, I got off the train at the next stop and wasted some time before getting on the train going back towards Nimes.
I made a friend with a French guy, and while this detail seems insignificant now, remember, because he comes back, later in our story. Anyway, he looked sort of sketchy and he started the conversation by asking for a lighter, but one must remember that everyone here smokes and looks at least somewhat sketchy. He turned out to be quite nice.
I opened the door this time and stepped out to find myself in Rome—I mean Nimes. Nimes is basically Rome, only way smaller, less famous and French. There’s a coliseum-ish thing, some ruins, etc. They’re all extremely old, so you know what they’re like. I crashed in a pretty “posh” hotel (I’ve been hanging out with way too many Brits I think) and enjoyed a bed that didn’t give me pink eye. (I woke up in Avignon with a cold and an infected eye—all is fine, now). I also bought Mere Anarchy by Woody Allen, which is ridiculous and very entertaining. Oh! And I finally read this book by Harlen Coben (sp?). Coben is an American author who is extremely famous in France but not well known in the states. French people are beyond mortified when I say that I’ve never heard of him. The book was an exciting police-ish novel… kind of like Da Vinci Code.
Carcassone was next on my itinerary, and, while waiting for my train, who did I run into? The French guy from before! I wasn’t sure it was him, but he sat down right next to me and started talking as if we were best buds and I recognized him instantly based on his friendliness. His big question for me was how to say scrotum in English, which I informed him was the same as it was in French. I didn’t ask why he wanted to know.
Carcassone is this ancient, fortified town that is, like Avignon, truly stunning. I arrived just as the sun was starting to set and took a couple of minutes to admire the view from Quai Bellevue—Dock Beautiful View, literally, and not a misnomer at all.
They’re weren’t a lot of English speakers at the hostel (mostly Spanish speakers) but I met up with a pair of traveling Aussies and we bonded over the fact that we understood each other. Unfortunately there’s basically no night life in Carcassone so we played cards and wandered around the ancient city which was awesome during the nighttime. I felt like a knight, which is every boy’s dream.
Woke up in Carcassone, did some tourist stuff which was pretty exciting and then set off for my painfully long and complicated trip to Barcelona. It consisted of two changes and many hours and my ipod batteries were dead and I had finished my book. I, uhh… reflected? Not that exciting, but I finally arrived in Barcelona.
Barcelona is insane. I arrived around dinner time and found myself swiped up into ferocious pre-gaming (drinking before going out for you old people, sorry). I was hanging out with a Swede who had just sold everything he owned, moved out of his apartment, left his girlfriend and dog and started traveling and an American 19 year old who’s taking a year off. Needless to say there was lots of interesting and inspirational conversation about traveling, life, and the meaning of all of it. No conclusions, unfortunately. I’m not going to go into details about the night because I think it might scare the bulk of my readership, but I woke up the next morning, mostly alive, having learned my lesson that the “Shots Bar” is not one to be taken lightly.
The day after my big night was a rather slow day, but I did some exploring, wandering around Barcelona and getting my bearings. I also finally bought a new book, Roald Dahl’s “Tales of the Unexpected” which so far has been really good.
That night, still feeling sensitive from the night before, I took things pretty easy. But I ended up meeting these two kids from Alaska, one of whom had just gotten back from his third tour in Iraq. It was very, very strange at first, because he was basically my age (a couple of years older) but he had actually served. It struck me that the soldiers in Iraq are my age. This, I obviously knew, but it really hit home. Naturally, I was really curious, but didn’t know how to approach asking him questions. I think he could tell that I was curious and kind of sugar coating my questions, so he told me that I could ask whatever I wanted, and I asked every question I could think of. Really, really interesting responses, and not at all what I had expected.
He told me that things had improved a ton since his fist tour in 2004. He said that Boot Camp wasn’t as bad as people think, because you’re just following simple orders. You just do whatever they tell you. However, in his last tour, he was sergeant and said it was way tougher. The decisions you make carry such an enormous weight. I naturally asked if he had killed people and how that made him feel, etc. He said that he thought he had, and that the thing is, is that for him, it’s a job. He said he had been trained really well to do something, and he was just doing it. He also said he missed his home, family and friends a lot more while traveling in Europe than in Iraq, which I found quite interesting. He talked a lot about the bond between him and his “boys.” And he said that he and some of his boys had saved other people’s lives and that forms an amazing bond, unsurprisingly. I was really impressed by his ability to share frankly, and I think I learned a lot. He’s starting now at Indiana U. If I think I’m entering college with a different, interesting experience, imagine that! It’s like the Feb program on steroids!
By taking it easy, I mean that I didn’t drink, but we all went out to a club. Barcelona is very much a clubbing city and people don’t even go out until 3 am. It’s honestly ridiculous. We were on an earlier schedule, naturally, but the city is insane, honestly.
The next morning I woke up, feeling relatively well rested, all things considered, and set out on an hour or so walk to the Sagrada Famillia (sp?)—Gaudi’s incredible church. It’s amazing. I can’t even describe, but look at pictures online, I think they’ll do it some justice and give you an idea. It’s really interesting looking and quite modern, so a nice change from all the other churches I’ve seen in Europe which all start to look pretty similar.
A whole lot more walking until I arrived at Parque Guell (sp, again), which is another demonstration of Gaudi’s artistic genius. Also, very cool, and interesting. Very photogenic, too, so feel free to check it out. Maybe I’ll try to post some links to good pictures (or I’ll put up my pictures if they’re actually any good, which I’m not sure of).
Oh, and I went to the Picasso Museum, too which was great, obviously.
That night I hung out with a pair of French girls from Toulose, speaking French, which was fun. There was this older woman in the hostel who was Belgian and who spoke French, so we invited her to come out with us and were shocked when she abided. She followed us for about an hour before realizing that she so didn’t belong (I thought), and went home. It turns out she hadn’t gone home, because when we got back a couple of hours later, she was still out. Party animal, damn. Anyway, the French girls were interested in going to the Shots Bar, so I showed them where it was, warning them of its dangers. Needless to say I had learned my lesson and was quite careful. But I think I do need to describe this bar. The walls are entirely covered with names of different shots, almost none of which you’ve ever heard of. People basically pick a random one, or one they’ve heard of from a friend and just go for it, trusting the bartenders entirely. You can sit back and watch and you’ll see them serving shots with every type of alcohol, grenadine sauce, sugar, Tabasco sauce, oranges, and basically anything else you can think of. Shots are constantly being lit on fire and stuff, so it’s really quite a scene.
The next day led me to the port and the beach. While no one was there (it was winter), it was a really nice day and quite pleasant, it was also extremely windy… I was actually concerned that the wind would knock me over. My next was the Park of the City (translated, I forget what exactly it was in Spanish, Parque Citadelle or something). On the way, I passed by a train station and in passing, heard a massive noise that seemed to consist of glass shattering and an enormous blunt object smashing down. This was followed by people running, somewhat frantically, out of the station. My gut instinct led me to believe that I had just witnessed a terrorist attack and I panicked momentarily.
Upon realizing I had not, in fact, witnessed a real terrorist attack, I crept curiously into the station to find that a (approximately) 30 foot by 20 foot, truly enormous window had fallen out of its frame as a result of the ferocious winds. The wind must have weighed a ton because it had what looked to me like iron framework that incased all of the glass. It’s the kind of thing that kills someone easily if it lands on you.
Walking through the Park I ultimately arrived at was less than enjoyable because the winds were causing painful and frustrating sand storms. I really struggled to see the park.
Not too much else of interest… fellow traveler’s stories of being mugged and stuff in Barcelona by armies of prostitutes, but nothing else super interesting. All in all, a really good trip. I saw tons of interesting things and met tons of interesting people. Sorry if this one was a little boring, it’s probably more for me to remember than for you to live vicariously.
I embarked on my journey one week ago on a train from Paris to Avignon. I arrived in Avignon unscathed and went in search of a hostel/cheap hotel. First stop was the Office of Tourism from which I was directed to the one hostel in Avignon. I had to cross a bridge (not the Pont d’Avignon, we’ll get to that) and the weather was beautiful so I walked slowly taking in the view, which was incredible—filled with medieval palaces and bridges and whatnot. I got to my hostel, which was quite sketchy but exceptionally cheap. I threw my stuff into my empty dorm room and set off for the Palais des Papes (palace of the popes). The palace looks pretty remarkable from the outside but the inside is far less so. I took some time exploring and then read outside enjoying the sunset, again a truly beautiful view. Rather tired from the day’s journey, I bought a small dinner and went to sleep on the early side.
The next morning, before heading to Nimes, I had to check out the famous “Pont d’Avignon.” There’s a pretty famous French children’s song called “Pont d’Avignon” so I felt obliged to check it out. The bridge is pretty funny. It’s a bridge that leads out about halfway across the river and then just stops. It does nothing. Presumably, at some point the bridge went somewhere. Maybe construction stopped as a result of strike. Or a vacation. Or a 3 hour lunch break. It’s always hard to tell, here in France.
When my train stopped at Nimes, I stood dumbly waiting for the doors to open when the train started to leave, continuing on its course. As it turns out, in France, one needs to actually open the doors. You’d think they’d have machines for that but then again I think that technology comes right after air conditioning which is tough to find in Europe, so who knows. Anyway, I got off the train at the next stop and wasted some time before getting on the train going back towards Nimes.
I made a friend with a French guy, and while this detail seems insignificant now, remember, because he comes back, later in our story. Anyway, he looked sort of sketchy and he started the conversation by asking for a lighter, but one must remember that everyone here smokes and looks at least somewhat sketchy. He turned out to be quite nice.
I opened the door this time and stepped out to find myself in Rome—I mean Nimes. Nimes is basically Rome, only way smaller, less famous and French. There’s a coliseum-ish thing, some ruins, etc. They’re all extremely old, so you know what they’re like. I crashed in a pretty “posh” hotel (I’ve been hanging out with way too many Brits I think) and enjoyed a bed that didn’t give me pink eye. (I woke up in Avignon with a cold and an infected eye—all is fine, now). I also bought Mere Anarchy by Woody Allen, which is ridiculous and very entertaining. Oh! And I finally read this book by Harlen Coben (sp?). Coben is an American author who is extremely famous in France but not well known in the states. French people are beyond mortified when I say that I’ve never heard of him. The book was an exciting police-ish novel… kind of like Da Vinci Code.
Carcassone was next on my itinerary, and, while waiting for my train, who did I run into? The French guy from before! I wasn’t sure it was him, but he sat down right next to me and started talking as if we were best buds and I recognized him instantly based on his friendliness. His big question for me was how to say scrotum in English, which I informed him was the same as it was in French. I didn’t ask why he wanted to know.
Carcassone is this ancient, fortified town that is, like Avignon, truly stunning. I arrived just as the sun was starting to set and took a couple of minutes to admire the view from Quai Bellevue—Dock Beautiful View, literally, and not a misnomer at all.
They’re weren’t a lot of English speakers at the hostel (mostly Spanish speakers) but I met up with a pair of traveling Aussies and we bonded over the fact that we understood each other. Unfortunately there’s basically no night life in Carcassone so we played cards and wandered around the ancient city which was awesome during the nighttime. I felt like a knight, which is every boy’s dream.
Woke up in Carcassone, did some tourist stuff which was pretty exciting and then set off for my painfully long and complicated trip to Barcelona. It consisted of two changes and many hours and my ipod batteries were dead and I had finished my book. I, uhh… reflected? Not that exciting, but I finally arrived in Barcelona.
Barcelona is insane. I arrived around dinner time and found myself swiped up into ferocious pre-gaming (drinking before going out for you old people, sorry). I was hanging out with a Swede who had just sold everything he owned, moved out of his apartment, left his girlfriend and dog and started traveling and an American 19 year old who’s taking a year off. Needless to say there was lots of interesting and inspirational conversation about traveling, life, and the meaning of all of it. No conclusions, unfortunately. I’m not going to go into details about the night because I think it might scare the bulk of my readership, but I woke up the next morning, mostly alive, having learned my lesson that the “Shots Bar” is not one to be taken lightly.
The day after my big night was a rather slow day, but I did some exploring, wandering around Barcelona and getting my bearings. I also finally bought a new book, Roald Dahl’s “Tales of the Unexpected” which so far has been really good.
That night, still feeling sensitive from the night before, I took things pretty easy. But I ended up meeting these two kids from Alaska, one of whom had just gotten back from his third tour in Iraq. It was very, very strange at first, because he was basically my age (a couple of years older) but he had actually served. It struck me that the soldiers in Iraq are my age. This, I obviously knew, but it really hit home. Naturally, I was really curious, but didn’t know how to approach asking him questions. I think he could tell that I was curious and kind of sugar coating my questions, so he told me that I could ask whatever I wanted, and I asked every question I could think of. Really, really interesting responses, and not at all what I had expected.
He told me that things had improved a ton since his fist tour in 2004. He said that Boot Camp wasn’t as bad as people think, because you’re just following simple orders. You just do whatever they tell you. However, in his last tour, he was sergeant and said it was way tougher. The decisions you make carry such an enormous weight. I naturally asked if he had killed people and how that made him feel, etc. He said that he thought he had, and that the thing is, is that for him, it’s a job. He said he had been trained really well to do something, and he was just doing it. He also said he missed his home, family and friends a lot more while traveling in Europe than in Iraq, which I found quite interesting. He talked a lot about the bond between him and his “boys.” And he said that he and some of his boys had saved other people’s lives and that forms an amazing bond, unsurprisingly. I was really impressed by his ability to share frankly, and I think I learned a lot. He’s starting now at Indiana U. If I think I’m entering college with a different, interesting experience, imagine that! It’s like the Feb program on steroids!
By taking it easy, I mean that I didn’t drink, but we all went out to a club. Barcelona is very much a clubbing city and people don’t even go out until 3 am. It’s honestly ridiculous. We were on an earlier schedule, naturally, but the city is insane, honestly.
The next morning I woke up, feeling relatively well rested, all things considered, and set out on an hour or so walk to the Sagrada Famillia (sp?)—Gaudi’s incredible church. It’s amazing. I can’t even describe, but look at pictures online, I think they’ll do it some justice and give you an idea. It’s really interesting looking and quite modern, so a nice change from all the other churches I’ve seen in Europe which all start to look pretty similar.
A whole lot more walking until I arrived at Parque Guell (sp, again), which is another demonstration of Gaudi’s artistic genius. Also, very cool, and interesting. Very photogenic, too, so feel free to check it out. Maybe I’ll try to post some links to good pictures (or I’ll put up my pictures if they’re actually any good, which I’m not sure of).
Oh, and I went to the Picasso Museum, too which was great, obviously.
That night I hung out with a pair of French girls from Toulose, speaking French, which was fun. There was this older woman in the hostel who was Belgian and who spoke French, so we invited her to come out with us and were shocked when she abided. She followed us for about an hour before realizing that she so didn’t belong (I thought), and went home. It turns out she hadn’t gone home, because when we got back a couple of hours later, she was still out. Party animal, damn. Anyway, the French girls were interested in going to the Shots Bar, so I showed them where it was, warning them of its dangers. Needless to say I had learned my lesson and was quite careful. But I think I do need to describe this bar. The walls are entirely covered with names of different shots, almost none of which you’ve ever heard of. People basically pick a random one, or one they’ve heard of from a friend and just go for it, trusting the bartenders entirely. You can sit back and watch and you’ll see them serving shots with every type of alcohol, grenadine sauce, sugar, Tabasco sauce, oranges, and basically anything else you can think of. Shots are constantly being lit on fire and stuff, so it’s really quite a scene.
The next day led me to the port and the beach. While no one was there (it was winter), it was a really nice day and quite pleasant, it was also extremely windy… I was actually concerned that the wind would knock me over. My next was the Park of the City (translated, I forget what exactly it was in Spanish, Parque Citadelle or something). On the way, I passed by a train station and in passing, heard a massive noise that seemed to consist of glass shattering and an enormous blunt object smashing down. This was followed by people running, somewhat frantically, out of the station. My gut instinct led me to believe that I had just witnessed a terrorist attack and I panicked momentarily.
Upon realizing I had not, in fact, witnessed a real terrorist attack, I crept curiously into the station to find that a (approximately) 30 foot by 20 foot, truly enormous window had fallen out of its frame as a result of the ferocious winds. The wind must have weighed a ton because it had what looked to me like iron framework that incased all of the glass. It’s the kind of thing that kills someone easily if it lands on you.
Walking through the Park I ultimately arrived at was less than enjoyable because the winds were causing painful and frustrating sand storms. I really struggled to see the park.
Not too much else of interest… fellow traveler’s stories of being mugged and stuff in Barcelona by armies of prostitutes, but nothing else super interesting. All in all, a really good trip. I saw tons of interesting things and met tons of interesting people. Sorry if this one was a little boring, it’s probably more for me to remember than for you to live vicariously.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Family Coming and Going and College Essays
So my family arrived Friday morning and leaves tomorrow morning really early, so I've already said goodbye to them. It's Sunday night, so needless to say the visit was brief, but really fun, nice, emotional and everything you'd expect. We ran around Paris tons seeing people and things and it was rather action packed, but not I doubt you're interested in reading about it. I'm taking into account that my family (who has obviously already lived all of these experience) represents an overwhelmingly huge percentage of my readers. (Note, we missed Sam... hey sam!)
On an entirely different note, I've been thinking a lot about my life and college essays and I've decided to try and write one. I feel like I've grown up a bit since I had to write mine so I'm curious to see what I come up with. Realize that I'm obviously not laboring over this, so please don't have high expectations. Here goes:
The standard college essay is basically an incredibly open-ended prompt that demands for the subtlest and most convincing sales pitch I can come up with. I'm supposed to prove that I'm smart, creative, nice, generous and every other positive description I can think of in a painfully brief 500 words. I only have 450 left.
So I'm going to list all the positive descriptions I can think of and then I'm going to convince you that I'm all of those. Actually, I'm going to convince you that I'm all of those and more. (410 left).
When I'm done, you're going to know that I'm smart, funny and clever and that I'm nice, generous, caring, respectful, modest, courageous, cautious, dependable, independent, confident and competent. I'm going to have you so convinced that I doubt you continue to read the rest of my files. In fact, I doubt you'll even blink when you see (if you even get that far) that I only got a 670 on my bio SAT II. (Down to just 334).
After reading this essay you're going to be absolutely positive that I'm the kind of guy that helps people out because he appreciates being helped. You're going to be sure that I'm the type of person that really wants this world to be a better place. You're going to know without any doubt that I'm the sort of young person that brings a vitality and enthusiasm to everything he does. You're going to know that I'm extremely tolerant of all types of people and of all types of ideas. (I'm running out, only 233 words left, will I do it?).
Now for the heavy convincing, an anecdote (my college counselor said anecdotes are good): I once met a very wise young woman who, while young, was a couple of years older than I. I was curious as to what she though about college, and working and pretty much life in general. I asked her what she had studied and where she had worked and I found her answers both impressive and interesting. She then told me this: "If you know where you're going to be in 20 years, why live the 20 years?" I thought on this for a while and I find the concept and it's appeal to me nerve racking and invigorating. I thought about 20 years from now, and the closest thing I could come to a prediction was that I might be married; I might have kids. I was satisfied with this (Just 92 left! Gulp.).
So here's the point: the meaning of life, the answers to all of these questions and the proof that I'm all of those wonderful things, they're hard to find and even harder to articulate. To find the meaning of life or to answer all of life's questions isn't important. It's important to do what makes and keeps you happy. Maybe that's the answer to all of those impossible questions. And as for finding all of that proof, I might need a lifetime. (6 words left. What should I...)
Sorry, I don't love it, but if I try and edit it then I need to re-count all of the words. There's no way I'm doing that. Also, I don't think I'd actually have sent that to a college... would I have gotten in though?... Not entirely sure. I'd be curious though.
On an entirely different note, I've been thinking a lot about my life and college essays and I've decided to try and write one. I feel like I've grown up a bit since I had to write mine so I'm curious to see what I come up with. Realize that I'm obviously not laboring over this, so please don't have high expectations. Here goes:
The standard college essay is basically an incredibly open-ended prompt that demands for the subtlest and most convincing sales pitch I can come up with. I'm supposed to prove that I'm smart, creative, nice, generous and every other positive description I can think of in a painfully brief 500 words. I only have 450 left.
So I'm going to list all the positive descriptions I can think of and then I'm going to convince you that I'm all of those. Actually, I'm going to convince you that I'm all of those and more. (410 left).
When I'm done, you're going to know that I'm smart, funny and clever and that I'm nice, generous, caring, respectful, modest, courageous, cautious, dependable, independent, confident and competent. I'm going to have you so convinced that I doubt you continue to read the rest of my files. In fact, I doubt you'll even blink when you see (if you even get that far) that I only got a 670 on my bio SAT II. (Down to just 334).
After reading this essay you're going to be absolutely positive that I'm the kind of guy that helps people out because he appreciates being helped. You're going to be sure that I'm the type of person that really wants this world to be a better place. You're going to know without any doubt that I'm the sort of young person that brings a vitality and enthusiasm to everything he does. You're going to know that I'm extremely tolerant of all types of people and of all types of ideas. (I'm running out, only 233 words left, will I do it?).
Now for the heavy convincing, an anecdote (my college counselor said anecdotes are good): I once met a very wise young woman who, while young, was a couple of years older than I. I was curious as to what she though about college, and working and pretty much life in general. I asked her what she had studied and where she had worked and I found her answers both impressive and interesting. She then told me this: "If you know where you're going to be in 20 years, why live the 20 years?" I thought on this for a while and I find the concept and it's appeal to me nerve racking and invigorating. I thought about 20 years from now, and the closest thing I could come to a prediction was that I might be married; I might have kids. I was satisfied with this (Just 92 left! Gulp.).
So here's the point: the meaning of life, the answers to all of these questions and the proof that I'm all of those wonderful things, they're hard to find and even harder to articulate. To find the meaning of life or to answer all of life's questions isn't important. It's important to do what makes and keeps you happy. Maybe that's the answer to all of those impossible questions. And as for finding all of that proof, I might need a lifetime. (6 words left. What should I...)
Sorry, I don't love it, but if I try and edit it then I need to re-count all of the words. There's no way I'm doing that. Also, I don't think I'd actually have sent that to a college... would I have gotten in though?... Not entirely sure. I'd be curious though.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Operation Call French Offices
First of all, before I go into "Operation Call French Offices," please realize that about 96% of the previous two posts were entirely farcical. While there really was a strike, I was neither cold nor hungry. I know nothing of Miss Cleo or Nostradamus's predictions. Please stop sending me food and mittens, and stop calling my lawyers about wanting to sue me for liable. Nothing said in any of the posts should be taken as fact, rather, it is advisable to assume that all things mentioned in these posts are quite the opposite. Thus, you are advised to read at your own risk. Thank you.
Moving upward and onward. My project for R. R. Donnelly consists of very simply finding the contact of information of the directors of communication the biggest 100 companies in France and Belgium. This project is not nearly as easy as it sounds. The information is kept in a secret lock box. It's lodged right next to the secret of how to pronounce "r's" in French. Only the French know where it is, and they'll never tell their secret.
Apparently, however, there's another way to discover this information and that is by calling the general operators at the companies, putting on your most charming French accent and begging for the desired information. As my deadline approaches, I decided to attempt the impossible: convince beautiful (this is assumed and not to be considered fact, for example) operators that I'm worthy of the name, email address and phone number of their director of communications.
Step 1: Write, rewrite, and learn my preamble. I become Thomas Jefferson for a moment and write my opening couple of lines. I pass these off to a colleagues who reads them and shakes her head. She decides to makes this more interesting, and dictates what she wants me to say. For those of you who are not familiar with French dictations, the level of difficulty is quite comparable to that of dictations in Chinese (believe me, I've done both). People seem to think that French is easy, but the words parler, parle (w/ and accent), parlai, parlait, parlais and parlaient are all pronounced in exactly the same way. And that is a fact. It's also extremely normal and this list could be formed for basically every verb in the French language. Needless to say I bombed the dictation test. (That's at least partly untrue). Eventually I understood what I was saying and how to say it.
Step 2: Make the calls. Call number one: I dial the number. It turns out that I don't need to dial +33. Apparently, I'm already in France. It takes me a couple of tries (exaggeration) but the phone starts to ring. "Hallo, oui?" Shit. She's more beautiful sounding than I could have possibly imagined. I remain cool and recite my lines. She responds... with something that sounds like the information was searching. I return to my desk (I had walked into another room to make the phone calls so as to avoid the embarrassment of calling in front of my co-workers) grinning wildly. I was very impressed with my colleagues preamble, and I let her know.
Step 3: Repeat multiple times. While I'm not going to go into each phone call with detail, I will say that I was rather impressed with how nice most of operators were with me. There was one who's eyes I could hear rolling as I stumbled goofily in French, but for the most part, they were really nice and patient. Only once did someone say, "You know I speak English too." I was more flustered when I was addressed in English than I had been the whole time in French.
As it turns out, it's not that I don't speak French that was the problem, it's that I don't speak business relationship. That's the hardest language around. I hear Middlebury has some really intense summer programs though...
Moving upward and onward. My project for R. R. Donnelly consists of very simply finding the contact of information of the directors of communication the biggest 100 companies in France and Belgium. This project is not nearly as easy as it sounds. The information is kept in a secret lock box. It's lodged right next to the secret of how to pronounce "r's" in French. Only the French know where it is, and they'll never tell their secret.
Apparently, however, there's another way to discover this information and that is by calling the general operators at the companies, putting on your most charming French accent and begging for the desired information. As my deadline approaches, I decided to attempt the impossible: convince beautiful (this is assumed and not to be considered fact, for example) operators that I'm worthy of the name, email address and phone number of their director of communications.
Step 1: Write, rewrite, and learn my preamble. I become Thomas Jefferson for a moment and write my opening couple of lines. I pass these off to a colleagues who reads them and shakes her head. She decides to makes this more interesting, and dictates what she wants me to say. For those of you who are not familiar with French dictations, the level of difficulty is quite comparable to that of dictations in Chinese (believe me, I've done both). People seem to think that French is easy, but the words parler, parle (w/ and accent), parlai, parlait, parlais and parlaient are all pronounced in exactly the same way. And that is a fact. It's also extremely normal and this list could be formed for basically every verb in the French language. Needless to say I bombed the dictation test. (That's at least partly untrue). Eventually I understood what I was saying and how to say it.
Step 2: Make the calls. Call number one: I dial the number. It turns out that I don't need to dial +33. Apparently, I'm already in France. It takes me a couple of tries (exaggeration) but the phone starts to ring. "Hallo, oui?" Shit. She's more beautiful sounding than I could have possibly imagined. I remain cool and recite my lines. She responds... with something that sounds like the information was searching. I return to my desk (I had walked into another room to make the phone calls so as to avoid the embarrassment of calling in front of my co-workers) grinning wildly. I was very impressed with my colleagues preamble, and I let her know.
Step 3: Repeat multiple times. While I'm not going to go into each phone call with detail, I will say that I was rather impressed with how nice most of operators were with me. There was one who's eyes I could hear rolling as I stumbled goofily in French, but for the most part, they were really nice and patient. Only once did someone say, "You know I speak English too." I was more flustered when I was addressed in English than I had been the whole time in French.
As it turns out, it's not that I don't speak French that was the problem, it's that I don't speak business relationship. That's the hardest language around. I hear Middlebury has some really intense summer programs though...
Friday, October 19, 2007
Captain's Log: Strike, Day 2
Public Transport Strike, Day 2:
Despite horrid conditions, President Sarkozy does not give into demands of public transport workers. The strike, thus continues and worsens. Newspapers cover the story thoroughly. The state of the city and country span two pages that follow 14 pages on Sarkozy's divorce. The emotional turmoil caused by divorce make the days dark.
This morning gives way to another frigid walk. It's easier than yesterday. My body begins to adapt to the difficulties of life without public transport. I pass through the Jardin du Luxembourg. I note that there are plants growing throughout; it has begun to be overrode by vegetation. Anarchy is not far off.
Coffee prices have soared. Croissants are nearly impossible to find. The French have stopped talking about socialism. "Putains" and "merdes" can be hear loud and often. The "politesse" has vanished. Children playing boules have been replaced by old, hairy men who are remarkably unfriendly looking. Did I mention that the metro isn't running?
Arrive at classes. Others arrive one at a time. Wearied and exhausted. Saddened by Cecilia's departure.
The toll of the divorce and strike become clear tonight as Argentina demolishes France in rugby. Many see it as a sign. Symbolic of the nation's destruction. Miss Cleo predicted the loss on TF1 years before, but no one listened. Nostradamus didn't see shit though. Oh well, hopefully Nostra's got it right this time and "le greve" will finish soon. All of France will actually be mortified if they can't see England get destroyed by South Africa in the Rugby World Cup Finals. I think even "la manifestation" is "d'accord" on this one.
Despite horrid conditions, President Sarkozy does not give into demands of public transport workers. The strike, thus continues and worsens. Newspapers cover the story thoroughly. The state of the city and country span two pages that follow 14 pages on Sarkozy's divorce. The emotional turmoil caused by divorce make the days dark.
This morning gives way to another frigid walk. It's easier than yesterday. My body begins to adapt to the difficulties of life without public transport. I pass through the Jardin du Luxembourg. I note that there are plants growing throughout; it has begun to be overrode by vegetation. Anarchy is not far off.
Coffee prices have soared. Croissants are nearly impossible to find. The French have stopped talking about socialism. "Putains" and "merdes" can be hear loud and often. The "politesse" has vanished. Children playing boules have been replaced by old, hairy men who are remarkably unfriendly looking. Did I mention that the metro isn't running?
Arrive at classes. Others arrive one at a time. Wearied and exhausted. Saddened by Cecilia's departure.
The toll of the divorce and strike become clear tonight as Argentina demolishes France in rugby. Many see it as a sign. Symbolic of the nation's destruction. Miss Cleo predicted the loss on TF1 years before, but no one listened. Nostradamus didn't see shit though. Oh well, hopefully Nostra's got it right this time and "le greve" will finish soon. All of France will actually be mortified if they can't see England get destroyed by South Africa in the Rugby World Cup Finals. I think even "la manifestation" is "d'accord" on this one.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)