Three months is a long time to go without submitting a post on a blog, but I've decided to space my thoughts out rather than post daily with such observations as "I've noticed I've peed on my shoe". The fact that I just have is neither here nor there.
We all spent ten weeks in Germany and Austria, me working at an international music festival most of the time and the four of us hiving off down to Austria from time to time to stay with friends who own a luxury hotel in the Alps. I gave a recital there with a baritone from the Vienna State Opera and, in a flash, a new concert series was born: future editions will feature high-quality singers from the festival with an evening in July and one in August. Dates will depend on our availability. Come along!
The cleanliness and ease of life in those two countries hits you when you return to urban France. We live in a beautiful city, but how difficult can it be to just keep it a little cleaner? Evidently impossible. Our bin has been stolen, meaning the other residents merely pile up their rubbish bags by the front door and hope the dustman - sorry, 'refuse officer' - will take them. Mrs. Fingers has to go to the police tomorrow morning to ask for another one. No doubt she'll have to spend about an hour with a highly motivated guardian of the peace to get through the associated paperwork, a wonderful use of police time.,
Without wanting to go into all the reasons why basic, day-to-day existence is more manageable in German-speaking countries I have to say that one's mindset over there, having realised one is not going to receive a single bill or a single call from marketing companies during the entire stay, is totally different. Add the fact that we were living one minute from both the forest and my workplace and had a wonderfully large garden and you'll understand the peace which descends on you as soon as you set foot in the place. If we were there permanently, life would be different (I spent 11 years in Germany yet still never considered it home) but for an extended summer stay it's absolutely divine. It's not high on many people's list of preferred holiday destinations, but more fool them: you come back relaxed, rested and at peace with more than just your own existence.
A couple of days after hitting the mediterranean tarmac I was off to play a private concert at the house of some wealthy retired Brits and immediately rediscovered the peace and tranquility we'd got so used to in Bavaria. It really is possible, here; you just have to move out of town and pitch your tent next to a field of sunflowers or some such. It would be lovely to be able to do that, but commuting six days a week would take the gloss off the view, providing it was ever light enough to see it at the end of a working day. Wouldn't see the Fingernails as much, either, and that pretty much swings it.
Night all. Back to work.
Sunday, 31 August 2008
Tuesday, 3 June 2008
We all like a dummy run at something to make sure the important event runs smoothly : mock ‘O’ levels, that is to say, those exams we used to sit before straight ‘A’s started to fall out of cereal packets ; altitude training before World Cups in Mexico and theatre dress rehearsals. Whilst a German Christmas replete with gingerbread and mulled wine, a Carnival in Rio and a White Night in St. Petersburg can conjure up engaging images of whole countries, France’s public persona could be defined by a prolonged period of inactivity i.e. the months of July and August. To enjoy these few weeks to maximum effect, the country needs a trial run. Religious festivals, white flags and human rights put their heads together and came up with…the month of May.
In Britain, we used to have May Day and Whit Monday, a pretty understandable and harmless system by anyone’s reckoning. Never to be left behind in the pursuit of meaningless political correctness, Whit Monday ceded to the pedestrian Spring Bank Holiday in 1971 and, just in case anyone was confused by a simple rhyme, May Day became the prosaic and uninspired Early May Bank Holiday. Should we ever have to re-christen the Queen we could no doubt rely on this same name-quango to come up with ‘Smiling Woman with Crown’. Whatever the title, two days at May’s extremities devoted to waiting at traffic lights outside B&Q keeps Britain happy and productive, so what do they do in France ?
Exactly a week after Labour Day, May 1st, the Germans decided in 1945 that enough was enough. Having started the month with 24 hours of inactivity the French still feel, sixty-odd years on, that the best way to nurture a new, enlightened European cuddle-fest with their mighty neighbours is to carry on rubbing their noses in their defeat by continuing to observe the anniversary of their demise as a national holiday. Easter fell earlier this year than a three-legged horse in 2.30 at Aintree so Ascension and Pentecost were sprinkled into the mix. As luck would have it, Ascension fell on May 1st, provoking enormous debates in the media about losing a day’s sitting around sipping aperitifs. Many employers backed down, offering an additional day which most people took…immediately ! As May 1st was a Thursday that made for a long weekend. More was in store the next week after Armistice Day, also a Thursday. With Pentecost looming the following Monday, many citizens of the country who voted Nicolas Sarkozy to the presidency on his ticket of ‘work more to earn more’ invoked their inalienable human right to take another day off. Yes, dear readers : Friday, May 9th had as much chance of seeing sweat and toil as a turkey hanging around Bernard Matthews’ rifle store has of seeing Christmas.
This habit of taking a day off between a public holiday and a weekend (or vice versa) is called ‘doing the bridge’ and is perfectly respectable, nay, sometimes encouraged. It’s a bit like having an unspeakably badly-behaved child and, instead of taking time out to consider the shortcomings of either his diet, upbringing or both, deciding to give his delinquency a convincing, pseudo-medical name. In a country which already religiously observes upwards of nine public holidays annually, a 35-hour working week and a bottomless summer pit of inertia, the obsession with ‘doing the bridge’ can only be attributed to Lazysod Syndrome. Even our childrens’ school suffers from it : after a two-week Easter holiday they opened for three days before taking a four-day weekend. The following Wednesday was the monthly ‘Class-free day’ (funny how that never seems to fall during the vacations) and were, naturally, closed on Armistice Day. With an academic rhythm of six weeks’ tuition followed by a fortnight off, no-one can claim that France’s teaching staff are overworked : upwards of a certain age group, teachers are required to spend no more than 17 hours a week in front of pupils; the rest of their paid time being allocated to preparation and marking. I compare that to my mother spending 8.45am to 4pm in front of a class of 40 children, Monday to Friday, coming home and cooking for two sons before sitting down with her schoolwork until late into the night and could weep.
‘Doing the Bridge’ isn’t confined to single weekends. This year, some people took the surrounding, pesky un-bridgeable ‘working days’ off and partied from May 1st to Pentecost, thus concocting a Spring Break comparable to an entire year’s vacation allowance in the US, for example. Golden Gate, anyone ?
France wouldn’t be France if some people didn’t take a screwdriver to the back of this already terminally-blonde one-armed holiday bandit and look for more. A nationwide strike was decreed on May 15th by various civil servant unions to protest about President Sarkozy’s projected reforms, their purchasing power etc. Naturally, there was no school and protesters filled the streets in many major cities and towns that afternoon: change the world, yes, but only after I’ve had my lunch. Great traditions are upheld in this country, so it’ll come as no surprise to know that this month’s National Therapy Day was…a Thursday.
In Britain, we used to have May Day and Whit Monday, a pretty understandable and harmless system by anyone’s reckoning. Never to be left behind in the pursuit of meaningless political correctness, Whit Monday ceded to the pedestrian Spring Bank Holiday in 1971 and, just in case anyone was confused by a simple rhyme, May Day became the prosaic and uninspired Early May Bank Holiday. Should we ever have to re-christen the Queen we could no doubt rely on this same name-quango to come up with ‘Smiling Woman with Crown’. Whatever the title, two days at May’s extremities devoted to waiting at traffic lights outside B&Q keeps Britain happy and productive, so what do they do in France ?
Exactly a week after Labour Day, May 1st, the Germans decided in 1945 that enough was enough. Having started the month with 24 hours of inactivity the French still feel, sixty-odd years on, that the best way to nurture a new, enlightened European cuddle-fest with their mighty neighbours is to carry on rubbing their noses in their defeat by continuing to observe the anniversary of their demise as a national holiday. Easter fell earlier this year than a three-legged horse in 2.30 at Aintree so Ascension and Pentecost were sprinkled into the mix. As luck would have it, Ascension fell on May 1st, provoking enormous debates in the media about losing a day’s sitting around sipping aperitifs. Many employers backed down, offering an additional day which most people took…immediately ! As May 1st was a Thursday that made for a long weekend. More was in store the next week after Armistice Day, also a Thursday. With Pentecost looming the following Monday, many citizens of the country who voted Nicolas Sarkozy to the presidency on his ticket of ‘work more to earn more’ invoked their inalienable human right to take another day off. Yes, dear readers : Friday, May 9th had as much chance of seeing sweat and toil as a turkey hanging around Bernard Matthews’ rifle store has of seeing Christmas.
This habit of taking a day off between a public holiday and a weekend (or vice versa) is called ‘doing the bridge’ and is perfectly respectable, nay, sometimes encouraged. It’s a bit like having an unspeakably badly-behaved child and, instead of taking time out to consider the shortcomings of either his diet, upbringing or both, deciding to give his delinquency a convincing, pseudo-medical name. In a country which already religiously observes upwards of nine public holidays annually, a 35-hour working week and a bottomless summer pit of inertia, the obsession with ‘doing the bridge’ can only be attributed to Lazysod Syndrome. Even our childrens’ school suffers from it : after a two-week Easter holiday they opened for three days before taking a four-day weekend. The following Wednesday was the monthly ‘Class-free day’ (funny how that never seems to fall during the vacations) and were, naturally, closed on Armistice Day. With an academic rhythm of six weeks’ tuition followed by a fortnight off, no-one can claim that France’s teaching staff are overworked : upwards of a certain age group, teachers are required to spend no more than 17 hours a week in front of pupils; the rest of their paid time being allocated to preparation and marking. I compare that to my mother spending 8.45am to 4pm in front of a class of 40 children, Monday to Friday, coming home and cooking for two sons before sitting down with her schoolwork until late into the night and could weep.
‘Doing the Bridge’ isn’t confined to single weekends. This year, some people took the surrounding, pesky un-bridgeable ‘working days’ off and partied from May 1st to Pentecost, thus concocting a Spring Break comparable to an entire year’s vacation allowance in the US, for example. Golden Gate, anyone ?
France wouldn’t be France if some people didn’t take a screwdriver to the back of this already terminally-blonde one-armed holiday bandit and look for more. A nationwide strike was decreed on May 15th by various civil servant unions to protest about President Sarkozy’s projected reforms, their purchasing power etc. Naturally, there was no school and protesters filled the streets in many major cities and towns that afternoon: change the world, yes, but only after I’ve had my lunch. Great traditions are upheld in this country, so it’ll come as no surprise to know that this month’s National Therapy Day was…a Thursday.
Saturday, 12 April 2008
Enjoy or be damned.
The Fingers Family don't take many trips out; my work schedule puts paid to a normal family life for the most part, but this morning was different. Faced with a difficult new project on Monday (coinciding conveniently with the school holidays) I threw myself at the recreational mercy of Mrs. Fingers and consorts. Bearing in mind we have no car and that it was already mid-morning we plumped for Carcassonne: not far and containing a medieval fortress we'd never visited.
Carcassonne itself is a pleasant enough little town if you're not too demanding: straight, narrow streets in the centre with the usual spattering of chain stores and a few independent boutiques. Still, the only reason anyone ever goes there is to bypass its doubtless abundant charms and ask for directions to the citadelle. We got there at about 2.30pm after an adequate, pleasantly-served lunch in the centre. It's a stunning sight from outside and really pretty impressive within: everything as it must have looked in the middle ages, presuming medieval fortresses then were packed with restaurants, souvenir shops and pancake stalls. The buildings have been wonderfully restored and maintained without falling into the trap one sees too often in Germany: the Disney Renovation, where 400-year-old houses look like they were just shipped out of Epcot Centre's 'World Showcase'. Some of the restaurants actually looked pretty good and the souvenirs weren't all tat but I couldn't help feeling it all looked a bit like a more natural version of the Las Vegas casino resorts. A few years ago I spent an afternoon in Venice: jam-packed with tourists and impossible to find any atmosphere. 'The only time to see this place would be in the middle of the night in midwinter' I said to myself and - lo and behold - a few years later I had to go there in early February. It was divine: hardly a tourist in sight, wonderful weather (God bless global warming) and the chance to be the only person in a square off the beaten track. I'm not sure I'll have the same luck with Carcassonne, but I can hope.
The train, a TER regional push-me-pull-you, was high on style and low on practicality. For carriages that large there were astonishingly few seats. Add to this the fact that the average train traveller down these parts would rather lick a dead rat than stand for even part of their journey, you wonder who researched the logistics of these things. People squashed and huddled themselves together where it would surely have been more comfortable to be suspended out of a window by their ankles. Personally, I'd rather stand and have a bit of elbow room than get intimate with a home-travelling student with a bag full of dirty washing.
The Fingernails were exhausted after all the walking, climbing and travelling and fell asleep almost immediately their heads hit the pillows. Mrs. F has also taken off and turned the light out, rather scotching my hopes of getting through another thirty-odd pages of Martin Amis tonight, but there you go. It's the internet or sleep for me, now.
Carcassonne itself is a pleasant enough little town if you're not too demanding: straight, narrow streets in the centre with the usual spattering of chain stores and a few independent boutiques. Still, the only reason anyone ever goes there is to bypass its doubtless abundant charms and ask for directions to the citadelle. We got there at about 2.30pm after an adequate, pleasantly-served lunch in the centre. It's a stunning sight from outside and really pretty impressive within: everything as it must have looked in the middle ages, presuming medieval fortresses then were packed with restaurants, souvenir shops and pancake stalls. The buildings have been wonderfully restored and maintained without falling into the trap one sees too often in Germany: the Disney Renovation, where 400-year-old houses look like they were just shipped out of Epcot Centre's 'World Showcase'. Some of the restaurants actually looked pretty good and the souvenirs weren't all tat but I couldn't help feeling it all looked a bit like a more natural version of the Las Vegas casino resorts. A few years ago I spent an afternoon in Venice: jam-packed with tourists and impossible to find any atmosphere. 'The only time to see this place would be in the middle of the night in midwinter' I said to myself and - lo and behold - a few years later I had to go there in early February. It was divine: hardly a tourist in sight, wonderful weather (God bless global warming) and the chance to be the only person in a square off the beaten track. I'm not sure I'll have the same luck with Carcassonne, but I can hope.
The train, a TER regional push-me-pull-you, was high on style and low on practicality. For carriages that large there were astonishingly few seats. Add to this the fact that the average train traveller down these parts would rather lick a dead rat than stand for even part of their journey, you wonder who researched the logistics of these things. People squashed and huddled themselves together where it would surely have been more comfortable to be suspended out of a window by their ankles. Personally, I'd rather stand and have a bit of elbow room than get intimate with a home-travelling student with a bag full of dirty washing.
The Fingernails were exhausted after all the walking, climbing and travelling and fell asleep almost immediately their heads hit the pillows. Mrs. F has also taken off and turned the light out, rather scotching my hopes of getting through another thirty-odd pages of Martin Amis tonight, but there you go. It's the internet or sleep for me, now.
Thursday, 10 April 2008
Why Buy?
One of the joys of not owning a car is being able to spend hours on the internet, searching for 'deals' which may or may not bear some resemblance to the price you paid the last time you wanted a temporary conveyance smelling of pine and new plastic. Living in the centre of town we've opted for the 'let's rent one when we really need one' school of thought and up till now it's done us proud. That way, we get to test drive a regular variety of the industry's finest smaller offerings in readiness for the day when we may actually get one of our own. The difference in the prices offered are extraordinary and unearthing a bargain becomes almost a pre-bedtime mania. Until it gets so bloody boring that you just want to hurl your computer through the nearest window before going off to do something mildly more interesting, like reading 'Hansard'.
Still, the car search means one thing, and one thing only: we're getting ready to travel, get some fresh input in our daily lives, catch up with relatives and eat motorway food. Germany has a novel system in place in motorway service areas: you pay 50 cents for the use of spotless loos and receive a coupon to that value which you can then redeem for goods and services in the rest of the complex. It's a decent, if somewhat macabre idea: "Here, my two craps and a pee for that bottle of apple juice and a Mars Bar". In handing over your coupons you basically inform the cashier that you have evacuated your bowels and/or bladder not fifty feet from where you're now getting a newspaper and a sandwich. I prefer to keep that kind of information to myself when out and about, but, financially speaking, those bodily functions add up.
Sorry to have mentioned that, but the Fingernails have been perfecting their Jackson Pollock tributes, again. It's gastro-bug time in this fair southern city and our two haven't been spared. Nor have the duvets, sheets or pyjamas for that matter. Nonetheless, they're over the worst and our washing machine hasn't yet stormed out in disgust, so we can consider ourselves lucky.
Still, the car search means one thing, and one thing only: we're getting ready to travel, get some fresh input in our daily lives, catch up with relatives and eat motorway food. Germany has a novel system in place in motorway service areas: you pay 50 cents for the use of spotless loos and receive a coupon to that value which you can then redeem for goods and services in the rest of the complex. It's a decent, if somewhat macabre idea: "Here, my two craps and a pee for that bottle of apple juice and a Mars Bar". In handing over your coupons you basically inform the cashier that you have evacuated your bowels and/or bladder not fifty feet from where you're now getting a newspaper and a sandwich. I prefer to keep that kind of information to myself when out and about, but, financially speaking, those bodily functions add up.
Sorry to have mentioned that, but the Fingernails have been perfecting their Jackson Pollock tributes, again. It's gastro-bug time in this fair southern city and our two haven't been spared. Nor have the duvets, sheets or pyjamas for that matter. Nonetheless, they're over the worst and our washing machine hasn't yet stormed out in disgust, so we can consider ourselves lucky.
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