Los Angeles: The beginning of the end of the beginning

At some point, I am going to do a proper post with photos, amusing anecdotes and the tales of woe and suffering that seem to please all you readers so much, but at the moment, I'm going to stick with a "I'm still alive post."

In effect, we arrived in Los Angleles on Sunday. Since then, we have found an apartment, Amynah got a Social Security number, we've transferred our meagre belongings to our place, I've ordered, but not yet received, phone and internet service, and we've done a little bit of furniture shopping.

Amynah's lab has been astounded that we've accomplished all that we have as quickly as we have, but for me, it's been endless: we have been living out of our suicases since July 31. I want my own bed, in my own place, and to have the choice of clothes that aren't wrinkled from weeks of being crammed in a bag.

The ferocious heat isn't helping my temperament either - the temperature is supposed to reach 34 degrees celsius today. The sun is my enemy. My car is covered with ash from the wildfires (which are fortunately nowhere close to where we live) - the last two nights, it was like the sun had set two hours early because of the smoke. Or maybe that's just LA's famous smog - I haven't had time to ask.

Once I have some semblance of a normal life, I'm sure my humour will improve. So far, the few people we've asked for help have been incredibly generous - our apartment is full of borrowed camping equipment, dishes and food. Amynah's relatives have been very generous with their hospitality. And our apartment is amazing - two levels, two bedrooms, a balcony, parking, quiet neighbourhood near UCLA. So at some point, our lives will be much better, and easier.


The end is in sight, but it isn't nearly close enough.

Breaking news!

So, there is an enormous General Strike here in France. There are, according to the radio broadcast to which I occasionally listen, protesting the increasing cost of living, layoffs, the economic crisis, to protect the 35-hour work week , stop university and education reforms, for public service integrity, against capitalism, for fuzzy kittens and against bad weather.



There are supposedly 65,000 people on the streets of Paris, (if you’re reading this now-ish, check out the webcam on Place Bastille here.


_{The brewers are on strike! This is more serious than I had thought.}

In Strasbourg, there are apparently 10,000 people on the streets. I ventured out, just as if I were a real reporter, on the assumption that they’d be congregating on either Place Kleber or Place de Republique. I tried to get to the head of the line, causing at least one union goon to follow me, presumably thinking I was a narc or something. The fact that I'm wearing a second-hand Canadian prison guard's jacket probably did not help.


_{The theatre people are on strike? But what will we do without... hey, did you guys see that funny youtube video that's been going around?}

In any case, they appeared to be marching in circles, and when I gave up tracking them, the lead marchers were just about to catch up to those at the end of the line, thus completing a striker’s doughnut, that would presumably march around the downtown until their megaphone batteries ran out.

Snow. Fall.

It has finally snowed in Strasbourg – only a few centimeters, but it has actually stayed on the ground, and looks to remain there, in snow form, for at least a few days to come. It’s only a few centimeters, nothing like the drifts that have accumulated in my parent’s backyards that are allowing chickadees to march up to a birdfeeder normally suspended four feet off the ground.

While I have been regaling wide-eyed Europeans with tales of –40 temperatures, and blizzards that force Canadians to use second floor windows to enter their homes, I must admit that winter here poses its own challenges.

The trick to surviving winter is to be prepared for it – I am not. Cocky about Euro-temperatures, when I moved here I failed to bring a winter coat, and even now own only two decent sweaters, both of which have been in heavy rotation for the past month.

My forecasting failings are nothing compared to Strasbourg’s. Despite being located at a latitude nearly as far north as Edmonton’s, the city appears to own but one salting truck, at which children stop and stare when it passes, startled that such a thing exists. Sidewalks are not salted, and are rarely sanded. If there is a snowplow operating anywhere in the vicinity, I have seen no evidence of it. Needless to say, no one owns snow shovels: I saw one poor soul trying to clear a driveway with a leafblower.

The “storm” started yesterday – I biked Amynah into her work, seven kilometers along a bike path that follows the Rhone-Rhine Canal. It was cold, but there were only a few isolated, innocent-looking flakes. Over the course of the day, these ominously increased in number and before long it was clear that they were here to stay.

I had a French class at Amynah’s institute that afternoon – since I knew she’d have to get her bike back, I decided to ignore my (largely hypothetical) better judgment and pedal in, so that we could bike back together. For the most part, it wasn’t a problem: I was well covered, I had headphones keeping me distracted from the cold and I had the whole path to myself.

However, because nothing is salted, sanded, or plowed, parts of the route had been compacted by car tires into pure ice. Unheeding, the Beastie Boys “Sabotage”on the iPod inspiring me to foolish feats of velocity, I attempted to make a left turn.

What happened was the bike rotated ninety degrees, but did not change course at all, its momentum carrying it – and me – forward over the ice. The wheels went out from under me; I hit the road and proceeded to slide about three meters on my side in a dramatic powdery-white explosion. Had I been in a race I’m sure I’d have made “Wipeouts of the Week” on some sports channel. However spectacular my fall, there was little damage done – I’ve wrenched my left shoulder, but it doesn’t seem serious (of course, I thought that the last time I fell off my bike here, only to discover I’d broken my arm).

Worse than any physical damage is the loss of any authority I might have had for making fun of how the French drive in the snow.

Summertime, and the living's easy

_{What? This thing again?}

A point-form summation of a near-perfect weekend:

- Friday afternoon, biking through the Illkirch forest, then into Germany and up the Rhine to Kehl.

- Being hailed, in Kehl, by a street-side flower seller desperate to unload the last of his merchandise so that he could catch the Turkey-Croat match in the Euro Cup. We walked away with five bouquets for 11 Euros.

- Watching a three-person German bar band do a Robbie Williams cover in the pre-match party by the giant outdoor screen. Star of the show: the bongo-playing Jessica Simpson look-alike, complete with cowboy boots and Stetson.

- The band was followed by a pair of 12-year old bellydancers, who took it well in stride with the beatnik-cowgirl tried to steal their moment in the sun by returning to the stage with a live boa constrictor draped over her shoulders. All class, that one.

- Saturday we hit the local farmer’s market, then hopped on our bikes to hit an even larger farmer’s market not far from the university.

- Spent the afternoon napping and reading Le Monde which came with a supplement from the New York Times. The latter came with an index explaining such mysteries of the English language like “to hit the wall.”

- In the evening, we wandered the town, taking in the sights and sounds of the Fêtes de musique, in which every village in France is turned into a stage for every semi-talented bar band that ever plugged in a Stratocaster. We saw bands that sounded like The Cure, The Talking Heads, Thomas Dolby, The Pointer Sisters, Steppenwolf, The Rolling Stones, The Sex Pistols and Hole. We did not manage to hear anything that sounded like it had been recorded in this century* (or, for that matter, anything French) but the aural walk through my youth was refreshing nonetheless. Or at least it was, until about midnight, at which point I could have done with some sleep. It was not to be, as two of the main stages were set up in front of the Cathedral and on Place Gutenberg, thus ensuring that we got to hear U2 battling it out with Aretha Franklin all night long.

- Bleary eyed and ill-rested, we hopped on our bikes first thing Sunday morning, in order to rendez-vous with Amynah’s boss Brigitte and her husband for a hike. We ended up doing the same route as I had with Tasha and Travis a few weeks before, largely because Brigitte was tickled by the name my guidebook had breathlessly given it: “Witches and Bloody Sacrifices.” The hike was a delight (I will never tire of being able to picnic in the ruins of a 13th century castle) but the return home was even better. The temperatures reached 33 degrees Celsius yesterday, and so we were all quite happy to don our fancy Euro-Speedos (or their gender appropriate equivalents) and splash around in Brigitte’s pool for the remains of the afternoon. This was followed by a dinner of loup marin and rosé taken poolside.


_{* We did hear a cover of the White Strips' “Seven Nation Army,” but it sounded like something Bruce Springsteen would have done with the E-Street Band, complete with saxophone solo. This group also won the fun French-ism of the night award: “…I’m going to Wee-shee-taw.”}

Apres moi, le deluge

It figures, that after two solid weeks of hot sun, that we would end up with this forecast just as Amynah and I are expecting a gazillion visitors, many of whom are coming from some of the rainier areas of Canada.

NB Blogging will be even lighter than it has been this week, as a result my diverting my attentions from entertaining you, my dear readers, to entertaining said visitors (nine, or roughly three times that of my actual readership). And no, they're not all showing up at the same time, though damn nearly.

Spring has sprung...

... and dumped a freezing load of karma on my head. We haven't seen a hint of snow all winter here, and now that it's officially spring it's all they're forecasting for the entire week. This is what I get for bragging, in every postcard, about the twenty plus degree weather we had while in Spain.

I'm sure my Canadian readers are choking with sympathy right now.