Je ne sais ... wha?

I just love Paris. It must be the American in me, since just about every self-respecting European friend I have tends to cringe at my suggestion of a city trip to Paris, and apparently would rather spend the afternoon having a root canal than roaming the filthy streets of that fairy-tale 'City of Lights'.

I grew up with this romantic idea of Paris, probably like just about every other American girl on the planet. I wonder if it was some form of American propaganda, to idealize and at the same time mock parts of the world you were probably never going to get to see for real. Besides, if you wanted to go to Paris, you wouldn't have to leave the country at all! You could go to Paris, Texas. Same thing.

Lucky for me, I have these nomadic parents who have brought my brothers and I up with the family creed: 'Wherever I lay my hat is my home'. We moved to the Netherlands when I was 15 and I have seen more of the continent than a lot of my peers whose parents weren't wealthy enough to send them backpacking through Europe after highschool. And of all the cities I've visited, Paris; with its snobby vagrants, foul streets and expensive beverages, has somehow stole a place in my heart.

So what is it about Paris that I love? It's not the French who live there. It's virtually impossible to gain access to their good graces as a tourist, as anyone with a limited French vocabulary will know. And when I say limited, I mean non-existant. In fact, even attempting to ask directions or order a coffee in French when your pronunciation and use of grammar is anything but flawless, is probably more insulting to a French native than telling them their mother resembles some kind of farm animal. My husband once told me an amusing and pertinent anecdote based on this very topic. While he was visiting Paris in the 1980's, his caffeine dependancy surfaced at one point in the day, and he decided to get a warm, milky coffee at one of the nearest cafés. When the waiter came to take his order, my husband foolishly asked for a 'Cappucino'. Oh, the horror. The waiter, whose expression portrayed the shock and dismay of a man who had been insulted to his very core, repeated with contempt, 'Cappucino?!' and then thoroughly put my husband in his rightful place by saying, 'Caf-é-au-LAIT!! Ce n'est pas l'Italie, monsieur!!!'
So, no, it's not about communicating with the locals.

So what is it about Paris that I love? It's not the food. Although I am certainly a fan of French cuisine (and pretty much every other cuisine out there), I wouldn't go so far as to say I'd travel all the way to Paris just to eat there. I'd be just as happy bringing my own home-made brown bread, a chunk of Gouda cheese and a bottle of Californian red wine and munch on that on the bank of the Seine than dine on an overpriced, overrated dish in some overcrowded corner café.
So, no, it's not about the food.

So what is it about Paris that I love? It's not the art. Well, not necessarily. As fond as I am of French movement, I am equally as fond of the American, Spanish and Dutch ones, to name but a few. If the opportunity arose to gaze upon an authentic Monet while in Paris, I certainly wouldn't turn it down. But if it included a trip to the Centre Pompidou, which to me is just pompi-pompous, I would probably opt to stay in the hotel and watch pay-per-view.
So, no, it's not about the art.

So what is it about Paris that I love? It's not the fashion, even though when it comes to being a fashion victim, I am pretty much DOA. It's common knowledge to even the most unfashionable among us that Paris is the genesis of couture, and I would most definitely become the proud owner of an original Chanel or Gaultier, if only I could manage to win the lottery or inherit a fortune. Unfortunately, the likelihood of either of those options actually becoming reality is utterly out of the question. But naturally, when in Paris, I wouldn't hesitate to wander along the Champs Ellysees in the hopes of admiring the very latest and glamorous French trends sure to be displayed in the shops. But in reality, la plus belle avenue du monde is a tourist trap which Starbucks and H&M have squeezed their internationally franchized backsides into, and where one has to dodge in and out of a horde of absent-minded visitors of every nationality just to get from the Place de la Concorde to the Arc De Triomphe, never mind getting a glimpse at any fashion in the shop windows. And if one goes to Paris in the hopes of seeing the locals all clad in charming black-and-white striped t-shirts and jaunty little berets, one will be gravely disappointed.
So, no, it's not about the fashion either.

So exactly what is it about Paris that I love? Maybe it's the overwhelming contrasts one can't possibly ignore there. To me, it's a city so bustling with life yet at the same time delapitated with neglect. Somehow, the Parisians have managed to cram an abundance of impressive architecture into just a few square kilometers, so it's possible to walk from one end of the city to the other and admire a multitude of amazing structures and historically important monuments along the way. What you also can't help but notice is how the streets, though lined with exquisite beauty, are filthy enough to make a sewer rat think twice about settling down there. Maybe the idea of the architecture is to draw your attention away from whatever horror you might step in on the pavement.

So, if you choose not to walk, the Métropolitain is an excellent, yet decidedly hair-raising, alternative. Once you decend into one of those dark, underground caverns and eventually overcome the penetrating aromas of urine and stale booze long enough to comprehend the Metro map, you can actually get where you want to go in a flash! Granted, some Metro cars look, feel and sound ready to fall to pieces as soon as they get underway and gain momentum over those dodgy tracks. But as far as I know, the Metro network rail system, which intertwines more intricately than the Jersey Turnpike, has never once been on the news headlines for crashing down. Despite the jarring ride and sounds of grating metal that would otherwise be cause for great alarm, I feel utterly safe as I zoom underneath the streets of Paris.

And upon reaching your destination, whatever it may be, you can be sure you aren't the only one whose bright idea it was to go there. According to Wikipedia:
'Paris is one of the most popular tourist destinations in the world, with over 30 million foreign visitors per year'.
The last time I was there, I could've sworn it was 30 million in one day, 20 million of which were in the same Metro as me en route to the Eiffel Tower. Aaah, the Eiffel Tower. Like so many other monuments and attractions in the 'The City of Lights', it stands and waits, as it has for decade upon decade, for the masses to gravitate towards it and thoroughly fill up their memory cards with digital snapshots of every angle it has to offer.

To me, Paris is a place where you can sit in one spot and watch the hectic throng of people rush by for hours on end. Or, you can let yourself be swept up and carried along with the current, just like a mouldy crust of French bread flowing along the Seine. Maybe it's the time of year, or the sentimental bout of romance I'm feeling at the moment, but most likely, my sudden longing for Paris was brought on by watching Disney's 'Ratatouille', a computer-animated movie that takes place there, and incidentally manages to make CGI food look good enough to make your stomach growl.

Paris has something, that oh-so all-encompassing je ne sais quoi that most people don't want to know, but have to admit it's there. I don't care what any of my more worldly European friends with the right upbringing say, I just love Paris.

Greetings From GanjaLand, Wish You Were Here

I live on the border of Holland and Belgium, which is a dodgy place to live for many reasons (see my previous rant). It's a place where cultures meet, and often clash, in pursuit of adventure, insight or in this particular area, pot.

There is one main road that leads from Belgium into the first major city of Holland, Terneuzen, where the infamous coffeeshop Checkpoint is located. Whomever founded Checkpoint is one clever hombre, because it's not only the only coffeeshop anywhere near the border, it's waterfront property, and located right smack in front of the city's one and only concert hall. This must be advantageous to certain parties besides Checkpoint's regular crowd of stoners; surely jazz musicians performing in the concert hall must see it as an added bonus that they only need to follow their noses from the artist entrance to Checkpoint's front door.

I once participated in a local radio debate about Terneuzen and it wasn't long before the issue of Checkpoint, its unfavorable location, its objectionable clientele and its overal shoddy appearence came up. This was a few years ago, when Checkpoint was a seedy, dilapidated building surrounded by pieces of asphalt which could only be assumed to be a parking lot. At one point, for reasons we will never know, the owner thought that he could elevate the esteem of the place by painting the building fluorescent green. By the looks of the paint-job he'd administered, it was obvious no one had told him beforehand he needed to use paint intended for outdoor use instead of finger-paint, which was evidently what he opted for. Undoubtedly a more cost-effective decision in the long run.

Not that the people of Terneuzen has ever really considered Checkpoint to be any sort of blemish on the face of its fine city. I guess when the traffic signs pointing the way to a coffeeshop are bigger and more prominent than those pointing to a cultural institution of any kind, you know that city has a problem deep down, they just don't want to admit it. Apparently, the city of Terneuzen could live with Checkpoint's appearance, but it was still situated so prominently in the wrong spot, even the city's rat population was beginning to get a little embarrassed. Something had to be done.

So what did the city of Terneuzen do to solve the problem? Did they tear the run-down building down and build a glorious monument to honour war heros in its place? No. Did they level the unsightly thing to make room for a handicap entrance to the concert hall? No. Did they demolish the repulsive piece of architecture in order to construct anything at all, like a playground? A sidewalk? A bus-stop?! No. Checkpoint was simply moved 50 meters to the right and the owner was even given permission to renovate and even add a story to an already recurring nightmare.

One can only conclude: trade is holy. The number of Drugs Tourists that enter Terneuzen on a daily basis must be staggering, so the amount of money they spend at McDonald's must be staggering as well. I bet the mayor of Terneuzen probably remembers from his wild youth that Mary Jane gives you the munchies so bad, you'd sell your gold fillings for a bag of nachos. Terneuzen could do with that kind of tourism.

As I drive to and from Terneuzen, I often see shabby cars with license plates from Belgium and France swerving over the road, usually containing three young males in baseball caps and emitting a fragrant blueish smoke from its cracked windows. If they're driving towards the city, all three of them will be sitting upright, looking about them frantically and probably listening to Limp Bizkit. If they're driving back towards the border, it's likely they will be slumped low in their seats, passing a fat blunt from the front to the back seat and listening to Bob Marley. You see, regardless of their origin, Drug Tourists are cliché.

It's a mystery to my why Drug Tourists risk traveling such great distances for a little bit of dope in such amazingly unreliable vehicles! More often than not, I see yet another broken-down Honda Civic along the side of the road with smoke still gushing out from under the hood. A couple of young men in baseball caps will be lingering around the car looking glum as a third desperately tries to get through to someone on his mobile. Maybe he's trying to call Checkpoint, to make sure they won't sell all the weed before they get there. I always wonder if they will end up walking the rest of the way to the coffeeshop, their own personal Walhalla. Distance is then no longer an issue, I guess, when there's pot to be scored. It's a 'no turning back now' scenario...

Not only is there the relatively harmless Drug Tourist I have to contend with on the open road, there's also a more professional, highbrow Drug Commuter. They tend to drive in a slightly newer version of the Honda Civic with real tinted windows and flames along the side that they didn't paint on themselves. These are the 'big guys', the 'head honchos', or at least they like to think they are. In all likelihood they're nothing more than a runner for the Drug Baron, who in turn is probably on some other big guy's payroll as a lowly go-between, and so on and so forth til you end up in Columbia where they don't really give a shit about dope anyway.

The Drug Commuters probably buy a couple kilos of marijuana and take all the B-roads back over the border, a long and tedious route for them, to be sure. Unfortunately, my route home just happens to be on one of these B-roads where I often find myself in front of a souped-up Civic with frenzied occupants behind tinted glass, unquestionably loaded up with cannabis on their way home from a hard day's work. At times like that, I'd give anything to be behind this crazed motorist, whose back seat is probably littered with a couple kilos of skunk and assorted used McDonald's wrappings. They're probably cursing their luck as well at being stuck behind a law-abiding citizen like me in a family sized Toyota when the odds of sharing the road with a co-Commuter are actually much higher.

It's common knowledge that the Drug Commuter wants to get across the border a.s.a.p, and although the B-roads are the safer route, they're certainly not the quickest. A run-in with the law on the main road, which is under frequent supervision, would give a whole new meaning to the concept of 'a bad trip', something the Drug Commuter will do just about anything to avoid.

So what other option do they have than to cling onto my bumper like it was a long-lost college roommate and force me to get a move on. Seeing as I usually like to return home after grocery shopping in one piece and without any dents in my car, I tend to just pull over and let the Drug Commuter pass me. Sometimes I try to see if they give me a little 'thank-you' wave from behind those dark windows, but they drive past me at a speed comparable to Warp 2, so it's doubtful they would have time to.

To this day, Checkpoint is alive and well and flourishing in Terneuzen, and it will most likely never ever go away. And the youth of France and Belgium can, based on the reliability of their vehicles, commute freely to and from its newly renovated structure without that pesky concert hall getting in their way. The big guys can do their jobs, collect their goods and still make it through the drive-thru and onto a safe B-road before the cops even know they've been in town.

Business as ususal.

Viva la Ganja.