Lille & the Elephants

In October 2006, Lille went very Indian and stayed so for a couple of months. Walking to the station in the mornings meant passing along a guard of honour of enormous fibre-glass elephants, far larger than life and in 6 opposing pairs with trunks which would have touched one another across the street had they been cast outstretched. Thousands of people were milling around on 14^th October, the day of the launch of this “Lille 3000” Indian-themed festival, also known as “Bombaysers de Lille” (a play on words). It was more than a little oppressive to be amongst this many people during that day. As far as the centre was concerned, everywhere, but everywhere, was packed with people. You can see Lille’s giants amongst the throngs, waiting to be blessed with flower petals in the Grande Place whilst the mayoress gave an impassioned speech to open the event. I was on a second date with a girl that afternoon and we agreed that it was a bit unbearable in the crowds so we dodged away from the Place and found a bar terrace. It was a relief to be away from it all for a while but what we’d already experienced was nothing compared to what was coming later. Some estimates put the crowd, who gathered in front of the railway station, Gare Lille Flandres (interior of station also shown), for that evening’s entertainment, at over 100,000 people. It certainly felt like that many. I had the ground space my feet covered and no more to spare. I was pinned into position by the people around me and I was pinning them right back, seemingly with no chance of moving. As often seems to happen at times like this, someone with a child in a push-chair decided that it would make good sense to traverse from one end of the crowd to the other. I wondered what it must be like to be as unhindered by the baggage of thoughts and ideas as this dolt of a woman so clearly was. A feeling of blissful freedom and invulnerability, I imagine.

Beyond the most distant pair of elephants, you see the façade of the station itself which, as illustrated, was illuminated in a spectacular Taj-Mahal-esque manner and the elephants themselves revealed that their red and gold coats were fringed with discreet, multicoloured glass beads, illuminated from within, creating a subtle and attractive effect. Between each pair of elephants and the next were pairs of large, layered lanterns in the general form of shining, golden wedding cakes and other ethnically-styled lighting was draped and dangling all around. Eventually, the entertainment began. A huge stage had been erected, covering the large, decorative pool which is normally to be seen in front of the station and, onto it, ran dozens of dancers in Indian-inspired costumes. A mix of traditional and modern music boomed out and, along with the rest of the World around me, I raised myself onto my toes to try to get a better view. I was still pinned against everybody else, including my date ;o) and, after 20 minutes of this, we decided to retreat again.

We wrestled our way out and headed off to find something to eat, passing fire artists, stalls, pyrotechnic displays, food stands and street performers along the way. Naturally, as this festival had approached, my focus had been on the food opportunities it might provide. I’d dreamed of finding a food outlet where, on the ground all around, were French people, sitting dazed and trying to pluck out their own tongues after having sampled something with which their oh-so-spice-sensitive taste buds were not cut out to cope. I dreamed of picking my way through and over these people, reaching the deserted counter and saying something like “Greetings, my Asian friend. Whatever you sold that French chap over there, yes, the one with his head in the fountain and his underpants around his ankles, I’ll have twice as much, twice as spicy please”.

Alas, even before the event began that day, I’d realised that this would remain just a dream. Reading my free newspaper on the train one morning, I’d come upon an interview within which the invited “head of nourishment” for the event, a noteworthy Indian chef, explained, presumably through a translator, the changes they’d had to make so as to provide Indian goodies around the town. They’d done their studies and, without going into detail, every prospective food vendor had accepted that, if they were going to sell anything at all during the festival, each of their recipes would need to be taken down to about 10% of its normal spiciness quotient. “Oh, bum”, I recall thinking.

Fairground Dutch Courage

I’ve re-used the middle one of the aerial photos I posted with the waffle about Lille Citadel to point you at the large, sandy-looking area to the East side of it. This is the Champs de Mars. For most of the year, the big bare bit serves a car park for visitors to the Citadel, the zoo (marked by the lower of the 2 blue markers on the photo and where our white-handed gibbons hang out), the sports facilities, the canals, the Bois de Boulogne (generic name for all the woods around the Citadel), the kids’ playgrounds and anyone who likes doing the park and ride routine to avoid the narrowness of Vieux Lille’s streets and the dearth of street parking. As you can see, the whole thing represents a really top facility to have outside my kitchen window.

As I’ve suggested before, I’m determined to take greater advantage of my position and general situation this year than I did in 2006. I think a bike would be a very good start but I haven’t yet decided whether that bike will be powered or not. Maybe I’ll get one of each. I was in a supermarket one lunchtime this week and saw nice-looking mountain bikes with heaps of gears and front shock absorbers for €75, that's 50 quid, give or take a bit. Pretty Incredible. Chuck in the (very) necessary locks, a pump, a bottle and some groin-protective shorts and the whole thing could easily be up and running for about £90. Practically free when you look at where it could take me from here. As for the motorised version, I’ve done plenty of that sort of thing in the past so no fears there. I can ride up to 125cc machines on my car licence and, as I’m not a speed freak, that’ll do for the moment. I’ve got a back courtyard where either or both could live without their being in anyone’s way so it’s really just up to me what I fancy getting. Financially speaking, I’ve seen brand new Vespa-style scooters, again in the supermarkets, for €950 but I’ve never really been the scooter type. If I buy, I’ll go for a second hand trail bike. I was pointed towards a real beauty that was being sold by someone at work a few months back but it was just a bit too pricy for me at the time.

From time to time, coinciding with certain school holidays and other festivals, the fairground comes along and, depending on which fairground we get, it can be quite fun for an afternoon or an exhilarating midnight addition to a night out.

If it’s the kids’ version, it only covers about a quarter of the Champs de Mars. It’s inevitably a bit tame but, for someone’s who’s as handy with an air rifle as I am, the chances of winning a teddy are disproportionately high ;o). As a non-parent, it’s also fairly nice to see excited little bods enjoying daft little activities. Not something I normally encounter. As a general rule and a veritable bonus, these fairs are too child-oriented to attract the yobs who inevitably hang around in and spoil the more grown-up versions. I hate yobs.

As for the grown up versions of fairs which arrive from time to time, they occupy the whole of the Champs and some of the rides are enormous. I’ve never been a huge fan of being scared shitless in the name of entertainment and, even if I’m occasionally tempted to have a go on a serious-looking ride, I tend to favour the ones which were built some time ago and have since stayed where they were built, proving their structural integrity time and time again (and available for official safety inspection at any time) as opposed to the ones which are thrown together in a day, used for a week or two and are then pulled down, packed away, hauled away and thrown back up somewhere else. When you see a guy with a spanner in his back pocket and his knuckles and bottom lip scrape along the ground as he walks, it hardly inspires confidence that the ride has been assembled to exacting standards by diligent and skilled artisans.

The only times I’ve been on any of these rides (something akin to the one pictured) have been when I’ve been walking home from some bar or other on a Saturday night at midnight or thereabouts and I’ve been attracted, like a moth, to the flashing lights of the fair, more or less visible from my outside my front door so impossible to miss as I approach the apartment. “I’ll just pop along and watch a few people dangling upside down 100m up in the air, doing their best to retain their bodily contents”…… or that’s the idea. Then, of course, Dutch Courage kicks in.

Fairground Dutch Courage is different from the kind that empowers you to cross a bar to talk to some girl you’ve never seen before. In those cases, it stays with you throughout the conversation and beyond, whatever the outcome of the approach. Fairground Dutch Courage is peculiar in that it reacts to the sound of the restraining bar snapping into place over your shoulders to clamp you into your seat. It reacts by leaving your body completely, never to return…… so there I’d be, dangling upside down 100m up in the air, doing my best to retain my bodily contents.

On one occasion, I knew I’d heard a distant clang on the ground, 100m “above my head” but I just imagined it to have been someone’s 50 cents following the traditions of gravity. I was extremely lucky. After I got back down again and was ready to walk away, I decided to hang around and watch the next batch of riders on what I’d just escaped from. About 5 minutes into watching it, wondering what the Hell had possessed me to go on the ride (realising “Stella”, of course), I was tapped on the shoulder and was handed my house keys by one of the “artisans”. The distant clang explained. If I’d walked off straight away after the ride, that would have been a long, cold night and a challenging Sunday, trying to find a way to contact the property agents to get hold of some spare keys. Maybe this particular artisan has as good an eye for detail and diligence in his engineering as he obviously has a good eye for faces.

I hope so as, inevitably, there I’ll be, some weeks or months from now, dangling upside down 100m up in the air, doing my best to retain……

When the large fair is there, as I lie in bed with the window open as usual, all I can hear is screaming in the distance. Just like being back in Leeds ;o)

Beginning to Crave!

When I first arrived here in France, the very idea of buying anything I actually recognised was against my own personal rules! No. I’d decided to come here and I was intent on walking the walk so, in the Carrefour Supermarket, I would waltz “disgustedly” past the Multi-Cheerios and shun, insulted, the Old El Paso taco kits. Peanut butter? No, Siree, Bob. If I was going to be doing any spreading it was going to be “le spreading” of Nutella choc-o-nut. If I was going to be eating crispy snacks they weren’t going to be crisps (potato chips if you’re the other side of the pond). They would have to be little brie-flavoured Arc de Triomphes or little crispy, jambon General De Gaulles. If I knew what a vegetable was, I avoided it and, if I was going to allow myself to eat potatoes, they were damned well going to be sautéed.

Time is a great mellower. I can honestly and confidently say that, over the last year, I’ve genuinely thrust myself into buying and eating pretty much what everyone else does here. I do admit that I haven’t yet got round to cooking horse (there’s just as big a fridge in Carrefour for “Trigger” as there is for “Babe”) and I haven’t yet let a snail pass my lips (although they’re only mussels without the aqualungs and I love mussels). I’ll try both of these things any many more before I’m done.

However, there’s something going on in my taste buds. In my psyche. You know the old saying “you can take the boy out of Britain but you can’t take Britain out of the boy”. God, it’s true. I’m bloody craving here! All the culinary clichés are swooping over me like the spirits at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark and my personal Ark of the Covenant is a chill cabinet in Asda (Wal-Mart), somewhere in the North of England.

The spirits are ghostly, shimmering apparitions of tins of baked beans, steak and kidney pies, bags of frozen sweetcorn niblets and a good pint of bitter (without my having to sell body organs to finance its purchase).

These things and many more besides, are currently “eating me”. I walk past bakery windows, packed with the most incredibly nice treats you can imagine and all I really want to see is a Cornish Pasty. They are, however, in Olympic terminology, only in joint bronze medal position.

In silver medal position is the Brit food cliché to end all clichés. There are two fish and chip shops which spring to mind. One, a converted cottage in Shadwell, near Leeds in West Yorkshire, the other, on the harbour-front in Whitby on the East Coast of North Yorkshire. Right now, I’d snog Bette Midler for a portion of fish and chips from either establishment (and there aren’t many things I want enough to make me want to do that).

In gold. What else? A bloody good curry! It’s totally impossible to find an Indian-style restaurant in Lille which serves anything resembling what I’m used to in the UK. (I say “Indian-style” as most such restaurants in the UK are actually Pakistani or Bangladeshi but I imagine the proprietors suspect that they would get far less trade if they advertised that fact). Resistance to spices in France is at a very low level. The French idea of something too spicy to eat is on about the same level as haemorrhoid ointment in the UK. We, more particularly I, eat Indian-style food so hot that it makes your eyes swap sockets. If you don’t need to call in two plumbers, a stonemason and a priest the following morning, then last night’s meal was “bland”.

I think that it’s the factors outlined in this chunk of waffle which are driving me to plan a few days in the UK in April. I haven’t been there for a visit for 9 months, over three times longer than I’d ever been away before and I think I’m ready.

I just hope Wal-mart, the “chippie” and the Indian-style restaurants are ready for what’s coming their way!

Long-Distance Thanks

I’m not the type who’s aloof and blasé about the fascinating things and achievements in life and I have no difficulty whatsoever in expressing how things affect and impress me. A very “up-front” kind of a bloke, you might say.

I’m absolutely delighted and amazed, every day, to see (courtesy of Google Analytics) that people all over the World stop by at Grayblogs and have a look at a few of my waffles. Today, for example, I’ve had visits from, among other places, Sedalia, South Lyon and Providence, all of which (and I hope you’ll forgive the huge ring-fence!) are generally in the North East of the United States and, a few thousand miles beneath your American boots, visitors in Jinan and Beijing in Eastern China.

I find it humbling to see this happening and spectacular that I can follow the action like following animal tracks on the Earth.

A huge thank you to you all and all to the other visitors from all over the World. I hope you gain some pleasure from my offerings and I hope to see your “animal tracks” many times again (along, of course, with those of everyone you know! ;o) …. The more, the merrier!)

Thank you!

Lille Citadel

During the 17^th Century, a gifted architect and military engineer named Sébastien Le Prestre, Seigneur de Vauban did his bit for France. He was so great that, like Mozart, Nelson, Rodin, Michelangelo and such like, he’s known to history simply by the one name, Vauban, which, as much as it isn’t a terribly well-known name elsewhere, is a name extremely famous here in France with places, colleges, parks, museums and institutions dedicated to his name and memory. His main “thing” was to design and build fortifications of all types. As a decorated soldier who’d been involved in all manner of campaigns and sieges, he was acutely aware of what made a good fortress and what constituted a weak point etc so he was able to devise the most impregnable defences of the age. He combined his military know-how with fiendish geometry and enormous scale to create forts which afforded the defender multi-layered protection and a wide field of vision over any attacker. His designs also entice the attacker into positions of terrifying and inescapable vulnerability between various layers of walls and mounds and, as you walk around these structures, it’s entirely clear that much of the weaponry we have at our disposal 300 years after his death would barely make a scratch on them.

If I walk for 10 minutes from my front door, his Citadel of Lille is at my disposal… except that it isn’t really as it’s so good a stronghold that the army still lives there. (They exist pretty much invisibly to me – the only times I see soldiers, they’re patrolling the railway station as, sadly, no Century has a monopoly on murderous savages).

I can, however, walk right around it and, if I get myself properly organised, I can take a guided tour of the interior on specific dates. Walking around the exterior demonstrates the futility of attack and lays bare the traps designed into it but, as much the structure is a massive geometrical phenomenon and wonder, as are many of his others, it’s one of those constructions which is simply too vast to appreciate from the ground.

From the air, however………

(I deliberately made the middle view 'off-centre" as, that way, the roof of my apartment is also on the photo! (At about "4 o'clock" and just in frame)) These images will enlarge with a click.

March 30th 2007 will mark, precisely, the 300th anniversary of the death of this innovator.

Lurky Seelvairr

I can still feel very self-conscious from time to time when speaking in French. It’s increasingly rare but it still happens. It’s usually when I’m talking to someone who knows me quite well but, around us, there are people who’ve never encountered my version of French before. As I’ve said, those who know me are wonderfully patient. I think it’s just that I’m not the kind of bloke who courts or craves attention. When I was a kid, I used to be in every dramatic production the school ever put on and I even once appeared in a play on one of the most famous stages in Britain but, these days, I’m happy enough to be out of the limelight and, usually, fairly invisible. If I had to choose a Super-hero to be, I’d probably choose to be something like “Wallpaper Man”, there and listening but seldom noticed.

The sound of half-decent French with a thick English accent is usually enough to turn heads here and that sometimes makes me a little uneasy. It’s attention I don’t really want, even though there’s rarely any menace or mocking attached to it. I was having a meal with a friend last night in a nice enough brasserie (“3 Brasseurs”, opposite the front of Gare Lille Flandres) and, as we chatted about the usual Saturday night dinner table things, you know, population reduction, near-extinction asteroid strike events, lunar eclipses, (same old same old), I was extremely aware that I was turning the heads of the people at the adjacent table. It’s the same if I’m talking to someone in the smoking room at work. The buzz of noise in the restaurant or smoke room means that a conversation with me cannot be held at a whisper – I need my friend or colleague to speak audibly and clearly so as to compete with the buzz and, as such, people are usually able to listen in. Maybe, over dinner last night, it was as much the content as my “Jane Birkin” delivery which was causing heads to turn but, either way, it makes me feel like some kind of centre of attention and I don’t particularly want that.

As with any of the problems associated with the language, it’s gradually fading and, being someone who, from time to time, will step onto the soap box and deliver a diatribe on some “dangerous” subject or another, I’m looking forward to a time when neither my skill in the language nor my self-consciousness stands in the way of my love of debate on subjects which really matter. In any language, you’ll rarely hear me expressing a zealous opinion on Britney Spears’ coiffure or whether it was “really a penalty kick” in last night's match. I just don't care. This stuff is impossible to avoid as even the BBC stoops to broadcast it these days but, as much as I see it in the corner of my eye, it’s automatically filed under “information of no use” somewhere dark and damp in my skull. One of the things I’ve really missed over this last year has been the opportunities which, in the past, were ever-present, to engage in detailed debate on serious subjects whilst, at the same time, injecting ladlefuls of nuances and mischief into those exchanges. It’s not that there’s a lack of French people with the cerebral sophistication to indulge me. Not a bit of it. “Real” French people are very politically-aware and can frequently be driven to passion by, among other things, their desire to maintain the French cultural identity – I’m right behind them on that one. What’s missing is a level of available sophistication in communication between me and my French friends and that missing element is, of course, for me to remedy, not them. I’ll get there… eventually!

All that said, the most self-conscious I ever feel is as a result of something completely whacky and altogether different. If I wander into a Tabac to pick up a pack of fags and if I ask for “Lucky Silver” (the “street name” of my brand of choice – Lucky Strike with a silver circle around the name on the packet, denoting the fact that they’re relatively mild In comparison with other varieties of Lucky Strike), the vendor will look at me as though I’ve asked for a porcupine on a stick. I have to ask for “Lurky Seelvairr”, an Englishman pronouncing English words in a French manner! It’s bizarre and embarrassing to do but at least I get my cigs! (Porcupines are so difficult to light)

I See Daft People

Several years ago, I watched a child being interviewed (possibly by Jonathan Ross) about a film. The child was Haley Joel Osment and the film was The Sixth Sense. As we’ve already established, I know next to nothing about children but I was shocked by what I saw and heard.

A survey was recently conducted to find out what people, the public, fear most. They were asked to list their top ten fears in order of seriousness. Obviously death figured highly on the list, a reasonable response, but, quite bizarrely, public speaking ranked above death in many people’s lists. One conclusion you could draw from this is that, at a funeral, rather than be up near the altar delivering a heartfelt eulogy in praise of the bod in the coffin, these respondents would prefer to be the one in the box themselves. Is it just me or does this seem a little “irrational” to you too?

Anyway, what shocked me about the interview was the composure of this child of about ten years of age. Not the slightest hint of nerves at conducting an interview which would be watched by literally millions of people. Further, he spoke with an eloquence, intelligence and a richness in grammar and vocabulary which, sadly, many adults never attain. This was one extraordinarily bright boy.

As much as I’m normally turned off by mystic, spooky, supernatural stories, the film itself is, in my humble opinion, absolutely excellent, as are the performances of all of the actors, notably that of young Mr O himself. There’s none of the predictable Hollywood histrionics and screams of “Oh My God!” every other scene, hysterical huffing, puffing and shrieking. The situation of the child is that he has been and still is terrified by his circumstances but his fear is largely mastered, managed and, to a point, rationalised. The terror is manifest but under-stated. A look in his eyes, a dignified tear, a clear desire to be someone else, somewhere else but, at the same time, just as the actor, the child is highly intelligent and wants to understand what’s happening around him and why it’s happening. The plot and the construction of scenes are cunning and twisty and I’ll say no more about that as it would be a bit of a crime to spoil the film for anyone out there who’s lucky enough not to have already seen it. If that’s you, find a copy and enjoy it.

In the wee small hours of a July morning last year, the 18-year-old Mr O, managed to flip his car over, causing himself a few bumps and bruises but nothing too serious. However, the serious side to the incident was that he’d consumed rather too much booze to be at the wheel and he happened to have a wee stash of marijuana on his person at the time. He was charged with offences relating to these facts and was convicted on two counts. Sentencing was pretty much in proportion in my opinion and basically amounted to probation, alcohol rehab and a fine. The police mugshot you see above speaks volumes. It shows a sheepish embarrassment at a stupid act and its consequences. An embarrassment which wouldn’t be evident on the face of an idiot.

This is no idiot but it goes to show how idiots and the intelligent alike are capable of making mistakes and, when it comes to moments of human daftness, nobody is immune and there’s not necessarily any need to incarcerate every Tom, Dick or Haley who makes a blunder or steps across the line from time to time. On the other hand, someone to whom behaviour like this is habitual and to whom a mugshot represents no embarrassment whatsoever belongs behind bars for as long as it takes to change them into someone mature enough to be free to interact with decent people.

I’m hopeful and confident that someone as intelligent as Mr O will have learnt a good and lasting lesson from this episode. Someone once said something along the lines of “Show me the child before he’s seven and I’ll show you the man”. Whilst the ages don’t match precisely, I think that if the 18-year-old Mr O wants or needs a good demonstration of how a bright and admirable youngster comports himself, he could do a lot worse than to find a tape of that interview and to watch it several times.