A Little Brit o' That...

I was having fun sending little Twitter updates from my phone on Saturday, gloating about my glamorous life. I found a last-minute deal on Eurostar for a daytrip to London, and thought, "Why the hell not? That's why we moved to Europe." Well, that and getting away from the festering pile of decay that is the political/economic atmosphere in the US - though that doesn't matter much in a globalized economy where we're all screwed anyway.

But I digress. While Joe Sixpack and Caribou Barbie are concerned about their insolvent banks and soon-to-be-foreclosed homes, we were living it up, sipping champagne and quaffing Scotch, hurtling toward London at some respectable fraction of the speed of sound.

We were on a First Class car full of Welsh pensioners on their way back from a coach tour of Switzerland, a jovial group averaging about 126 years in age. Give or take a few years. As the youngest people in the car, we apparently warranted a huge round of applause for our young newlywed status - or perhaps for our ability to withstand cold weather. Asked where we were from, we told them that we were Californians but now lived here. "What's wrong with you!?" one demanded. "It's too sunny in the States," we snarked back. "Skin cancer, you know."

"We love Florida," one of them said.

"I know," I wanted to say, "Old Brits love Florida more than George Michael loves anonymous sex and crack cocaine." But considering the company, I had to lie. "Oh, it's wonderful there. Orlando's brilliant any time of year!" I pandered to the couple who'd be sitting across the aisle from me for the next couple of hours.

To be honest, I don't blame them for loving Florida. All my memories of the place are fond. Gorgeous beaches, gorgeous women, gorgeous sunshine, more gorgeous women. Like me, they probably think "Beaches, binge drinking, and bikinis," and their subsequent perpetual boners, as opposed to "The Florida Gators, Katherine Harris, and Jeb Bush," which are enough to make anyone permanently flaccid. Florida is like Viagra - fun for the young who indulge in it, a last grasp at life for the aged, and a huge contributor to our fucked up system. How appropriate that it's shaped like the hanging schlong of America.

If Florida is America's cock, then London is Europe's pussy - or at least the loose-moraled hussy that keeps letting America fuck it. I'm not sure what the "special relationship" that Bush and Blair consummated is, exactly, but it doesn't seem like Gordon Brown has done anything to clean up the wet spot it left. Like its fellow sputtering empire, Britain is all commerical freewheeling and part police state.

Peppered amongst the 9,587 adverts flung at you every minute are stark reminders from the state. I don't mind being told to "Mind the Gap" on the Tube, but I get a bit uncomfortable being told, "Your town, your street, your home - it's all in the database." Or, "To find out what an illegal minicab can cost you, ask a rape victim." Or, "Think your belongings are safe? Think again."

Fear, fear, fear, and more fear!

Luckily, London is full of beer, beer, beer, and more beer!

Between rounds of shopping in the hipster-clogged new markets in the East End and the tourist-clogged high street shops of the West End, we downed some much-needed hand-pumped cask ale. Sure, you can get beer with a little bit of color in France, but even a pint of the crappy stuff costs an arm and a leg. After drinking beer (or attempting to, at least) in Paris, I somehow didn't mind putting down £3.30 ($5.80) for a pint of real ale. After all, you pay roughly $9 (with today's strong Dollar/Euro exchange rate, at that), for a single pint on the continent. Who knew that drinking in London could ever be considered cheap!?

The fact that a full pint of the good stuff costs less in London than a happy hour-priced pint of the yellow swill in Paris makes the trip worthwhile. Even if much of that trip is spent battling the morons of the London Underground.

I swear, I was about this close [gesturing with pinched fingers] to taking the head off of the next person who stood in the middle of a walkway, shoved me as I was moving faster than traffic as it was, or dragged their wheelie luggage across my foot with the 500-page hardcover tome on Ferran Adria I picked up at the bookstore.

That'd be the English-language bookstore. In England. Where the English books don't have to be imported. And subsequently don't cost as much as a mortgage or small vehicle, as they do in Paris.

Which has me thinking... Maybe more countries should dive into the downward spiral of financial mayhem. It makes for great bargain shopping. Anyone fancy a trip to Asia? I hear their markets are screwed, too.

The Other Side of the Coin

A few weeks ago, I mused about how political correctness hasn't gotten in the way of celebrating Easter here in France. I love the fact that the PC police haven't yet invaded the Continent. This way I'm free to laugh at all sorts of un-PC comedies, make horrifically [insert group here]-icst jokes with impunity, and generally not have to walk on verbal eggshells.

However, I can see the bleeding-heart hippie point of view about it all. It's glaringly obvious that the tolerance (for lack of a better word) for intolerance on the lighter side of life may set a precedence for overall hatred when it comes to the serious side of matters. Because apparently, no matter what side of the Atlantic you're on, the masses have a tough time differentiating between gentle ribbing and hurtful acts.

Take, for example, the recent desecration of Muslim graves in northern France two weeks ago. Now, I can understand (but never condone) feelings of xenophobia or malcontent during times of high unemployment, shrinking government benefits, etc. It's a natural response to blame "the other" when your own sorry ass isn't doing so well. But to take it out on the graves of the long-gone who - newsflash - fought for France in WWI? It goes to show that dumbass rednecks are dumbass rednecks no matter where you are in the world.

And then we turn to my neighborhood...

The XIeme a brilliantly mixed quartier with everybody from the working class to the well-to-do, a good mixture of European, Arab, Jew, Turk, Chinese, African... you name it! This diversity not only means a vast array of great eats within steps of the apartment, but an opportunity to see so many different faces and hear so many different languages. This is my kinda town.

So it was more than a bit shocking when we were walking down the street the other night - past all these shops and restaurants of multiple origins - to see two national police with machine guns at the gates of one building, with crowd control barricades lining the sidewalk on either side of the street. Huh?

Well, it's Passover, and the local synagogue needs armed protection and restricted streets to prevent car bombs and/or snipers from carrying out threats that have been called in over the past years.

This is just plain fucking sad.

We live right around the largest Jewish area of town, and the fact that they can't feel safe in their own neighborhood is just... pathetic. When we walked by those armed police and my friend explained to me why they're stationed there this week, I think it's the most put off I'd felt the whole time I've been over here.

Of course, intra-city political relations aren't always so sanguine and serious.

On Saturday, several thousand pro-China protesters converged upon nearby Place de la République (this isn't that big a deal - thousands of protesters come here every weekend, weather permitting), shouting for their rights as a sovereign state by waving Chinese and French flags side by side. And, of course some Chinese jokesters waved French flags emblazoned with swastikas, decrying the French government for terrorizing the island of Corsica. Who says the CCP doesn't have a (dark) sense of humor?

Yeah, it's a clusterfuck around here.

Obviously, I didn't think I was moving to some sort of utopia. I knew well beforehand that Europe's got its fair share of racial/religious/political problems. I knew well beforehand that those in the middle of these problems have a flair for the dramatic, even sinister. And I knew that no matter how loud I crank my iPod, how deep I delve into a book, nor how much I lose myself in a platter of ripe cheeses that I wouldn't be able to ignore the ever-present roar of politics going through the country.

Just as moving to the UK and the US wasn't an escape from the bullshit in Iran, as moving to France hasn't been an escape from the bullshit in the US, there's no escaping the bullshit here. It's just one more country and its politics to worry about.

At least now I can do that worrying over excellent, cheap wine.

Terminal Blues

I hate those couple of hours spent at foreign airport terminals before the boarding call.

It not only means I have oodles of time to kill thanks to hotel front desk staff who insist you leave four hours before your flight - time that's often spent unnecessarily spent at the Duty Free - but I also dreading going home.

Not that this trip's been all fun & games. Quite the contrary, if you've been reading up. And I miss my lady somethin' fierce, and can't wait to see her when I arrive in San Francisco.

But there's always the spectre of returning to the U.S. of A. I hate the feeling of dread knowing that in roughly 11 hours, I'll be greeted by some of the most unprofessional, uncouth immigration officers this side of the former Soviet Union. I sit here knowing that in half a day, I'll be completely incensed by the impatient, ill-mannered bastards who don't know how to stand around a baggage carrousel. And I can feel my sphincter tighten at the prospect of hearing nothing but "Presidential" this and "primary" that and "delegates" whoozawatsits for the next ten months.

If home is where the heart is, then I have one very hardened heart. (Probably more so now with last night's foie gras flowing through my bloodstream.) It's tough being in other countries and experiencing life at a different pace, with different values, and with a different perspective, only to come home to things to realize that all the people you love are surround by things you're starting to hate.

Don't get me wrong - I'm not some America-hater. But with every little footstep on foreign soil, I hate more and more what America's becoming. Impolite. Arrogant. Paranoid. I take criticism decently, so I don't feel offended by how my people and my country are handled by the foreign media. By taking a step back, I can see the ridicule heaped upon our once-great nation for championing liberty and democracy while leaning toward oligarchy and theocracy.

This isn't to say that Europe is perfect. France elected some Bush-lovin' righty in their most recent presidential election, and the previous president had to have a run-off with a freakin' Nazi. But in day to day life, everything is still imbued with a sense of politesse, that life is more than your job or your political party or your stock portfolio. That it matters more how your steak is cooked than which kook you voted for. That it matters more that you say "bonjour" to everyone you see than to call in the TIPS line because they look a bit dark.

Oh well - the grass is always greener on the other side. I should be thankful that I'm coming home to a wonderful woman, a loving family, awesome friends, great co-workers, and the best fucking city in all of America*. For whatever that's worth.


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*San Francisco, for all you misinformed people who thought your hometown is better.