Tuesday 31 August 2010

waiting for arcade fire


bracelets x 3, originally uploaded by julienpaul.

17h57 I am approaching the main stage of Rock en Seine, always with no news from Josh. I note a line of people slicing through the crowd and attach myself to the back of them, receiving a piggy back the front of the sound tent. There the line dissolves and I get stuck between a guy with a Franz Ferdinand t-shirt and his girlfriend, and a really short guy and his even shorter girlfriend.

18h07 Beirut starts. Mr Franz’s girlfriend asks “er, did you know that they were so.. well.. like this?” Mr Franz shakes his head. “Well, we will stay till the end, and then we should try to move forward for a good spot for the Ting Tings”.

I tense up. They are possible competition. Are they only here for the Ting Tings, meaning they will leave before Arcade Fire? Or is this an indication that everyone is going to wait around for the next four hours, like me?

18h15 Josh still hasn’t arrived, and this is the band he wanted to see. I’m trying to enjoy the ukulele playing. It is mighty fine ukulele playing.

18h20 A rather bouncy tall Frenchman jumps through the crowd. Mr Shorty and his girlfriend are dancing to Beirut and Mr Bouncy says “you are both sooooooooo cute!” They get embarrassed and stop, but he forces them to continue. He sees his friends just ahead and jumps over to them and hugs them.

18h22 Mr Bouncy is now standing directly in front of Mr Shorty and his even shorter girlfriend. He notices this, and turns around, saying “to the right, or to the left?” Mr Shorty is confused.

“Well, should I stay to the left,” Bouncy continues, “and u can look past me to the right, or vice versa?”

“Left.” Shorty replies. Bouncy goes to the left, and is still blocking them.

“Er, not right.” Bouncy goes to the right, allowing Shorty to see but blocking Shortys girlfriend’s view. Meanwhile, Bouncy has pulled out a wine bladder from his bag and is offering wine to Shorty, then to his girlfriend. He is complaining about how horrible the wine is, and that he had bought the exact same wine yesterday and it was good. But hell, it’s cheap, so he doesn’t care too much.

Josh still hasn’t arrived.

18h28 Josh calls. “Can you wave, so I can see where you are?” He asks.

I wave.

“I can’t see you…” he says.

Why are festivals just a constant reminder of how short I am? I jump up and down waving and eventually he can see me.

18h34 Josh arrives, just as Mr Bouncy has continued offering wine to everyone, then forced Shorty’s girlfriend to stand in front of him. At around this time, a bunch of what looks like 14 years olds hop by in a line, forcing their way through the crowd quite violently, obviously utterly drunk.

“Fuck, they are kids” I say. Josh tries to hear. “Did you say they were dicks?” he asks.

18h50 Beirut ends. CHAOS IS EVERYWHERE. We drive forward, along with Mr Frandz and his girlfriend, while others are racing away from the stage to god knows what. We managed to get to the metal central part (for those of you who have been to Rock en Seine, well, you know what I mean.) We realise we are roughly at the fourth row or so, and we manage to get enough room to sit. The waiting begins.

19h10 I decide to head off to get us food, water, alcohol and do a toilet break. Sadly it seems everyone else has decided to do exact the same thing. I stare at the hour long queues with fear.

19h25 Josh calls, saying he won’t be able to keep my spot for very much longer.. the crowd is very pushy! I have to return, with only water. We will have to manage for the rest of the night foodless and without alcohol.

19h35 wait, wait, wait.

19h40 people start standing up on the edges, and we, of the comfortably seated on the metal part, refuse. A wide, jovial Frenchman announces to everyone in a booming voice “People! You need not stand! Do not feel obliged to conform to the tyranny of the standing! For seated, we have the power…” he continues like this for about a minute, and ends to a round of applause. A young guy comes over and says “what is your name, I want to congratulate you on your speech.” The jovial guy stands up to shake the young man’s hand, and the whole crowd boos, calling him a hypocrite. He is so drunk he can’t understand why everyone is booing.

19h50 The Ting Tings start just as the Dicks, I mean Kids, come slicing through the crowd, up to the front next to us.

19h55 The tallest Dick is putting out his cigarette in the hair of the shortest Dick. Mr Jovial tries to stop them, saying short Dick has such wonderful, wonderful hair and that it was a tragedy to burn it.

20h00 Tall Dick picks up short Dick and puts him on his shoulders. The remaining group of Dicks start undressing short Dick, who is so out of it, he barely notices.

20h10 Everywhere around us is chaos. We seem to be in a calm group of about 10 people surrounded by a raging, soaring mosh pit. People keep on crowd surfing over us – one hits josh in the head when he isn’t looking – but, for now, we are safe. We seem to have found ourselves in the “jump up and down” crowd, rather than the “run at the person next to you” crowd. As it turns out, all of the people in the calm group would turn out to be Arcade Fire fans…

20h25 The Ting Tings are really warming up, and though I try to keep the calm people surrounding me (they must have thought I was very kind, often allowing people in front of me, but really, I was maintaining a buffer of people I had singled out as being less violent), a French couple come barging through and it’s all over: “Hey, if we can’t go mad for the Ting Tings, then we can never go mad”, they tell me. The calm collapses.. everything moves in every direction and it is a joyful madness, with lots of elbows hitting heads and feet kicking shins.

20h40 A particularly mad Frenchman appears next to me and I say a bit too loudly “oh oh”. He hears me and says “Hey, all this mad bouncing about is the best way to get to the front!” When he realizes he can’t actually get any further, he pulls himself up and crowd surfs to the very front.

20h50 The Ting Tings end. No one is leaving from around where we are. Josh leaves for a toilet break and everyone tries to sit, but there isn’t enough room. We end up sitting on each other.

21h05 The two girls next to me are trying to sing Arcade Fire songs, but can’t remember parts. I stop myself from helping, and continue reading American Psycho.

21h15 There is a great vibe in the crowd. The girl next to me starts chatting to me, saying how she can’t understand how I can read in all of the madness. When Josh returns the crowd helps him step over them, making small foot holes so he can reach me.

21h40 There is less and less space. The tension is rising. It is now dark, and we watch as props appear on stage: floodlights, a billboard, a painted screen depicting a highway. People start cheering for every technician who walks on, and starts singing in semi unison “wake up”. The guy next to me REALLY can’t sing.

22h00 The stage goes dark, the opening to “the suburbs” begins, and then, as the seven appear on stage, unexpectedly turns into “Ready to start”. I almost die of excitement and yell at Josh “It’s the one I really like!” He nods. All around me people are singing along. Arcade Fire achieves again what I witnessed in 2007: the biggest Karaoke I have ever seen.

The concert continues with beautiful numbers from all three albums. The crowd favourite “No cars go” gets everyone singing and jumping, while “Ocean of Noise” is spectacular, borrowing two trumpet players from Beirut.

The great thing is: everyone seems to be short. I can actually see! My joy is slightly spoilt by a rather grumpy old man to my left who is standing with his elbows jutting out defensively, sticking into the soft of my back. It gets so annoying that I ask him to move them, but he replies that it is my fault for moving about to the music. His glare shows that he has judged me as being a… *gasp* hooligan.

22h55 The concert is spectacular. I don’t know if it is because I know The Suburbs better than any other album, or if it’s the fact that they are doing weird and wonderful things to the old songs they are playing, but it feels better than last time. I am trying to work out whether I could call it “my best concert ever”, kicking Sigur Ros and Radiohead off their thrones, when it starts to sprinkle. Then to rain. Then to pour.

Arcade fire play for one song under the torrential rains and, due to the direction of the wind, end up being utterly soaked. The technicians come out at the end of the song and say they have to get off stage. Tarpaulins come out while the audience puts on raincoats and jumpers. The old man, now a little behind me, drops a packet of chewing gum as he is putting on his raincoat. I bend down and pick it up and give it to him. His eyes go wide. I think this might be the equivalent of that moment where Jean Valjean turns Javerts moral order on its head. Or maybe not. Either way, the old guy then acts really nice to both Josh and I.

23h05 The rain continues.

23h10 Arcade fire comes running out and with a minimal amount of instruments and faltering props and video projects, play Wake up, to which we all, of course, sing and rejoice. The spotlights illuminate the rain as it falls, and it is an utterly breathtaking experience.

23h15 Arcade Fire bows to the cheering crowd before throwing their drum sticks. The lead singer comes running up to directly in front of where I am. I try to reach out and touch him but he is just a bit too far. Almost, amost…

23h17 The rain stops. About 5 minutes too late.

23h20 It becomes somewhat clear that it is over, but even when technicians make official announcements telling everyone to go home, many remain. People are divided between cheering, slightly angry demands for more, and conversations on the lines of “well, what we did see was amazing”. Josh and I leave and make our way to the metro utterly drenched.

Rock en Seine ends for 2010.

[side note, this still holds very true: http://www.questionablecontent.net/view.php?comic=16 ]

Thursday 26 August 2010

only a spectator (at the gay games)


gone bouldering, originally uploaded by julienpaul.

When my friend Steve introduced the concept of the Gay Games to me I think I laughed hard and for quite a while. Was it Gay only? Did they test you on arrival with a "gay test", just to make sure you weren't cheating? If you win, can you then say you are the fastest... gay male runner in the world? Are the Olympics heterosexual only?

Well, it was a good excuse to get to meet Steve and to see Cologne (and Zumthor's St Kolumba museum). So I said: what the hell, I'm going.

The one long, intense day of competition that I had the opportunity to witness managed to quieten me a little. I had never seen a rock climbing competition and for someone who suffers from vertigo, I think I had to steady myself a little on arrival when I saw just how tall the walls were.

The intense concentration, the physical strength and dexterity needed... I was just a little in awe. This was not some pansy's competition.

The tone for the competition managed to be both serious - the courses were damn hard - and light-hearted. Everyone chatted between events, there were loud rounds of applause between competitors and a general sense of comradeship.

So, I was convinced. The Gay games were not just there for a laugh, for a the circuit parties, a big fuck fest as you may. It was about serious sportsmanship and solidarity between homosexuals and friends/supporters of homosexuals.

Then the rock climbing event ended.

And we went to see the ballroom dancing and were horrified and amused by the costumes. The Chess and Bridge competitions were also in full swing as well. Oh, and then the circuit parties began. And then the fu... anyways.

The vibe in Cologne was spectacular. Temporary stages had been set up everywhere with DJs and concerts, and beer was pouring continuously. It felt like someone's huge house party, and I was happy to have been invited. I had not yet seen a German city in summer and it was a pleasant change to the grey, rainy memories of my visits in October and January to Berlin and Munich.

So, awesome week, and congrats to Steve, Nick and Robert for their truck loads of medals.


bronze and.. bronze.. and silver!, originally uploaded by julienpaul.

PS more photos: http://www.flickr.com/photos/darkcorners/sets/72157624717450128/

Wednesday 9 June 2010

All those stories about love..


Je t'aime, pompidou, originally uploaded by julienpaul.

(be warned, spoilers regarding Twilight and Ni d’adam, ni d’Eve.)

My recent reading schedule has been a bit eccentric, perhaps even bi-polar; I persisted through the Twilight series to see what it’s all about, while alternating with “L’Etranger”, by Camus, “Ni d’Adam, ni d’eve” by Nothomb, and now onto “Coming up for air” by Orwell.

Obviously, in comparison, Myier’s writing style seemed even more simplistic and poor, but the greatest contrast existed between Myier’s and Nothomb’s depictions of that word, “love”.

So, maybe Twilight is essentially written for teenagers and can be seen as a bit of a fairytale filtered through the eyes of Dawson’s Creek. Perhaps I shouldn’t try to read too deeply into it. Even so, I cannot escape the fact that the two main characters, Bella and Edward, don’t have a single thing in common and don’t connect on any level other than sexually.

Rather quickly, they start throwing the word “love” around and it becomes an unquestionable justification for their relationship, rather than love being the RESULT of their relationship. All of their doubts about each other are linked to looks and Love, with the two being inseperable.

Nothomb, however, has a slightly less fairytale approach. Her autobiographic novel depicts her relationship with a Japanese man, Rinri, while she lived in Tokyo for two years. Rinri is sweet like no man she has ever met, adores her in a tender and rather innocent manner and makes her content, but as she puts it: when he isn’t there, she doesn’t think about him.

She has to tackle the fact that she is unsure of her feelings, that perhaps she loves him, but that love isn’t enough. When he proposes to her, she tries to put it off for a few years, too afraid to hurt him, and not wanting to lose what happiness he gives her. However, she quickly realizes she will never marry him; he is simply too nice. She needs a certain amount of “vinegar” in her relationships for them to work. She abandons him without a word of explanation.

Obviously the two books are written for different markets, but after reading Nothomb’s book, “Love” as an unquestionable justification for a relationship seems pretty flimsy. Perhaps the superficial nature of Edward and Bella’s relationship is inevitable when you look at the characters: Edward is perfect and hence boring, Bella is nothing but an annoying bundle of nerves. Still, all I could think about when Edward and Bella discussed spending eternity together was that when the lust runs out, fuck they’re going to be in hell.

Tuesday 8 June 2010

Hotel LC


Hotel LC, originally uploaded by futurescraps.

We knew that our stay at the hotel LC was going to be a special one. Already, leading up to Sabine’s 30th birthday party, all of our reservations had been mixed up in every way possible and an earlier conversation with Mr LC had gone a bit like this:

“Oh, Mr Gouiric. Yes, yes. I have given you a wonderful room. Not my best, that one is next to the road, but still excellent. Oh, did I receive you cheque? Yes, I did. I can’t find it anymore, but that’s no worry. I am pretty sure I haven’t cashed it. It’s here somewhere. But you understand why I need it? People say they will come, but then they don’t. They’re horrible, people like that. How am I meant to make things work with people like that? You’re not like that at all. You sent me a cheque. So, I will see you on the 29th. Oh, the 23rd? No, that’s what I meant. I am pretty sure that’s what I have written too. I will see you on the 23rd. I’m certain.”

We arrive at his “hotel”, effectively an elaborate bed and breakfast without the breakfast. A door opens in a tall stone wall and we walk into the garden. It is like walking into wonderland; Mr LC has created a maze using hedges over two metres high, faintly written signs tacked onto the hedges indicating which path to take towards the “reception”. We finally arrive at a gate where another sign suggests that we ring the bell.

We ring it. We wait. We hear coughing and grumbling.

Mr LC, a rather overweight, short man, who has difficulty walking, arrives and stares at us suspiciously. We introduce ourselves and he seems confused at all the names. Only mine makes any sense to him.

“Ah, Mr Gouiric, with the cheque.”

He takes us on the grand tour.

“Here is the pool. It is very warm and right now (7pm) is the best moment to go swimming. After 4pm it is reserved for “naturalists” (nudists). Right now really is the best time for you to all swim. I will keep it open just a bit later, if you want. We get so few young people here.”

He shows us the pool, which is completely protected except on one side, where it opens in full view of his dining room.

Next, are the rooms. What was once a simple, rectangular building has had extensions tacked on in every direction, mostly out of rickety polycarbonate, making wonderful greenhouses within. The thermometer on the wall of my dining area reads 36 degrees.

Each room had a small outdoor eating space completely surrounded by hedges, a narrow piece of sky visible above. Later, when we would be having breakfast in the days to come, it was like some kind of 19th century game. While at our tables, we could hear people in every direction by couldn’t work out where they were exactly. If you just stayed silent, no one knew you were there, listening....

Before Mr LC let us go, he showed us the all-terrain-vehicle (four wheeled motor bike) that he said we could use if we wanted. We all got excited about using it to get to the party, but his suggestion that the one girl amongst us could get on the bike straight away and he could take photos dampened our mood. We thanked him and reminded him that we really had to get to the party.

On departure, two days later, he magically found my cheque, but lost everyone else’s. We haggled over the price of the room (he had originally said 38, then on leaving, told me 46), and we settled on 40, and he threw in a bottle of cider, which I accidentally forgot in the room when we left.

Ah, Mr LC, you know how to run a b and b.

Tuesday 1 June 2010

a pompidou interlude


a pompidou interlude, originally uploaded by julienpaul.

Thirty-three years after the centre Pompidou was completed in Paris the Metz satellite opened its doors this month to a large round of applause (for it inaugural exhibition) and boos (for everything else).

Designed by Mr Paper himself, Shigeru Ban, and Jean de Gastines, it will house exhibitions and portions of the vast Paris collection (the largest collection of modern art in Europe, no doubt only second in the world to MOMA), but amass no collection of its own.

The initial renders of the project depicted a building that was already horribly dated, a blast from the 80s that was programatically dull (only a museum, not a bustling hub like the Paris outpost) and overall, a bit of a mess.

All reality added was bad detailing, cheap window frames, horrible circulation and an empty entry hall.

Ok, lets back up a moment. The design involves a very Shigeru Ban timber lattice thrown over three long narrow galleries stacked on each other. The lattice is actually quite beautiful, and obviously where most of the effort and money went.

The actual envelope of the gallery is a mess of cheap materials, exposed services (if this is a nod to the Paris Pompidou centre, then it is a rather offensive one) and a huge office block that looks like cheap public housing.

Once inside, you will be wowed by the very tall, but rather awkwardly shaped entry hall, before being shoved through a series of rabbit warren like spaces to try and find the exhibition halls. All circulation occurs either through two lifts, or a fire escape that was obviously never meant to accommodate the public.

The only dramatic architectural moment occurs as you rise in the building and start to see some of the gallery spaces intersect within the lattice. An opportunity was lost in not allowing people to walk on and around these volumes except for a few hidden and forgotten balconies.

People will argue, and rightfully, that the exhibition spaces themselves are not bad: well lit, good views at either end. But I will argue back: who the hell decided on the contents of this building? A cafe that only opens on the outside? A puny bookshop? No auditorium?

The Pompidou Centre in Paris not only works as a piece of architecture, with its glorious circulation (the escalator) and flexible exhibition spaces, it also defines itself as more than a museum: cinemas, two floors of public library, shops, the national sound experimentation centre, etc etc etc

The Metz Pompidou centre is nothing more than a museum, the type that was already in existence 200 years ago. It is a lost opportunity in every sense, and is clearly just a reusing of the name "Pompidou" as a type of watered down branding.

This will hopefully not be a sign of things to come. I still have high hopes for the two Louvre satellites, by SANAA and Jean Nouvel. Hopefully this will be the one dud in the family.

Sunday 18 April 2010

a little guide to japan


The maker of okonomiyaki, originally uploaded by julienpaul.

First it was Jack, then Andrew Tam, and now Mitchell and Ravi. When someone says they are going to Japan I jump up and down excitedly, hoping to give my two cents. Here is the email I sent to them with a bit of editing and some eye candy:

Both times that I have been in Japan for extended periods of time I bought a one week Japanrail pass and planned my trip around it. It gives you unlimited rail use and becomes very worthwhile for large distances using the Shinkansen.

My trip's structure went a bit like this:

1. a few days in tokyo
2. start the one week japanrail pass
3. zoom around japan
4. end up in kansai: kyoto, osaka, nara, which are all easy to get
between and cheap as well
5. buy a return ticket back to tokyo
6. a day or so more in tokyo

Of course, this works for a Kansai-centric structure, which my last two trips have been.

My first trip was very architecture orientated (with Ellen and Jose), while my second trip with Josh was designed around four festivals. Both trips were in winter.

Tokyo


the pretty lights!, originally uploaded by julienpaul.

my flickr on tokyo:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/darkcorners/sets/1477563/



You can find my flickr sets on Tokyo here, here and here.

Won't say too much here. Tokyo is tokyo... The insane underground train system (be warned, it closes at 1am), the 24hour stores and bars, the millions of different districts, each with their own flavour.

Shinjuku (photo above): futuristic Tokyo, skyscrapers and run down yakitori stores near the train line, 5 storey toy shops! Nightlife in every direction, small bars tucked away on several floors.

There is also the twin towered government building which I went to when little to see the view. Might be worth a trip, but have never been back.

Ginza: the high design, classy shopping strip, or it once was... now it is:

Harajuku: where all the young shop, and where all of the architects of the world build (hertzog, sejima, ito)


harajuku, originally uploaded by julienpaul.

prada: distance, originally uploaded by julienpaul.

Harajuku is actually a rough region that starts at Harajuku station (near the Meiji shrine) and is sometimes counted as a part of Shibuya. Not only is it one of the main shopping districts, on Sundays the "fruits" (named after the magazine that documented them) come out to play near the Meiji Shrine. Though apparently not what they once used to be, the "fruits" are a bunch of adolescents that have fun dressing up and are happy for you to snap away at them.


japanese starbucks uniform, originally uploaded by julienpaul.

This being said, people having fun in strange costumes is in no way limited to Harajuku, and I think the best dressed people I saw in my trip were actually in Osaka.


buddas, originally uploaded by julienpaul.

Ueno: the fucking amazing national museum (in particular the Horyu-ji treasure hall, above) with the cemetery behind it, a truly haunting place on a misty day as the prayer sticks rattle in the wind and the ravens fly around.

Asakusa: The tourist destination for Tokyo, with its temple, market street and abandoned fair park. Every trip I've done to Japan since a little kid has always involved this temple but it is actually nothing special, just conveniently placed. Great sushi can be found in the side streets, and down the road towards the river is Stark's Poo building.


5 x tuna, originally uploaded by julienpaul.

The fish markets: The most awesome place in Tokyo. Get up super early and see everyone at work. Huge frozen tunas come in by plane and ship and slowly get processed, until you can eat it at one of the numerous excellent little restaurants at the centre.

Shibuya: More shopping and a host of love hotels.. Check them out on google maps, and go walking. We found the oddest sex shops and teenagers running around trying to find a cheap bed.

Roppongi: Bars, shopping... It's been too long since I've been here (didn't go the last trip). I think it is meant to be the hipper place to go to drink.

PS There is the Studio Ghibli Museum at Mataka. I felt that, unlike Miyazaki's films, this theme park was more or children than adults and was a little disappoint.

To be continued....

Monday 5 April 2010

must consume... sushi!


reflecting on life..., originally uploaded by dead zebra, inc.

You can tell procrastination is in full swing when I'm shopping for things online that I absolutely don't need, but want ever so much anyway (and trying to work out how I can fit it into the weekly budget).

This delicious piece of cuteness is the red O-No! Sushi! by Andrew Bell, with some really great photos here. I actually found O-No! a little while back and had all but forgotten about it until Nico started mentioning something about Finding Nemo sushi on Facebook.

Poor old O-No! Is being cut up and served with soy sauce, and he is delicious! This designer toy obviously comes from someone with a great sense of humour, who really stuck to the concept, from the great expression on the toy's face (I am worried, but still staying calm) to its packaging.


toy_onosushi-red1, originally uploaded by dead zebra, inc.

Saturday 27 March 2010

sickeningly sweet


sickeningly sweet, originally uploaded by julienpaul.

So, every year there is the visit to the St Louis Abbey. And every year, the daffodils spread just a bit further, their yellow claws grabbing the surrounding hills. Four years ago there was one hill and one valley which made you go "wow, that's a lot of flowers". Now there are three, or four, or... actually, no one knows where it ends anymore. Soon, daffodils will appear on highways, in swamps, in the cat's water bowl, in your shoes laid out at night as you sleep. At first it will seem cute, but then you realise they are everywhere, that their invasion is complete and you never saw it happening. That is when you will cry.

Friday 26 March 2010

room with a view



This is a bit of an unusual post, but then this is quite an unusual building. I have been subscribed to archidose for as long as I remember and sometimes their weekly building is something truly unexpected, like this hotel in a village close to Naples. The photos of the project include an animated gif that shows the bed in action... great stuff.

Wednesday 3 February 2010

bye bye book

Item lost: A book.
Where: Eurostar, London to Paris.

Paris lost property: Phone the hotline. Auto response asking to send a written letter to such and such address and that it can take 3 weeks. Go to the station. The lost property office gives me a (secret) number to call. Number called: they don't have it. Maybe London does?

London lost property: Sent an email, got a reply within 10 minutes.

(sadly they don't have it, but that is besides the point).

Paris: great croissants, but horribly insane.

Friday 29 January 2010

food, coffee and other things


dourdan04, originally uploaded by julienpaul.

Sorry Zen, but I am going to have to bring you in for this one. Yesterday, Zen told me about a café in London that made the best coffee "in Europe" (and hence, perhaps the world?) and I realised my tastes were way too fickle to be able to say where I had had my best coffee.

When I was working in Paris I could often have three espressos in a day, all from the same cafe downstairs. On arrival at work, at around 11am, and after lunch. The 11am coffee was the best tasting, without any competition. It was the coffee that I didn't NEED, the coffee that was nearly always in the sun, the coffee that was a real pause.

I find coffee is fragile.. tell someone that a café is the best in the world and it becomes harder to like the coffee. Expectations become too high, and you start over analysing: is this coffee really all that great?

In a recent trip to Rome and Naples all of the small cafes we found suprised us with a consistently good, rich, short coffee. So we go to the cafe next to the pantheon that is meant to have the best coffee in Rome, fight a million tourists to get bench space and well... I couldn't work out what was so special about it.

Two days ago I stumbled upon a small café near the British museum that was horribly cute and served quite good coffee. The day after, I meet Kate in the same area. After an initial bad coffee in a cafe directly next to the museum (if excellent coffee is sometimes hard to distinguish, horrible coffee is universal), I suggest we have a second coffee at the same cute place. Now, on my second visit, realising I had suggested this place to someone else, I found myself more critical of the coffee and well, it no longer cut it.

The real transcendal coffees are great coffees that are unexpected. My best coffee memories: Arrival in paris after 3 weeks in the usa, arrival in barcelona after two weeks in germany, a midnight coffee in a town near florence, that place in naples that we thought was touristy and crap but ended up having such a rich blend....

The same goes for food, to some extent.

Where have I eaten the most amazing meals? My aunts place in Dourdan and my cousins place in Normandy. Not only are they good cooks who seek out excellent ingredients, there is a certain ritual involved. Away from the stress of Paris, you wake up and the food is already slowly cooking. The morning is full of smells and anticipation. A ray of sunlight comes out and everyone quickly moves the table outside. An aperitif, and now you can no longer stand it. It smells so good and you are so hungry! And the food tastes twice as good for it.

My favourite restaurants in Paris when I arrived no longer excite me. I have taken their quality of food as a norm and now only taste it when they have stuffed up a dish. Tastes change, expected quality changes. I do not eat the same things in Paris as Sydney, I will no doubt eat different things in London. Since I have been in London I have already eaten twice in china town and fuck I am loving it.

As I am currently reading "the story of art" which manages to summarise centuries of thought across an entire continent in around 5 pages, I can not help but compare movements in art to food and drink: Food and drink, where even a few hundred kilometres means an entire new cuisine, where the best cheese comes form a certain slope in a certain town at a certain time of year. Where these complexities are overlaid by your own tastes, your own state of mind. Food, the most subtle and complex of arts.

Now, you will have to excuse me. I think I have worked up an appetite.

(PS. As I have already had three Londoners talk to me about this one café since I have been here, lets see if people can guess which one Zen was talking about....)

Saturday 2 January 2010

and then it was the 1Os

If you move often enough, and far enough, you start mistaking time for space. Sydney was this period of my life, Paris was this, London will be this. Then you start comparing the places, and if you compare for too long, you never live anywhere, nor experience anything. Paris is not X times Sydney minus Y times London. Sydney is not Paris, is not London. Should any be put into continual reference of the other, they both become cheap, and you become utterly boring.