condition, place of domicile, children, if any, insurance coverage (VERY important), state ofPHOTOGRAPHER RISKS LIFE LEANING
OUT OF DINING ROOM WINDOW TO CAPTURE SUNRISE IN PROVENCE
health, etc. etc. We had taken photos of ourselves in one of those little coin-operated booths, 4 identical copies, passport-size. We collated, paper-clipped, stapled and folded sheaves of documents. It all began to feel eerily familiar, like deja-vu. Hmmm! How strange. I wonder what - wait a minute! We did all this before, a few months ago when we applied for our visas, even to the hectic drive into the bowels of a major city during rush hour (in that instance, San Francisco), even to the identical, passport-sized photos. What do they think - that we've changed so much in 6 months they need new
up-to-date portraits? Actually, they're right. I've aged prematurely from all the paperwork.I must say, seriously, that, despite what we'd heard
TROMPE L'OEIL AND SURREALISM IN
MARSEILLES - WHICH IS WHICH?
about French officialdom ("unfriendly", "rigid", "sadistic", "the inspiration for the works of Kafka", etc.) we have always found the people with whom we've dealt to be truly helpful. They are thorough, professional, formal in the French
manner, and this can seem unfriendly, but when they see that you're taking it all seriously enough to at least try to get it right, they warm up, become supportive and a sense of humor emerges. (There, that should get me in good with their surveillance agencies).
Being there (the immigration bureau) was in some ways like reliving what I imagine our immigrant ancestors experienced on Ellis Island. There were people from all over the world, the big rooms had that universal "government office" feel, we all stood there nervously clutching our little sweat-stained bundles of papers, hoping, hoping. I really felt a sort of helplessness, like that described by Kafka, of a powerless nonentity at the mercy of unknown, probably malign, forces. The "take a number and be seated until you're called" machine was out of order, a nice touch, but somehow everyone muddled through, there was a shared commiserative we're-all-in-this-together feeling and no one stormed out in a rage.
The upshot is that it looks like we'll be permitted to enjoy the privilege of staying here for another 10 or so months.
But enough about us. We're just tiny protoplasmic microcellules in the vast universal organism which has evolved for billions of years in order to produce that crown of creation, the Rugby World Cup, and those most divine participants in the essence thereof, the French national team, Les Bleus. The world of rugby was shaken to its foundations on Saturday, first by England, who won the last World Cup 4 years ago by beating Australia in the final, but who have been stumbling ever since and who were shut out 36-0 in this one by S. Africa during the round-robin opening phase. They were counted out by everybody but have been slowly coming together and beat an overwhelmingly favored Australia AGAIN Saturday morning in the sudden-death quarterfinals. Major trauma down under. But wait! There's more! A few hours later, France, who are hosting the Cup but who lost their opening match against Argentina, played (cue the fanfare) NEW ZEALAND, the Gods of Rugby who are always favored whenever and whomever they play, and Sacre Bleu! they beat THEM too! I actually read in the paper today that the stock markets in NZ and Australia are expected to slump and coaches have already quit in disgrace. So next week France and England will meet in one semi-final and Argentina and South Africa, both very good teams, will meet in the other. I'd like to see France and Argentina in the final with Les Bleus getting sweet revenge for their opening defeat, and England getting THEIR revenge against South Africa in the 3rd place game. Allez Bleus!
Oh, I forgot! When we were walking down the Rue de Rome in Marseilles after our interrogation by the immigration people, we passed within arms' length of 2 of England's players, Mike Catt and Matt Stevens, who are about the size of a linebacker and a defensive tackle, respectively, (my attention was first drawn to them because Stevens weighs 260 and has NO NECK). They were casually strolling along, shopping bags in hand, clad in these pedal-pusher, capri-style mid-calf-length pants that seem to be all the rage now, at least here, where males of all ages are wearing them. Even guys older than ME! With tank tops.
The local soccer team, Olympique Marseilles, continues its Jekyll/Hyde season. They were expected to contend for the league championship but started out terribly, the coach was fired, a new one was hired, a faint hope was kindled which burst into a mighty blaze of optimism when OM beat Liverpool, a perennial power, in Liverpool in a Champions' League match. The relief was short-lived, however, because they then proceeded to lose another French Ligue 1 match and are now in danger of (horrors!) relegation to Ligue 2 next season. That's sports
for ya'!On Sunday we drove to Salernes, a village in the Haut-Var about 50 miles or so northeast of here noted for its ceramics. All the pottery places were closed but the market in the square was in full swing and we walked around, had lunch, walked around some more and fished the La Brecque on the way home. Autumn is just gorgeous here, and we discovered an extremely scenic route home along the base of Mont St. Victoire.
And then there's politics. Or rather, the soap opera that politics have become. Up until recently the private lives of politicians were shrouded from public view by an unspoken understanding between the bigwigs and the press, which allowed all kinds of weirdness, corruption and hanky-panky to flourish in the shadows. Government officials had secret bank accounts, parallel families, scandalous affairs, and little of it became public knowledge. (That's 'knowledge' as opposed to 'suspicion". The French have a deeply-ingrained, permanent suspicion of all government and its funtionaries.) Lately, though, they've gotten in step with the march toward celebrity culture (or anti-culture) as perfected by the unholy marriage of Showbiz and Marketing in the States, and now there are no secrets anymore. And the situation the last year has provided plenty of grist for the rumor mills. First, Nicolas and Cecilia (the Prez and First Lady, or Premiere Dame) briefly separated 2 years ago and she was hanging out with some American advertising executive (Perfect! She's a former model and TV personality.) until her husband flew over and brought her back (dragging her by the hair? Naah.). Sarkozy's main rival for the presidency was Segolene Royal, a Socialist who had lived with her party's chairman, Francois Holland, for years, long enough to have had 4 kids together. During the campaign, though, one of the big periodicals (Paris Match, maybe) assigned a beautiful young woman reporter to cover Holland's activities and, voila, they fell in love, he was photographed kissing her feet at the beach (I'm serious, I saw the picture) and he left Segolene. She recently declared herself recovered from the trauma and ready to re-enter the political arena. Now, Cecilia Sarkozy is coming under increasing criticism for some erratic behavior, especially her propensity to absent herself from official functions under some lame pretext. She snubbed the Bushes when on vacation in New Hampshire this summer, pleading illness to avoid a Bush Family Barbecue (Now doesn't that sound like fun?) but was seen shopping; she didn't turn up for the official dinner of the G8 ruling powers; and just the other day she skipped a visit to Bulgaria with Nick where she was to be honored for her part in getting some Bulgarian nurses freed by Libya. Now rumors are swirling to the effect that the First Couple is on the brink of another separation or divorce, and the electorate is eating it up. But we here at Unutterable Gaul are happy to be able to lay these rumors to rest. Our exclusive sources have informed us that Cecilia has rejoined her husband on the campaign trail (see last week's post) and is brimming over with the milk of human kindness.
WILL CECILIA BE PUT OUT TO PASTURE?
PRESIDENT DEFENDS WIFE AGAINST
CHARGES OF BULLYING - "UDDERLY
RIDICULOUS! SHE'S NOT BOSSY!"
Au revoir until we meat again. Tom
1 comment:
Loving it, Tom.
You were born to blog.
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