Grand Tour 2017 Begins

Looking back I don't see any entries from my wonderful experience doing the Grand Tour two years ago.  Not exactly clear why I feel motivated to re-start the blog this year, but here goes.

I'm ensconced in a micro-"studio" up on the top floor of the International Hall residence-annex at  University College, London, having EuroStar'd under the Channel from Brussels, where I'd gotten over my jet lag with my brother Julius.  Though the time is nearly 10PM the sky is still light--no matter how many times I experience this strange phenomenon of far-Northern life, it still takes me by surprise. There's an ever-present hum emanating from my tiny bathroom, because the exhaust fan is on constantly--supposedly to guard against condensation--and I have already done some prospecting with my Swiss Army knife phillips-head for ways to disable it temporarily, as even with the door closed it is almost as loud as the jets passing in the distance.

I put "studio" in quotation marks because there is a galley-style kitchen along one wall, but there is no cutlery, no nothing anywhere, and the tiny fridge was off when I got here.  If the heatwave of last week had not broken, I probably would be slitting my wrists right now, because I'm sure the place was a sauna; the weather is cool now and for the foreseeable future, but if it warms up I'll probably ditch the fridge because of the heat it throws out.  Compounding the problem of southern exposure is the lack of air circulation: in the wake of the Grenfell Towers inferno, propping doors open is frowned upon, but according to a longer-term resident, the powers downstairs (like Norby the Hungarian chap who remembered me from two years back) have relented rather than face a revolution...  I've placed the (single) bed against the wall instead of where it was, dominating the entire room, so now at least there is a feeling of more space (e.g. for stretching or push-ups), and I suppose it's my way of making the place more "mine."

My students arrive on Saturday afternoon, and I have some logistical details to work out before then, even as I have already arranged most things (or verified that my Davis program coordinator arranged them).  It's a big group--29, plus an onsite coordinator--and I have only the slightest clue what sort of group it will turn out to be: I have met about half of them at info sessions and at the pre-departure orientation in May, but as I know from skinned-knuckle experiences, there is no foretelling whether there will be psychos or troublemakers or drama addicts who will spoil the entire experience.  One of my chores is to make some notes for my on-site orientation, in hopes of instilling a sense of cameraderie or discouraging the toxic back-channel talking that ruined several of my SA teaching experiences in the past.

That right there is a source of anxiety, as this year with all the stuff that has been happening back home, I feel as if I have less of a good-energy reserve to tap into, compared to past years where things were more stable on the homefront.  Some of these things were family related, some were just screw-ups and hoop-jumpings that emerged in the run-up to my departure.  If stress is like allergies, I had had a whole series of insults, and the threshold for resistance to future ones is thereby diminished.

That said, I enjoyed my leisurely mosey down from St Pancras International, where the Eurostar dumps you, not quite remembering the right combination of streets but not really caring, as I had no schedule and the weather was neither oppressively hot nor uncomfortably cold.  After dropping my stuff (and verifying that the exhaust fan was indeed supposed to run constantly, and was not defective) I elected to walk unencumbered over to the British Museum just because I could--no entrance fee, only a cursory weapons check to get in an hour and a half before closing.  Might as well practice what I preach to my students--that getting a little lost is fine, and that going into a museum and watching people / aimlessly wandering around is a great way to pass some time, an insightful alternative to the ultra-determined blasts through museums that so many tourists indulge...

Bastille Day, Chauvinism Show-Biz

This started as an e-mail but I realized it's gotta be a blog post.

Just enjoyed delicious croissants (scored just down the street / alley) and coffee here in my tiny aerie and I am watching the elite French military band serenade Francois Hollande and the dais with stonefaced super-precise absolutely-square non-swung rendition of some "jazzy" number. Now precision marching from another unit while holding rifles. Considering the hours of practice (think really good university marching band weaves and formations) at government expense for not-very-many-such-opportunities-to-show off, one wonders not that it is done well, but that it is done at all...

 Whoa--the flyovers finish right above me and to the right. Christ what a frightening sound that would be if these mofos were strafing or dropping bombs. The birds in the garden below next door are freaking slightly.

Hard to take pictures because of the time lag between when they are behind the trees and emerge in this burst of sound.

Oh very cool.  This year the parade invited NZ and Aus to honor their 1916 war dead (biggest percentage of population lost in one battle) and the Kiwis sent a squad of fully painted Maori along as well.  What is going through the president's mind? What is Francais for Whisky. Tango. Foxtrot?  I didn't grab my camera in time to catch the haka.

So glad I am not in that crowd or anywhere near.  Claustrophobia, ochlophobia, smoke-ophobia.  Yeah I had to Google "fear of crowds."

So strange to be watching this military parade and be thinking of the perspectives I got this past month in the process of teaching "Americans in Paris": I devoured several books about the end of the Occupation, and the incredibly complex decisions about how and when to liberate Paris (and by whom).  After 1871's near civil war and in light of the power of the Communists still very much present, there was a real fear of Baghdad-style fragmentation / street fighting / prolonged anarchy.  Leaving aside how close the city came to being scorched-earthed into the stone age (that was Hitler's order, ignored by German command who were already thinking about striking a better deal with the victors and not adding another war crime to their resumes), there was the symbolism of having "The Free French" under de Gaulle (who was loathed and mistrusted by Churchill) be the first to march in--with American equipment and tanks and jeeps.  There are no memorials to the thousands of collabos and accused-collabos who died in the two weeks of terror that followed, as (just as in Afghanistan and Iraq) old scores and spats were settled using the mob or the New Order as enforcer.  

Good grief.  French Foreign Legion Pioneers / Sappers complete with axes, leather aprons and of course The Beards to Fear.  Shoot, should've grabbed my camera again.

Where do they get this stuff? How many organizational spreadsheets died to organize this frickin' circus?  Not to mention the fresh paint, clothes starch, medal polish, and overtime pay?  Sure hope there's no emergencies anywhere, as the entire Gendarmeria Nationale motorcycle corps is out here.  Oh shit, the tanks come through.  Wonder what the Paris street-engineering thinks about a couple of 50-ton treaded vehicles customizing the substructure of the Elysian Fields Shopping Boulevard?  OK we are scraping the bottom of the barrel here: camo-painted flatbeds with camo-painted combat-support backhoes on them, and camo-painted expand-o-bridge dealies.  Ooh, and a combat ATV four-wheeler.  All driven by suitably stone-faced dudes wondering "How did I get here?"

So odd.  I have the sound on, and there's this endless patter, the universal language of parade commentators the world over, always one man and one woman conjuring up inane enthusiasm as they page through their inch-thick programs, breathlessly telling us what we are seeing, whether it's inflatable Mickey Mouse or elaborate Rose Parade wastes-of-flowers, or the Deuxieme Division Logistique de Marseille and their portable latrines (in camo paint)(just kidding).

This show has gone on for a loooong time.  Maybe it's over.  Huge perfectly-ethnically-mixed youth brigade in T-shirts forming a giant Tricouleur and singing the Marseillaise.  Complete with a row of kids signing the words or maybe doing interpretive dance version.

Mercifully we are done.  Hours of fun to remind ourselves of just how bitchin' we really are.

That's a take, and a wrap.  We now return you to your normal programming.  May the Farce be with you.

Normandy Field Trip

This is just a placeholder post, as I was in the process of writing some of this and then Bastille Day took precedence.  More soon.