It had to happen sooner or later, elitism. The question is why now? Didn't I become one when I got here? And how did I used to brand myself? The last question I could answer as follows: a guy interested in foreign affairs with a rather desperate fear that he will never find worthwhile employment. What I am now is quite different. It would be impossible to say what, exactly, but as an elitist I don't really have to tell you. Instead just examine some of the features. See what they create when you put them together. It's gestaltian, or something, hah.
Old Bob: Starbucks
New Bob: Blue State Coffee
Old Bob: The Shins
New Bob: World Music
Old Bob: J Crew
New Bob: J Press
Old Bob: Hated New Haven because it is dangerous
New Bob: Loves New Haven because it is authentic
Old Bob: Rarely named dropped, considered it rude
New Bob: Big time name dropping, pretends not to notice
Old Bob: Went to classes
New Bob: Attends directed readings
Old Bob: Racketball
New Bob: Squash
Anyways, I need to go grab a quick sushi with Tony Blair
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Monday, January 5, 2009
Scavenging
Living in a hostel on a fairly limited budget has meant a bit of scavenging. I pick up anything I can find that could be useful: bits of leftover food from the free breakfast, a book, internet acess cards that people leave lying around, and, perhaps most importantly, a South Americans discarded bottle of cologne. I am in Paris by myself for a few days, so in a sense I have also done a bit of scavenging for friends.
Photojournalism is about action verbs, the budding Romanian photojounalist told me. We were sitting in a coffeehouse endlessly, neither of us had anywhere to go. He explained growing up in Romania where no one understood his talent, and his moment of triumph when national geographic accepted one of his pictures, the one about the trash collectors in the danube delta. Photojournalism you see, blended perfectly his passions for the environment and talking to people. As a photojournalist you have to make your subjects comfortable, so comfortable with your presence that they forget you are there.
Smelling like a South American, I entered a different coffeehouse, of the second variety that I described earlier. It was a bit too expensive but I was cold, and I did not see many tourists. A somewhat distraught woman kept looking at the door and then at my book. I looked horrible and am not in the habit of picking up strange French women in cafes, to be frank. What was she doing? After awhile, perhaps it was the way I smelled, she offered to buy me another coffee. She explained that the man she was waiting for had apparently ditched her, but she thought highly of the author I was reading. I did not want to make the evening too exciting, so I started talking intensely, too intensely, about politics. The evolution in international sovereignty is the most significant facet of globalization, and the like. In the sense that she supplied me with a list of left wing authors and then continued on her way, I suppose it had its intended effect.
Photojournalism is about action verbs, the budding Romanian photojounalist told me. We were sitting in a coffeehouse endlessly, neither of us had anywhere to go. He explained growing up in Romania where no one understood his talent, and his moment of triumph when national geographic accepted one of his pictures, the one about the trash collectors in the danube delta. Photojournalism you see, blended perfectly his passions for the environment and talking to people. As a photojournalist you have to make your subjects comfortable, so comfortable with your presence that they forget you are there.
Smelling like a South American, I entered a different coffeehouse, of the second variety that I described earlier. It was a bit too expensive but I was cold, and I did not see many tourists. A somewhat distraught woman kept looking at the door and then at my book. I looked horrible and am not in the habit of picking up strange French women in cafes, to be frank. What was she doing? After awhile, perhaps it was the way I smelled, she offered to buy me another coffee. She explained that the man she was waiting for had apparently ditched her, but she thought highly of the author I was reading. I did not want to make the evening too exciting, so I started talking intensely, too intensely, about politics. The evolution in international sovereignty is the most significant facet of globalization, and the like. In the sense that she supplied me with a list of left wing authors and then continued on her way, I suppose it had its intended effect.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Cafes in Paris
My take on cafes in Paris is this. To be clear, before I go anywhere, I like them quite a bit. My opinion is based solely on the quality of the coffee, it is quite good. As clearly as I can tell, they fall into three categories.
The first contain the old, historic, expensive ones, the type Hemingway visited 80 years ago. Coffee and a pastry of some sort there costs in the neighborhood of 15 dollars. If you start to read there, or start to write in anything resembling a journal, you will immediately be branded a sentimentalist idiot. This may or may not be written from personal experience, I will not say.
The second type is found on the grand street corners, the place, as they say here. I will try to avoid using French as much as possible, because as an American it disgusts me. However you cant argue with the coffee, the chocolate, or the pastries, so I will continue describing the second type of cafe. It is still expensive. Perhaps a bit cheaper than the first type but not much, still looking to pay more than 10 dollars for coffee and a pastry. The view will be wonderful, cars and mopeds whizzing by, the table tops, the floor, and the decoratioins inside will be immaculate. You will convince yourself it was worth it. I did just a few hours ago.
The third type of cafe is located in the middle of the boulevards, or on the corners of lesser avenues. Few tourists and you are usually addressed in French. What I shoot for is to pay 5 Euros for a pastry and a coffee. I ask alot, I know.
Tomorrow I am headed to Chinatown, expecting that the French have mixed up Vietnamese people with Chinese people and I will find good Vietnamese food there.
The first contain the old, historic, expensive ones, the type Hemingway visited 80 years ago. Coffee and a pastry of some sort there costs in the neighborhood of 15 dollars. If you start to read there, or start to write in anything resembling a journal, you will immediately be branded a sentimentalist idiot. This may or may not be written from personal experience, I will not say.
The second type is found on the grand street corners, the place, as they say here. I will try to avoid using French as much as possible, because as an American it disgusts me. However you cant argue with the coffee, the chocolate, or the pastries, so I will continue describing the second type of cafe. It is still expensive. Perhaps a bit cheaper than the first type but not much, still looking to pay more than 10 dollars for coffee and a pastry. The view will be wonderful, cars and mopeds whizzing by, the table tops, the floor, and the decoratioins inside will be immaculate. You will convince yourself it was worth it. I did just a few hours ago.
The third type of cafe is located in the middle of the boulevards, or on the corners of lesser avenues. Few tourists and you are usually addressed in French. What I shoot for is to pay 5 Euros for a pastry and a coffee. I ask alot, I know.
Tomorrow I am headed to Chinatown, expecting that the French have mixed up Vietnamese people with Chinese people and I will find good Vietnamese food there.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
