The story of an American dream

A few months back, I attended a story-telling class during one of my visits to Seattle. The team at Assembly Intiman provided us with precious advice and guidance on how to bring anecdotes to life, to insufflate in paragraphs sparks of emotion that will take your readers or your audience on a journey. The inspired us with vivid examples from The Moth. They explained how by bringing the story to life through with personal examples and necessary details, whilst never losing sight of the greater purpose, you could turn a story line into a richer experience. One of the exercises consisted in randomly selecting a topic and elaborating a plot on the back of that situational teaser... I picked up: "Your first crush". Here is how it ended up, after a few minutes of reflection:

"Close your eyes, and imagine. In a few months, my wife, two kids and I will move to Seattle, WA. The winter will be over and a truck filled with our boxes will be parked in front of the house we have just bought. The last reminiscences of snow will be still melting in the shade of the large evergreens. I have taken a big job at Microsoft, and I am about to embark on a career path that should be rewarding in many ways... A dream. Some would even call it the American dream.

But let me share a French dream. Her name was Nathalie. I was a young teenager attending the local high school in a small town back home, in the Alps. I was then relatively good academically, certainly good athletically and socially... well, I had friends. I did not drink. I did not smoke. And in that picture of perfection, the only thing missing was The Girl.

The year before, though, I got to know Nathalie during drama classes. As others performed the year-end play, we were exchanging connivent smiles in the promiscuity of the improvised backstage. No words. Just candid glances and smiles. As the summer broke, we parted ways for the holidays, but as our respective birthdays came, letters made their way to our mailboxes. Innocuous pieces of paper, peppered here and there of clumsy attempts to infer some sort of feelings. As many mountaineers, I am probably better at dealing with the grandeur of my surroundings than with the depths of my inner self.

Nonetheless, as school resumed, I rushed to the school gate to see in which class I was, and I could not avoid searching for her name, secretly hoping we would be able to continue that flirt between maths and geography. And she was there, her name just a few rows above mine on the pupil list of class 7D. I remember smiling at that discovery... Until she arrived and went straight in, without a look for me.

Nathalie the perfect girl. She was smart, and beautiful. Her eyes were green with hazelnut shards scattered around her iris as if a glass marble had been crushed into her eye. It is funny that thirty years later I still remember that detail because for months I was unable to look at her. I stared at her, timidly, but was unable to make eye-contact. I spent hours listening to lectures, half-present, with my gaze wandering her golden locks and my respiration slowly getting in tune with her own. I have looked at her back for hours, for days, for months in fact but without the courage to ever face her. But then came the warm, inspiring month of April. Encouraged by the bourgeoning nature (and the encouraging whispers of friends), I dared to call her out as she strolled across the schoolyard:

- Hi?
- Hi.
- Do you want to go out with me?
- No!

She had replied without the hint of an hesitation. So, as a good French, I turned around, shrugged and went back to my friends as if nothing had happened. Disappointed, deeply hurt, but utterly dismissive of the whole situation (as you rightly do when out of touch with your feelings). I was a teenage boy after all. What would you expect?

But she came running at me. Not Nathalie, her best friend. She confessed that, although Nathalie fancied me, she did not want to hurt one of her own friends who also had feelings for me. Yes, that made sense. Somewhat. Deceived by my own success... That was good enough for my ego, even if disappointing for my libido.

That same best friend called me back a few years later. She had found my number in the phone book and although we had respectively moved to different parts of town, she thought it was a good idea to let me know that Nathalie was still very much into me, but that she could not dare to reach out, after the schoolyard anti-climax. So, in a non-act of emotional courage, I grabbed my phone immediatl... a couple months later, and called her to invite her out. We went to the cinema, spent the afternoon together and as I walked her home our hands touched. An almost imperceptible brush of skin. We looked at each other. Eyes in eyes. I tilted my head. She titled hers. Got closer, and as our lips touched each other... Nothing.

Just like that, years of fantasy vanished in a brief exchange of saliva. So as I reopen my eyes, and look at these boxes that we have just finished to pack, I cannot avoid but think that my American dream may well just be another fantasy. But, you know what? I don't really care, as it is still very much worth living these dreams."

In the marsh-mellow

Spot the difference

Ever since I moved from Paris to London, my friends back there kept on asking me the trivial question: "what is the real difference between the two capitals?". I say trivial, because two different cities are by definition... well, "different". But fair enough, both cities have a certain appeal, an history, a reputation... They are attractive destinations for tourists. If both nations may have entertained centuries ago some bellicose relationships, since then the Entente Cordiale has warmed up. Exchanges between the two countries have been as frequent as a French teenager exchanging saliva with a British girl during a linguistic trip.

More recently many French people have started crossing the Channel, and no longer to discover a new mother tongue. If British retirees keep on investing in houses in France, it is more active a population that transit in the other direction. Some say it is for tax evasion, to embrace liberalism, to be offered more exciting job opportunities, to live in a multicultural environment... Many reasons are brought forward, some positive, some more dubious. But in light of that context it is understandable that people want to understand that exotic proximity. In fact, my personal appeal for that French-British relationship got me on TV a few years back, when Sky News invited me to comment on the French news that was that week abundant in the press outlet. An interesting experience...

But back to my initial question, what are the differences between both cities? After 8 years in the UK, I have now lived longer as a Londoner than a Parisian, and the disparities are becoming less and less obvious to me. I guess that is what one calls assimilation. When the difference becomes the new norm... That said, I remain French at core, and there is still every now and then a little event in my daily life that will make me smile. This happened last weekend for instance.

Wetland...

When you are the father of a couple kids, you are always on the look for new activities that will help you keep your sanity. Outdoor activities are great for that, because as Sigourney Weather pointed out in one of her films, "no one can hear you scream in space". Sympathetic friends directed us to the London Wetland centre, a marshland within walking distance to Central London which has been adapted for educational purposes for kids and other bird watching fans. You can walk around discover migrating species in a protect habitat, when 10 minutes before you were still in the middle of the traffic jam.

I realised then that this greenery was one of the key differences between London and Paris. In the latter you can walk in parks and squares, but they are nowhere near the size of Hyde Park or Richmond Park. Paris does also have a marshland... but the colourful birds there are of very different species...

Le Marais (The Marsh in French) is one of the oldest part of the city. It is tucked on right bank of the city, just off Ile de la Cite and the Hotel de Ville. It is the medieval part of town and was built upon what was then a wetland. Nowadays it is the gay-tho after having been the real pletzl. There are still some reminiscences of the Jewish past around Rue des Rosiers, where kosher restaurants and museum are available. The only surrounding humidity in that part of the city comes from sweating clubbers who are enjoying the Parisian night life to its full. Throughout the day (although not so much in the late morning) it is a vibrant part of town, with bars, restaurants, galleries, small boutique shops, hotels... And even if you are not a proud member of the gay community, the walk through these ancients cobbled streets with not-so-straight (pun not intended) buildings is a delight.

You will agree that although sharing the same terminology, both are very, very different experiences... The extra focus on the nature in London could also be the source of some misunderstandings for keen party animals. When a Parisian plans a Stag-Do he is probably not thinking of something as literal as his Richmond counterpart...

Big mountains through a viewfinder

I have already mentioned Sebastien Montaz and his picturesque work on this blog. This mountain guy has just invested time in a massive photo shoot to create a giant 3.15 Gigapixel picture by stitching 297 high resolution photos together. This picture includes every peak from the Argentière glacier near Chamonix... You can start navigating that picture below, but clicking through this link will allow you to be pin-pointed to a few "details" a la Where is Wally? A pair of skiers here, a climber there... Explore!

But why?

Credit photo: Caro Willis via Flickr

Precision questioning: the joy of parenthood.

As you may know, I am the lucky dad of a 3-year old boy. At that age, after the so-called Terrible 2's, it is supposed to be a delight to raise a child: as he is old enough to interact and understand, but still sufficiently young to avoid demonstrating rebellious attitudes. On paper, the ideal. but what this paper's small prints hide from you is that there is still some maintenance to that presumably well-oiled machine. And the keyword is "why?".

Kids want to make sense of their surroundings, of the words, of the people, of philosophical topics and astronomical phenomenons, of the weather, of the behaviour and social conventions... Each of these items is like an endless Russian doll: you start by answering a first seemingly easy question, and it triggers another one, that will raise another one, and another one... After the twentieth interrogations your rational adult brain is no longer able to get the thread of thoughts that led you to answer "why clouds are white?" whilst the conversation started on "what was a can opener?"!

Along the process, you try your best to provide answers that make sense, and keep you on the glorious altar your child puts you on. You are the source of truth. You are a well of wisdom. You are the equal to Aesop, Plato, Homer, Nietzsche, Kant... At least in their eyes, and you certainly don't want to contradict them (it feels so good). But frankly, sometimes their questioning skills are such that you reach the end of your knowledge, and most likely the end of your patience. And suddenly the answer gets less elaborate: "why is the..." he says, "because it's like that!" you interrupt.

Educational non-sense.

If children ask a ton of questions, my personal burden tallies to two tons... That is the curse of raising a bi-cultural kid. Two cultures, two languages, twice the fun. You not only need to handle the Why's but also the Pourquoi's. He clearly dissociates both cultures, so he naturally wants to make sense of twice more things but, to paraphrase Dr. Zeus' Oh, The Places You'll Go!, "sometimes they won't, because they don't".

Let's take the example of this famous nursery rhyme:

Hey diddle diddle,
The Cat and the fiddle,
The Cow jumped over the moon,
The little Dog laughed to see such fun,
And the Dish ran away with the Spoon

You have to reckon that such a infantine text, beyond the rhetorical rhymes is a gold mine for questioning children. How can a cow jump over the moon? Why is the dish running? Why our do plates do not run? Why a fiddle? Why? Why? WHYYYYY?

As a French, I have been educated with La Fontaine's fables and have learned that there is often a moral to what seems to be a light hearted text. So I looked hard at the text trying to find some sense myself from these lines. And since I could not, I started to check between the lines.

A long time ago, Bruno Bettelheim's The Uses of Enchantment: The Meaning and Importance of Fairy Tales opened my eyes to the hidden Freudian messages interwoven in Grimm's stories. So as my son was half asleep in his bed, I sat behind his bed, put a pipe in my mouth, and started to say "hmm, hmm...". Diddle? An alteration to Dildo, a phallic symbol? Maybe. The cat? Ok, that is the female symbol, that is straight forward. The cow over the moon? A sexist reference to the providing mother, and the happiness of breast-feeding? Well... I was clearly on the wrong path, and was glad that this thought process had only occurred in my brain and not verbalised to the now fast-asleep child. That would have pushed me down the altar for good.

To regain my pride, I looked at other cultural references and even cryptology. To no avail. Were these lines an acrostic, like The Beatles' Lucy in the Sky with Diamond song? No luck. In the end, I resolved myself to conclude that it may just be one of the famous British non-sense. That was not totally fulfilling an outcome, but quite handy. I could indeed blame my host culture for teaching non-sense to generations of future Eton graduates. Because of course on the other side of the Channel, obviously, we are way better. Aren't we?

Absurdity united

My mind is filled with French songs gathered during my own childhood, but frankly my Why-years are so far behind that I have not questioned or even listed to their lyrics for a very long time. But doing so, it revealed that absurdity was a shared value in nursery times:

Maman, les petits bateaux
French lyrics	English translation
Maman, les petits bateaux	Mum, do small boats
Ont-ils des jambes?	Have legs?
Mais oui mon gros beta	Of course, you silly,
S'ils n'en avaient pas,	If they hadn't,
Ils ne marcheraient pas!	They couldn't walk!

Not only is the child almost bullied by his mother, but seriously what does that song mean? Why would a mother assert that boats are legged? Why? Why? I was suddenly regressing to my 3rd year on Earth. And my convictions collapsed.

If our childhood is nothing but nonsense, how are we supposed to build our psyche? Maybe our children are right in questioning us... After all, the French idiom says that the "truth comes out of children's mouth". So from now on, I give my little one an even greater attention when he turns back to me with his interrogations. I am more patient with the real Plato of the household.

Finding the line, your line.

These days I feel somehow melancholic, missing the mountains and their exhilarating outdoor life that goes with (and probably a tiny tad of the childhood years during which I experienced it last). I am seeing myself slowly drifting in a complacent urban life.

"Metro. Boulot. Dodo." as the French triptych summarises it: Tube, Work, Sleep... Nothing to get too excited about you have to admit. But I am convinced that there is, deep beneath the greyed out city routine, some lines that take you right back to who you truly are, to where your roots are...

I loved the poem and how fellow Mountain Dweller, Sebastien Montaz-Rosset, visualised it. Enjoy the weight of the words and the lightness of the images.

Revelation, a Visual Poem. from sebastien montaz-rosset on Vimeo.

City of light(s)

Paris was originally nicknamed The City of Light because it was the European epicentre of enlightenment in the 18th century. Later on, from 1828, Paris began lighting the Champs-Elysées with gas lamps. It was the first city in Europe to do so, and so earned more broadly the nickname "La Ville-Lumière" or The City of Light.

This stop-motion video is a great showcase of that later definition with a scenic tour of the French capital by night and through the lens of its day and night glows... Enjoy!


PARIS, THE CITY OF LIGHT (FULL LENGTH HD VERSION) from Trak on Vimeo.

Massive destruction cheeses

I recently wrote about the different perspective of the US and France on the military through the prism of children toys, but we could talk at length about the ambiguous relationship to weapons of that martial nation. The recent Oregon shootings, combined to the subsequent debate on the validity of the contemporary US Constitution second amendment interpretation highlights that at least/at last there is a realisation that something is not right... Such a debate is healthy and so are the interesting partisan campaign for the different parties. Loved that one, wonder why!

Assimilation?

It is now blatantly obvious that the regularity of my posts have reduced. There are many reasons to that situation, amongst which the delightful arrival of a little one, three years ago, who has since been playing a growing part in my daily workload. But that is not all.

Walking in the valley.

In fact, I started that blog with the conviction that as a foreigner in an alien country I would find tons of topics to talk about. That I would be able to endlessly dissert on the cultural disparities between my referential scheme and the civilisation I was now living in. And it has indeed been for years a great source of inspiration.

But I reckon that nowadays I am less and less surprised by the Brits. It is maybe what people call assimilation: I have blended in, with my British-born son playing the mixologist role by naturally seeding insights on an on-going basis. It feels that I am no longer looking at this society from the outside, or from up there as I say in the above description... I am now in the valley, amongst the passer-by's down here. For god sake, I had to roast some beef on Sunday last week, that sums it all!

But don't get me wrong though, I am still not citizen of her royal majesty and have no intention to become one at this point of time. There are still many of these French/British paradoxes that remain true to who I am. I am still puzzled by some idioms and in turn my French sometimes catch my friends off-guard.

And yet something has changed.

Euro pudding.

In fact, I watched this week one of my favourite movies, Cedric Klapisch's L'auberge Espagnole (i.e. Pot Luck or Euro Pudding). For anyone who has lived an Erasmus-like experience, the one-year adventures of a French economy graduate student in a Barcelonan multicultural flat-share will resonate.

But Cedric Klappish and I share more than a first name. Many of his lines in his filmography find a positive echo in my own life. I quoted him in my wedding ceremony for instance. And there was a sentence in L'Auberge Espagnole which really encapsulate how I probably feel today. Loosely translated that would sound like:

When you arrive in a city, you see streets in perspective. Lines of meaningless buildings. Everything is unknown, virgin territory. Here we are. And later we will have walked these streets. We will have reached the vanishing point. We will have gotten to know the buildings. We will have lived stories with people. When we will have lived in that city, walked this street ten, twenty, a thousand times... At that point of time the city will be yours, because we will have lived it.

L’auberge espagnole, Xavier.

The Saturday Shot #27: let it fall.

It is this time of the year yet again! If autumn is usually synonymous of doom, gloom, spleen... For me it is an Ideal. Autumn first of all is a brilliant subject for photography. I loved walking the Japanese back-country a few years ago to capture its reddening. I like clicking around the parks in Paris or elsewhere to snap as the ground blends with the remainder of the canopy. More recently I have started enjoying sharing with my little one the exhilarating feeling to kick dead leaves around (a shared pleasure I can testify).

But one more reason for enjoying fall as our friends from the other side of the Atlantic refer to it... is that it precedes Winter! This year, more than ever, I have been looking forward to the first snow flake. Dreams of deep snow-covered slopes have been haunting me. Ski magazines have materialised on my bed-side table. Internet session history have logged more and more time on sites like this one or this one... I have always been impatient. This year will not be an exception.

And to conclude with another appropriate quote from my home country:

"Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower".  Albert Camus (1913-1960)

The Saturday shot #26: an American Bear

This week, I wanted to share a picture shot during my recent holidays in the US, whilst visiting a Build-a-Bear outlet. I was indeed surprised by the cultural insight that this child shop could give on the American culture. After all, myths and beliefs are fostered in our early age, some say even before. So what struck me was that if, in swinging London your little ones can choose to dress up their cuddly toys in mini Mel C or a furry Sid Vicious, in the US the choice offered gravitated around Marines, Troopers and GIs gears. No wonder the belliquous mindset of the nation may be in, if childhood models are defined by military forces... Don't get me wrong I am not challenging that soldiers can be heroes, but I would always think of armed intervention as a necessary evil rather than a good thing. This beliefs again may come from my own culture and referential scheme. This reminds me indeed of this speech by former French Prime minister Dominique de Villepin back in February 2003 when addressing the UN security council on France's position with regards to initiating a war in Iraq:

This message comes to you today from an old country, France, from a continent like mine, Europe, that has known wars, occupation and barbarity. A country that does not forget and knows everything it owes to the freedom-fighters who came from America and elsewhere. And yet has never ceased to stand upright in the face of history and before mankind. Faithful to its values, it wishes resolutely to act with all the members of the international community. It believes in our ability to build together a better world.

Paris vs. New York by Tony Miotto

When the Big Apple is compared to the City of Lights, that can be enlightening... And this animation by graphic designer Tony Miotto, is clearly a nice source of light. Nice execution on the cultural differences and references of two of most famous cities in the world.

And if you like that split-screen graphic approach, you may enjoy a similar stance on Franco-American relationships with this video (shot with a Nokia phone), and which describes a transatlantic love story.

Marseillaise

Anniversary.

This summer marked my sixth year on the British soil. An anniversary which also means that I have now lived longer in the British capital than in Paris for instance. During that time I got accustomed to the local rhythm, the indigenous habits, the cultural disparities... I have blended in. This is quite an ambivalent feeling as Brits and French are traditionally referred to as what one could call frenemies, i.e. the worst friends and the best enemies. I wrote quite a few articles about this Entente Cordiale that unites both nations, but being right in the middle of it is an awkward situation.

Although I am not British, I feel sometimes so and this city is like home. So no wonder that during the Olympics I waved and cheered at team GB, that I carried a Union Jack in my backpack... I got lucky and could attend quite a few events in the end. The lottery granted us only some tickets for a men volleyball semi-final, but perseverance and tenacity (let alone networking and generous friends) opened a few more doors. At these events, we were there as French nationals, as Londoners, as sport supporters.

Moment of truth.

But at a time when nations drop their weapons and random quarrels to support their Olympian troops, you are supposed to choose sides. I felt like a child in the middle of a divorce case. I love both mummy and daddy. I value Churchill and De Gaulle. I want the goldfish and its bowl. I want weekdays and weekends... I wanted to support blue, white and red, no mater whether these colours are laid out in crosses or in tiers.

And I thought so. I thought that almost like a bi-national I had today both nations ingrained in my soul on parity. But it was not the case... It took me a minute to realise it. Well, two half-times of 30 minutes each and 1 minute to raise a flag an that was it. Goose bump, spinal shivers, a tear in the eye... But who would not when hearing this:

France retains its Olympic title by beating Sweden in handball final

La Marseillaise

France national anthem, La Marseillaise, was written and composed by Claude Joseph Rouget de Lisle in 1792. The French National Convention adopted it as the Republic's anthem in 1795. The name of the song is due to first being sung on the streets by volunteers from Marseille but was soon adopted by the revolutionary armies which put an end to the French monarchy and dropped the seed of the Republic.

This song is a war song, a march that galvanise soldiers and unite them behind a cause... During the 1992 winter Olympic games in Albertville, a young, pure, white-dressed girl sung a capella this anthem in front of millions during the opening ceremony, and many only then realised how violent the lyrics could sound...

La Marseillaise (most commonly sung extract. Source: Wikipedia)
French lyrics	English translation
Allons enfants de la Patrie,	Arise, children of the Fatherland,
Le jour de gloire est arrivé !	The day of glory has arrived!
Contre nous de la tyrannie,	Against us tyranny
L'étendard sanglant est levé, (bis)	Raises its bloody banner (repeat)
Entendez-vous dans les campagnes	Do you hear, in the countryside,
Mugir ces féroces soldats ?	The roar of those ferocious soldiers?
Ils viennent jusque dans vos bras	They're coming right into your arms
Égorger vos fils, vos compagnes !	To cut the throats of your sons and women!
Aux armes, citoyens,	To arms, citizens,
Formez vos bataillons,	Form your battalions,
Marchons, marchons !	Let's march, let's march!
Qu'un sang impur	Let an impure blood
Abreuve nos sillons !	Water our furrows!

This anthem sung in the handball arena, the box that rocks as the British journalists nicknamed it, swept any doubt that no matter happens and how long I will stay away from my homeland, at core I will remain French. An interesting realisation amidst athletic performances which contrasts a lot with some conversations I have had with US immigrants who had decided to embrace the US Constitution and rejected their origins by doing so. Unfathomable for me. Now.

Enjoy a selection of pictures from my Olympics:

The tax prayer

A necessary evil

Tax is exactly that: it is a necessary evil. Don't get me wrong, I am not getting into the neo-liberal debate of whether or not we are paying too much tax. In fact, I am rather fine with the concept of paying a tax, as long as it is used properly and without wastage. No my main concern about tax is the fact that it is also a tax on your time.

The French case epitomise what I am complaining about. In the Hexagon the fiscal system works a posteriori when it comes to income tax. This means that the tax payer needs to complete a fiscal year which, alleluia, is also the calendar year, and then declare the amount of revenue that was earned during the twelve months. And as usual when it comes to administrative tasks in France, you can be sure that there is at least a dozen forms to fill, in three different leaflets... Fortunately with the digital era this paperwork becomes binary work, but that does not prevent us from having those lovely nerve-breaking nights where you cover your sitting room in folders, receipts, letters from so or so, in order to fill the right box with the right amount, and to document obviously any entry.

I have not lived in the US (yet), so I cannot testify if that is better or worse there, although my colleagues from across the pond would be rolling their eyes in despair in light of my doubt. The one thing that I can comment on is that the British system is a lot easier, and less cumbersome... Well so I thought.

Bright side of life

The income tax in the UK is a lot more straight forward for employees. As a matter of fact you are paying your toll straight from your salary, immediately before it lands on your bank account. Your accounting department is in charge of paying Her Majesty Revenue & Customs. This means that the money you receive is net, and really represents the money you can play with... Unlike in France where you theoretically need to save to be able pay your due once the fiscal year has closed. I say theoretically as how many of us had the sudden epiphany in April to realise: "sh#t, I need to pay my tax... but also my May holidays. Too bad, but I really need some sun. Come and get me, I am in sunny Spain, you grey suit!" (OK, the runaway never last long, but always worth the try, no?).

But back to the UK. When I was briefly explained how tax was working here 6 years ago, I welcome the time-tax relief and started to enjoy the paperwork-free world of tax paying in my host nation. After all, no declaration, no paperwork, no last minute rambling, no worries... Except, that like any rules there are exceptions, and of course you tend not to pay attention to these footnotes. You prefer to look at the bright side of life, tadam tadam tadamtadamtadam...

So when you receive a first letter from the HM R&C, you think this is a mistake after all I have already paid my tax. Tadam tadam tadamtadamtadam... When you receive the second letter from HM R&C, you start to think that you should advise them to improve their database management. Tadam tadam tadamtadamtadam...  And then twelve month later, when it is time to start to close the following fiscal year, the postman drops you another type of letter. This ones does not make you shrug, it makes you shiver... What the fuck? According to the paper in front of you, you learn that since you have not declared your revenue a year before, you are now liable to a fine and a daily penalty until you proceed. Suddenly, the music in your head changes. You start hearing the noise of the cash register. Tching,  tching, tching...

A hint of French touch after all.

OK, that must be a mistake. A quick call to the help line reveals that I should have read the footnote on the 2345 pages of the HM R&C website. Employees do not have to declare individually their income, unless... unless you are also self-employed. Nope. Unless you are a director... Still nope. Unless you earn more than a certain amount of money. Surely I am nowhere that salary. Money is not my driver in life. As long as I have enough not to think about it too much, I am happy, so I am really not on top of these things. But as far as I remembered the last time I checked I was nowhere near that threshold.

After a few days of investigation - tching, tching, tching -, I realise that due to some strange star alignments in the cosmos, including apparently my lucky star, I have received some exceptional bonuses and benefits that just brought me over that threshold. But literally just over, by a dozen pounds... OK, let's follow the instructions then and let's get the record straight.

According to the website and the person from the call centre, the best practise is to pay your fine first, and then challenge it if you feel it is not relevant, and more importantly to declare your revenue as soon as possible. Tching, tching, tching. The "fastest" way is to do it online. If there is one thing I love about the web nowadays, it is its immediacy, but I suddenly realised that French engineers may have helped set up the web process as, in a nutshell, here are the steps I went through.

Since I never had to engage directly with HM R&C I needed to create my online account. After filling a online form, I was informed that a unique identifier would be sent to me, by post, to complete the profile creation... Tching, tching, tching. A week and half later (yes, Royal Mail is not the fastest), I received a cryptic code which was supposed to help me get closer to resolution. Yes! It worked: I had an online profile. What next? Where can I tell you how much I earned, happily pay my due, and stop that "tching, tching, tching..." from freaking me out. The answer: I needed to apply for the service. And guess what? It required another unique identifier, which also could only be delivered by post. Tching, tching, tching. I really thought at that point of time that I was in an official scam: the British government, to fill its bank accounts, was putting as many hurdles in front of me to ensure that my check to their services was the largest possible... Machiavellian, evilly thought through, but without a doubt efficient. No wonder the finance minister is named the Chancellor of the Exchequer!

A Swiss influence?

I finally got that code, rushed to my computer, validated my service request, entered the various information in the relevant boxes, press submit... And collected my jaw which had dropped on the table. On the screen in front of me the website announced me that I was not owing anything to the Queen, but that on the contrary HM R&C was to send me a check as I would have paid too much... Calling that an anticlimax! In essence I had to be fined and charged to receive some money back... British humour I supposed.

I certainly could not close that case here. So I decided to assert my French origins, and pulled out one of my administrative claim letter templates. We receive them at birth in France, as they prove so helpful... Just need to input the name of the administration you have grievance towards, and here you go! Anyway, having explained my case, my diligent treatment of the situation and how despite the traps and tricks of the system, I managed to get as fast as I could to the end of the fiscal maze... I got heard. The fine was reimbursed, and no daily charge was billed to me. Katching! After all, maybe the Monthy Python were right, there is a silver lining in every cloud.

Some things in life are bad
They can really make you mad
Other things just make you swear and curse.
When you're chewing on life's gristle
Don't grumble, give a whistle
And this'll help things turn out for the best

And...always look on the bright side of life...
Always look on the light side of life...
Tadam tadam tadamtadamtadam...

The Saturday Shot #21: the gender gap

For this weekend contribution, I was inspired by the first French actor to win an Academy Award, Jean Dujardin... The reference will be lost for most non-French folks reading these lines, but before become a worldwide reference for his talent as a silent actor, Mr. Dujardin has been a daily companion to most  French households.

Jean Dujardin has indeed been co-staring a daily short TV programme called "Un gars, une fille" (A boy, a girl) which relates the daily intimacy of an average French couple. Hold on dirty minds! When I say "intimacy" and "French", I can already see sparks in your eyes. However, there is no "menage a trois" in this series. This is not a rip off of Sex and the City. The intimacy I was referring to is more about the snoring wife, the hair left in the sink, the old boy friend picture... All dealt with great apathy and humour. It was so relevant to all the couples that it was an almost immediate hit. To the point that the heroes' nicknames have become almost an ubiquitous terminology to describe happy couples. Chouchous and Loulous are to be seen at every corners snugging in the streets of Paris, Lyon, Marseille... It was so personal and intimate that the two actors pretending to be husband and wife on screen... Happened to fall in love for real and have since got married.

Because, life is like that... Unexpected. And this leads me to my concluding quote by Jim Morrisson 1943-1971):

“There are things known, and there are things unknown, And in between are doors”

The Saturday Shot #20: dead leaves

For this week contribution, it was hard to avoid the fact that London is nowadays covered in leaves... Orange, red, brown tones which are reminding me this brilliant trip we made in Japan a few years back. This same scenery is also a nostalgic glance back at my home country. France's contemporary culture has two important contributors in my eyes, the french surrealist poet Jacques Prévert and singer-actor Yves Montand.

Both contributed to one of my favourite old song of the French repertoire: "Les Feuilles Mortes" or "Autumn Leaves" in English. It is a 1945 French song with music by Joseph Kosma that Yves Montand introduced in 1946 in the film "Les Portes de la Nuit". And I just love it... Hope you'll enjoy it too!

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Les Feuilles Mortes Jacques Prévert - 1945

In French

...and in English (personal translation)

Oh ! je voudrais tant que tu te souviennes Des jours heureux où nous étions amis. En ce temps-là la vie était plus belle, Et le soleil plus brûlant qu'aujourd'hui. Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle. Tu vois, je n'ai pas oublié... Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle, Les souvenirs et les regrets aussi Et le vent du nord les emporte Dans la nuit froide de l'oubli. Tu vois, je n'ai pas oublié La chanson que tu me chantais. [Refrain:] C'est une chanson qui nous ressemble. Toi, tu m'aimais et je t'aimais Et nous vivions tous deux ensemble, Toi qui m'aimais, moi qui t'aimais. Mais la vie sépare ceux qui s'aiment, Tout doucement, sans faire de bruit Et la mer efface sur le sable Les pas des amants désunis. Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle, Les souvenirs et les regrets aussi Mais mon amour silencieux et fidèle Sourit toujours et remercie la vie. Je t'aimais tant, tu étais si jolie. Comment veux-tu que je t'oublie ? En ce temps-là, la vie était plus belle Et le soleil plus brûlant qu'aujourd'hui. Tu étais ma plus douce amie Mais je n'ai que faire des regrets Et la chanson que tu chantais, Toujours, toujours je l'entendrai ! [Refrain]

Oh! I wish you could remember The happy days when we were friends. In these days life was more beautiful, And the sun burning more than today. Autumn leaves are collected by shovels. You see, I have not forgotten... Autumn leaves are collected by shovels, Memories and regrets too. And the Northern wind blows them away In the cold night of oblivion. You see, I have not forgotten That song you sang me. [Refrain:] This is a song which sounds like us. You loved me, and I loved you And both of us lived together, You who loved me, me who loved you. But life separates those who love, Softly, without a noise And the sea erases on the sand The steps of divided lovers. Autumn leaves are collected by shovels, Memories and regrets too But my quiet and faithful love Keeps on smiling and thanks life I loved you so much, you were so pretty. How could I ever forget you? In these days, life was more beautiful And the sun burning more than today. You were my tenderest friend And I could not care less about regrets That song you sang, Always, always I will hear it! [ Refrain: ]

Family moment of truth

In French we say that the “truth pours out of children’s mouth”… Well, this morning, it was indeed pouring over London and when my 2-year old son saw the water dripping down the window, he proudly said, pointing outside:

“Rainin’…” with a perfect Londoner accent.
“It is raining indeed. In French we say: ‘Il pleut’.” I replied to encourage him to strengthen his bilingual skills.
“No daddy… It’s raining!”

Apparently my son is well more advanced than I thought… He is already capable of associating a word to a culture. It obviously does not rain in French, or in France.

Splitscreen: A Love Story

One ocean, two countries...

At a time when French politicians trust the front page of tabloids with their kinky habits, it is good to remind that French lovers are not (only) about S&M, role plays and threesomes... Call me a sentimental, but there is also that weird thing called "romance".

...One love story.

Shot entirely on the Nokia N8 mobile phone, the following video won the Nokia Shorts competition 2011:

Splitscreen: A Love Story by JW Griffiths tells the story of an American and a French who live parallel lives on each side of the pond until they one day collide... Interestingly enough in London.

Beyond the performance of shooting a split screen video (a technique brought back to fashion with the TV series 24) with a phone, there is the refreshing story telling. It may well be the hot summer, but it feels good to see that love is the air.

The Saturday Shot #18: invaders

This Saturday shot comes a good week late... Just the time for a French national newspaper to reach me after my beloved mother did some press clipping for me.

Last weekend, French street artist Space Invader was the guest editor of Liberation, France's left wing, BoHo national. The anonymous artist who usually invades public spaces with his tiles directly inspired by the eponymous video game ancestor was this time around populating the pages of an ink-smirking paper. It is still a public space, but some may argue it is just a sign that after 12 years of underground work, Invader is now sufficiently mainstream to hit the front page...

Banksy did in the UK, so why not my fellow citizen? Personally I don't care. Art, and street art in particular, needs to be exposed and shared. I did for years with Invader's work, looking like a freak in the streets of Paris, NY or London, twisting my neck at every street corner to see if I could spot a new invasion. I had reached such a point that if I had lived in the US I could have considered suing the artist for the neck pains he caused... But I don't live in that country and in lieu of a court audience, I much prefer the acclamations of a street crowd. Their eyes are much harsher a sentence. Excel and you will be hailed, your art will be exposed, plagiarized, extruded and resold on the Internet... Fail to impress and you will simply ignored, falling into air sprayed oblivion.

Space Invader is de facto recognised, even by my mother and my mother-in-law who every now and then send me a snap of a street corner where they discovered a mosaic. It may have reached the inflexion point when Invader's work has become mainstream, yet that does not compromise his artistic approach. I take that as a sign of maturity.

"An invasion of armies can be resisted, but not an idea whose time has come." Victor Hugo (1802-1885)


To explore further:

• Never stopping evolution, a fantastic street art performance turning walls into a cinema screen.
• An article about underground photographer JR, and his award winning speech at TED on how art can change the world.
• An article about Space Invader, the mosaic which invades your street and TV adverts: Bunn-invasion.
• An article about Banksy, the British artist who now sprays gold out of his cans: Spray the world.
• An article about Banksy, the British artist who now sprays gold out of his cans: Found it, or my photographic deep dive in the streets of London.

This is your Captain speaking

On the road again.

I am about to go back to Seattle for work, and I am quite adamant that I won't let myself get stranded this time again. It seems that 2010 was jinxed, but that 2011 is having greater, more positive omens. So far I have traveled to Iceland, France, Sweden, Germany... and have not been delayed or stuck once. Nevertheless my colleagues are now taking bets on what would prevent me from coming back on time, and I must say that the odds are odd: volcanic eruption 10:1, snow storm 11:2, grasshopper invasion 5:2... We will see.

Beautiful sky.

In any case I must say that I will do my best to enjoy that flight. Over ten hours without email or phone calls, that is nowadays a luxurious parenthesis. However in the same time, some prefer to take that opportunity to be busy with their photography. Click, click, click... Photographer and entrepreneur Nate Bolt has played around with his camera during a San Francisco to Paris flight, shooting almost 2500 pictures to create a 2-minute stop motion video of the trip. Nicely edited:
SF to Paris in Two Minutes from Beep Show.

To read further:

• Still moving, or how still images with a bit of creativity can be very impactful.


• Bunn-invasion, an article featuring a stop-motion advert for Sony Bravia which hides a bit more than just a unique selling proposition...

Art can change the world. Or can't it?

Smile.

I have already mentioned the work done by JR, this French photographer, who is using his camera as a political device. Working anonymously, pasting his giant images on buildings, trains, bridges, the often-guerrilla artist JR forces us to see each other.

Traveling to distant, often dangerous places - the slums of Kenya, the favelas of Brazil - he infiltrates communities, befriending inhabitants and recruiting them as models and collaborators. He gets in his subjects’ faces with a 28mm wide-angle lens, resulting in portraits that are unguarded, funny, soulful, real, that capture the sprits of individuals who normally go unseen. The blown-up images pasted on urban surfaces – the sides of buildings, bridges, trains, buses, on rooftops -- confront and engage audiences where they least expect it. Images of Parisian thugs are pasted up in bourgeois neighborhoods; photos of Israelis and Palestinians are posted together on both sides of the walls that separate them.

JR's most recent project, "Women Are Heroes," depicts women "dealing with the effects of war, poverty, violence, and oppression” from Rio de Janeiro, Phnom Penh, Delhi and several African cities. And JR has been granted a TED Prize for his insideoutproject.net...

Inspire.

Ah, TED, an acronym originally for Technology/Entertainment/Design is a lot more than just three letters. This is a constant source of inspiration plugging yourself in anything from nanotechnology to art, from politicians to philosophers... All shared never heard before thoughts.

Enjoy JR's point of view:




To read further:

• Smile my brother, smile. An article about JR's work in Middle East.
• White men can't jump, an article on this humorous stance on cultural differences