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IN THIS ISSUE

• Richard Ross reflects on his semester in Paris
• Arthur Pays continues his story of working in wartime London
• Jack Peaker remembers a story his cousin used to tell
• Bill McNair, Irene Harvalias, and Jack all write about plastic bags
• Gerrit de Leeuw tells of a mistake any golfer might make
• Burke Dykes´ story is about the importance of timing
• Gerrit and Tom Williamson forward an impressive video

Richard Ross indulges in some cross-cultural comparisons:

AN AMERICAN IN PARIS

In the global cafeteria, France is the most beautiful, refined, intelligent, artistic and affluent student who only suffers from low class attendance (obviously due to her exotic vacations in West Africa and Thailand), from a nicotine addiction, and lacks that special strength you acquire through struggle.

Paris, like any contemporary developed city, is propped up by a large educated population. In Europe, unlike America, to be educated automatically means one is bilingual, and oftentimes, trilingual. Many French have just as much difficulty rationalizing America´s unilingual structure as they do with our selective healthcare and expensive college tuition. Such concepts are just too foreign for comprehension, and Michael Moore´s new film, "Sicko", which I wholeheartedly recommend, perfectly illustrates the difference between French and American culture. As the film points out, the agreement that American workers are only allowed so many sick days each year absolutely dumbfounds the French. If you are sick, you´re sick, and any day you´re sick, isn´t it a sick day?

As I mentioned, the overwhelming Parisian population can speak intermediate to advanced English. Consequently, you can imagine that Paris might not be the wisest destination for an American student to go in the aim of total immersion. Nevertheless, I discovered some strategies to ensure the most amount of French conversation. First, live with a French family who are too old or too proud to speak English. Second, navigate your day outings or nightlife off the beaten path. In other words, search out the uneducated. When you´re in the company of an individual who speaks no English, you have the upper hand, and a lot more latitude to f$@k up. Lastly, a strategy I more invented than discovered, and works with even the most erudite scholars, is to introduce yourself in every conversation with, "Je suis norvege." By saying you´re Norwegian, you usually can shift the chosenlanguage back to French. Norwegian is not taught in too many French classrooms and if you accidentally address an actual Norwegian or someone who speaks Norwegian, just simply excuse yourself and walk to the bathroom. But remember, in Europe, even as a Norwegian, when you reject English on the basis that you do not know it, you´re instantly selling yourself as an uneducated Norwegian, and as far as Europe´s standards go, a really dumb European.

Paris was built on its own tradition, its own interests, and for its own people, and the early principles of Paris differ from the development of the United States. However, in the present, the infectious effects of globalization have even seeped into the cracks of what once was a watertight protected culture.

Thus, Parisians are in a brutal struggle to preserve but also to participate. The long line of ancestry of France never dealt with modern phenomenon such as immigration or international tourism. But today, things have certainly changed. Not only does France have the most immigrants of any other nation in the EU, it´s the number one tourist destination in the whole world. A people who devoted thousands of years to inventing, cultivating and perfecting perhaps the richest culture to ever grace the planet, are now in danger of losing it.

A reoccurring theme of the chronicles over the semester is the unrivalled beauty of French women. French women alone help reassure that the human race does not fall too low in rank within the beauty contest of the animal kingdom. Let me try to put it into perspective for the nay-sayer. Of course all nationalities produce beautiful people, but as far as consistency goes, France is remarkable. There is a surplus of beautiful women in this small country, I kid you not. I´ve seen wildly attractive toll booth collectors, police officers, beggars, subway cleaners, and even at the airport, alluring girls who hold the orange batons and direct the landings and takeoffs of planes. If you can find a place anywhere in this world where beautiful people are in all realms of society, on all levels of stratification, and sitting at both ends of the subways, do share. In the meantime, I´ll defend my claim with an iron fist.

We have this notion in America that the French, especially Parisians, have a fashionable dislike for Americans. I may be a wild exception, but my experiences this past half year have refuted this stereotype. I have been greeted with the utmost patience, guidance, and enchantment I could ask for. Yes, at times, Parisians may demonstrate an aura of perfection, but to be honest, it´s often merited. I´ve walked down enough riveting streets, I´ve tasted enough delicious wine, I´ve run some of the most picturesque routes. I´ve seen snow- capped mountains, eye-squinting green meadows, neon blue water and thick forests all within a few hours on a train. I cannot stress just how free you are when you are living in France - free to bring your shedding dog into the ritziest restaurant, free to drink your Pinot on a public park bench, free to wear or NOT wear whatever ridiculous outfit you choose, free to spend five hours at McDonald´s, using their free wireless internet, free to marry man or women, free healthcare, and free education. And to think, it was those bright and cultured Americans who first recognized just how free France is and took it upon themselves to replace French fries with "freedom fries".

The end.

Arthur pays continues his story of working in London:

"WHAT DID YOU DO IN THE WAR, DADDY?"

Throughout the winter of 1941 there were air raids nightly, and sometimes if the sky was overcast and cloudy, even during the daytime. The German strategy was a bit stupid, or perhaps it was because London was so big and their resources were insufficient, but they seemed to use 500- or 1000-lb. bombs and scatter them over a wide area. It was not until the heavier fire raids later in the year that they concentrated their efforts on smaller, defined targets, using UXBs, incendiaries, oil bombs, and anti-personnel bombs.

They did, however, use a particularly devastating weapon called a landmine, which weighed about 2000 lbs. and was delivered by parachute, so that it came down comparatively gently and therefore didn´t dissipate its explosive force into the ground. Instead they did tremendous lateral damage on the surface. There was one incident at Norman and Montague Roads E11, where several blocks of flats are now situated, where a whole area of two or three hundred houses was flattened by one such device, leaving just the chimney breasts sticking up.

Another duty required of employees was that of firewatching. Someone was required to be on site at all buildings to deal with incipient fires and also to call the fire service if such fires got out of hand.

There was a rota among the demolition workers to go to H. V. Smith´s asphalt works at Dagenham docks near the Ford motorworks, and two men were required to cycle from Leytonstone to Dagenham docks to stay overnight at the works. This was a ten- or twelve-mile bike ride to East Ham and along the East Ham bypass, followed by a similar ride at six o´clock in the morning to return to work at Southwell Grove Road.

There was a church in East Ham that was thoroughly burnt out and I remember being told that Hitler must be anti-Christ because he bombed Christian churches. I myself concluded that God wasn´t a very efficient firewatcher, and that in any case it was better to blow up a few corpses with bombs than to make fresh ones.

There wasn´t a lot of trouble at Dagenham from the airraids as the targets were nearer London, but I remember that on one occasion when I was on duty with a chap named Arthur Cann, a batch of incendiaries fell near us. We both turned out to deal with them because they landed on some stacks of coal which began to ignite. We were kicking them off when we were called off by a fireman who told us that it was his job. It was a bit daft of us anyway, because some incendiaries contained a small amount of high explosive in an incorporated steel capsule to discourage people from tackling them.

There were large marshalling yards in the vicinity with watchtowers and public address loudspeakers, and I was quite astonished when a loud voice bellowed out that the area was clear.

In addition to the commercial firewatching, there were local fire parties in each residential road and two-hour watch was arranged by rota each night. The local alarm in King´s Road was to be made by banging dustbin lids.

I remember that Arthur Cann was due to be called up for interview for the armed forces, and asked me if I knew algebra and would teach him, to help him get into the Air Force. His interview was the following week!

Early in the New Year of 1941 we had completed the levelling off of Southwell Green Road, and were sent to demolish a block of flats in West Ham. These flats were five storeys high with Mansard roofs, and it seems incredible to me that the demolition was left to such inexperienced workmen. I suppose there were casualties but I only heard of one fatality, which occurred when one middle-aged labourer was so cautious that he refused to climb above ground level except via a stairway, and was killed when the wall of the house fell on him during demolition.

I must say I heard the angels flap their wings when an internal wall in the Mansard roof collapsed while I was sitting on it disconnecting a hot water tank. The pipe was the only thing holding up the wall, and when I disconnected it, the wall toppled, throwing me to within a foot of the 40- or 50-foot drop to the ground.

All this work was being done on a cost-plus basis to the contractor and it was apparent to us that with the connivance of either timekeepers or foremen, men were being paid for while they were working elsewhere, or indeed, when they didn´t exist at all.

To be continued.

Jack Peaker remembers a story told by his cousin,

BILL BROWN

Our chubby cousin, Bill Brown, was always full of fun. He appeared at both ends of a long picture of about 100 people at a family reunion. He was at the left side, and as the camera swept along, he ducked down, ran behind, and came up on the right end of the picture.

He would relate true stories about family members and told this one about relative William George Dean, a vice president of the T. Eaton Company in the 1920s, 1930s and 1940s. He and Timothy Eaton lived close to one another on the Mississauga Road, outside of Toronto.

They attended the same church, over a mile away from their homes. They had become accustomed to racing their horses and buggies home after church. Bill said that as the years went by, the ride back from church became extremely competitive. Their horses went to faster and faster standard breds from the original high-stepping hackneys.

Their buggies were lightened more and more, until they looked like sulkies, with only two wheels.Bill said that at their office in Toronto, all was sedate and dignified, but Sunday after church was their time for competing and having fun.

THE PROBLEMS WITH PLASTIC BAGS

In answer to my question about plastic bags in last week´s issue, Bill McNair writes: In Hamilton, ON., the city decided that all kitchen waste is to be put into a green cart. It has a lid and wheels on it and is about 42" h X 18" sq. in size. Along with kitchen waste, yard waste can be added too. This mix is then put through a grinder and then composted by heating by the city. The composted waste is then made available to Hamiltonians for garden and farm fertilizer.

We have blue boxes for paper only and another one for cans, bottles, plastics, glass of all kinds. We use them all and all the time. Garbage dumps are fast disappearing.

In answer to my further question about what apartment dwellers do with their kitchen waste, he answered that as far as he knows, no arrangements have been made to collect it. I read on their website that the Cowichan Valley on Vancouver Island is also heavily into collecting kitchen waste and yard trimmings, but again, these efforts seem to be confined to home owners, not apartment dwellers.

Irene Harvalias asks: Does San Francisco´s ruling mean that all plastic bags, including the ones the grocery stores sell as garbage bags, will be banned, or just the ones given out by retailers? Can one can just buy bags for the various garbage containers at home, both indoor and outdoor?

I couldn´t find the answer to that one, but Jack Peaker found this story about recycling their garbage: "For fifteen years, SF Recycling & Disposal has hosted an Artist-in-Residence Program at San Francisco´s city dump. The goal of the program is to use art to inspire people to recycle more and conserve natural resources. The company provides selected local artists with the opportunity to create art using materials they gather from San Francisco´s refuse. This includes 24-hour access to a well-equipped studio, a monthly stipend, and an exhibit at the end of their residency, but artists seem most excited about having 24-hour access to the materials.

"´Many artists find and recycle materials in their art, but no one else has this much material to pick from," says program director Paul Fresina.

"The 2,000-square-foot art studio is located at SF Recycling & Disposal, Inc.´s Solid Waste Transfer and Recycling Center. The 44- acre site is where most of San Francisco´s garbage and recyclables are temporarily dumped before going to a landfill or recycling plant. Recyclable items are sorted before being shipped to recycling plants and manufacturing facilities.

"Throughout a residency, each artist talks to young students and adult tour groups about the experience of turning trash into treasures. At the conclusion of their residency, the company holds a reception to show the artist´s work and invites the public. Many pieces of art from the program are exhibited in office building entries and public spaces in San Francisco. Many artists have made a permanent piece for the sculpture garden adjacent to the transfer station and the garden is a key stop for students on recycling tours."

These stories cover a lot of garbage, but I´m still left with the problem of what to do with kitchen waste by apartment dwellers like me. Has anyone a suggestion, or know of any efforts to solve that dilemma?

Gerrit de Leeuw dug this one out of his files:

ANOTHER GOLFER´S MISTAKE

Ed and Dorothy met while on vacation, and Ed fell head over heels in love with her. On the last night of his vacation, the two of them went to dinner and had a serious talk about how they would continue the relationship.

"It´s only fair to warn you, I´m a total golf nut," Ed said to his lady friend. "I eat, sleep and breathe golf, so if that´s a problem, you´d better say so now."

Dorothy responded, "If we´re being honest with each other, here goes ... I´m a hooker."

"I see," Ed replied, and was quiet for a moment. Then he added, "You know, it´s probably because you´re not keeping your wrists straight when you tee off."

Burke Dykes sends this one:

TIMING IS EVERYTHING

A cop was patrolling late at night in a well-known spot. He sees a couple in a car, with the interior light brightly glowing. The cop carefully approaches the car to get a closer look.

Then he sees a young man behind the wheel, reading a computer magazine. He immediately notices a young woman in the rear seat, knitting. Puzzled by this surprising situation, the cop walks to the car and gently raps on the driver´s window.

The young man lowers his window. "Uh yes, officer?"

The cop says: "What are you doing?"

The young man says: "Well, Officer, I´m reading a magazine."

Pointing towards the young woman in the back seat the cop says: "And her, what is she doing?"

The young man shrugs: "Sir, I believe she´s knitting a pullover sweater."

Now the cop is totally confused. A young couple, alone, in a car, at night in a lovers´ lane ... and nothing obscene is happening!

The cop asks: "What´s your age, young man?"

The young man says "I´m 22, sir."

The cop asks: "And her ... what´s her age?"

The young man looks at his watch and replies: "She´ll be 18 in 11 minutes."

Gerrit and Tom Williamson forwarded a video of Raymond Crowe´s shadowy accompaniment to Louis Armstrong´s "What a Wonderful World". This is a video file so it will take some time to load, especially if you are connected via a dial-up modem. It is well worth the wait however! Puppet.wmv

Nobody knows the age of the human race, but everybody agrees that it is old enough to know better. - Unknown