A Joyeux Noel

So, the holidays and what-not were pretty cool here. I always thought it would be awesome to spend the winter in Europe, figuring it would look like something out of a movie. Which it was, pretty much. Brussels got its first real snow in the last couple weeks of December and I was happy like a school girl.

Ssnow is awesome when you don't have to drive and you can still walk around without slipping. But after a while, snow in the city gets packed down to the point where if you step on it, you're going to bust your ass. Which Marine did once, by the way! The more I get to know her the more I realize how clumsy she is when she gets tired or lazy... it's as if she has no awareness of her physical self, where she ends or begins, and the area around her. Knocking glasses over, dropping things... busting her ass in the snow. That's my wife.

For Christmas we ended up going to France. The train ride was great. As for the time there, it was ok, but unfortunately on the 23rd or so I was asked to accompany a group of Marine's dad's friends on a hunt in the woods. For wild pigs, giant god damn wild pigs. Anyway, our job was to walk around and scare the pigs out of the woods. You heard me, you walk around with no weapon and "scare" the pigs, yelling or smacking trees with sticks, anything to make a noise. If you see one charge at you, you run, because they can easily slice an artery in your leg with their tusks and that'll be the end of you, squirming and bleeding out while a bunch of Sarkozy loving Frenchmen run after their next vanity kill.

Unfortunately (or fortunately?) we didn't end up scaring any pigs out to be slaughtered. The woods there can get pretty thick -- it's the same area where I dug up WW2 trenches last year (I'll have to post about that later) -- and it was cold as balls, of course. So in between the random bomb craters we walked, looking for pigs which never showed up. It didn't take long to get scratched up, cold, tired, and kinda bored. We stopped for lunch at one point, which meant lots of food and lots of booze. Of course. A little strange to see a bunch of guys guzzle wine and then pick up shotguns to head out and kill some shit, but mostly they were safe.

In the end, they did something lame, although I guess it's a tradition. A bunch of pheasants were bought and released into a certain area of the woods and were then hunted. They definitely got a few of those. I wasn't aware pheasants stunk so much, you learn new things every day. Marine had a pretty :( story though, apparently she was near some old dude who managed to blow only the wings off of one of the birds. He shouted at her to chase it, so chase it she did... until it managed to get away in the thick brush. Later, the more ...adept... hunters told her they should have just let it be so they could track it or whatever. So the poor bird ran out into the middle of nowhere loaded full of buckshot. War is hell, pheasant.

All I was saw (alive) was a big hare which was scared absolutely shitless. It was running like a Cheetah through the woods. I yelled "LAPINE! LA LAPINE!" which just made Marine giggle. I was actually trying to be serious though. I need new gloves and that thing looked soft. I was tempted to hunt it myself using knowledge from First Blood starring Sylvester Stallone but decided to let it be for then.

For New Years, we ended up staying in Lille. At this point I was sick with something or other so it kind of sucked. It was in this (cool) old building where they have projectors showing video clips to music. Unfortunately, most of it was typical Eurotrash techno crap with bad art school CGI movies and neither me nor the woman liked it, so we left shortly after 12 and walked a couple of girls home. That was it. Got some midnight kisses on the cheek from pretty French girls and I turned one year older. Here's to my 26th year on the pale blue dot...

French shoes

This is what happens when you wear French shoes. Or this is what happens when I wear them anyway. The woman got tired of my ass-kicking steel toed Doc Martens and bought me these a couple months ago. I haven't worn them since this happened

Everyday goings ons

So, I dropped a €20 on medication today. What a bitch. That's like two weeks of groceries or... let me calculate this...5.7 kebabs. Highway robbery! I got a receipt so I can give it to my insurance company that I signed up for here, but that doesn't give me money now. I may try to take it by the insurance place later today and if the man accepts it I will then buy a kebab to set things right with the universe.

Insurance here costs something like €5 a month, but even after signing the papers I'm not sure what I get out of it. Oh well-- I had to have it for residency anyway. And I guess it'll be useful if I get hit by one of the many speeding cars around here. European drivers scare me, really. The roads are most often one-way through the cities, since they're such cramped areas, but instead of having the 15MPH speed limit like back home, it is easily double that or more. There aren't any speed limit signs, actually Most of the cars are stick shift to keep the cost down and they are all of course, very small, but that doesn't mean they can't haul ass. And the way you're supposed to walk around the city is this: if there is a crosswalk sign on the pavement, walk into the middle of the road without looking and the driver of the Peugot hurdling at you at 50KM will then hopefully put on his brakes ever so gently and let you cross without issue. Me? I just wait until there's a break in traffic and then I go. Euro drivers may be better than US drivers but I'd rather not get in the habit of crossing the street with a car speeding at me. I'm incapable of that sort of trust.

I've got an English class to give tomorrow, we'll see how that works out. The hard part is coming up with subjects to talk about. If you hate awkward silence and have no clue about how to fill it, then teaching English is probably not the job for you. Essentially you're just having a conversation with someone and you are to correct them when possible and help them in any specific areas that they need help with. But it's pretty much up to you to be able to carry the conversation and I'm no Oprah Winfrey. Money is money, though, and it is something to do. I'll try and print out some worksheets tonight or something ... I hated school and am not really the teacher type so this is all new territory. Combine that with the fact that I really don't give a shit and, well, god help my student. The cool thing is, they phone me, come to my apartment, pay me and leave, all because I was raised to speak English and it was naturally one of my better subjects in school. I think I'll milk that golden cow for as long as possible.

I miss football

And Olive Garden. And Outback Steakhouse. I know those aren't exactly sophisticated eating places but I feel like eating a plate 4 serving sizes too big and watching some pigskin. Oh well.. thems be the trade offs.

I've noticed that learning a new language seems to make you reflect a bit more on your own. The other day I was thinking about strange slang words in English. For instance, there's Bullshit or Chickenshit, which are often shortened and mutated into weirder things like "That's Bull!" or "That's Bullbird..." the latter being a strange concoction formed from the two. Try understanding that when you're just starting to learn English, it doesn't make much sense. When I'm asked questions about stuff like that I end up confusing myself as well. "Well I don't know why all of our phrases shouted in anger are religious in nature. Jesus Fuckin Christ, gimme a break." Not a lot of expressions really do make sense, and the same thing is happening to me with French. "Shit on the whore" just sounds odd to me. My favorite, however, is "BORDEL DE MERDE", or "BROTHEL OF SHIT". It just sounds so depraved. So I tried to think of the most offensive set of words I could think of in English and I came up with bloodfart and cumbomb. Both really kind of make me feel uneasy, especially when used in the same sentence. I don't know why but I wanted to share that.

Speaking of-- just in time for winter I managed to get all sickly. The fever I had going was a real ball buster, too. Hot, cold, sweaty... along with not being able to sleep because every swallow was a stab. We all know that old game. Try to fall asleep some time without swallowing, it's harder than it sounds. The degree of pain I was going through convinced me I had the dreaded swine flu but who knows.

You really don't cherish good health quite the way you should until you fall ill. That's just how life works, you need a little reminder now and then. As I started to hobble my way to the toilet one day I wondered to myself, is being old like having the flu all the time? I don't want to go anywhere, do anything. My body aches and I'm cold all the time. I'm grumpy and can't eat the stuff I like or it hurts. I need someone else to bring me things just so I don't lose my balance due to lack of strength and slam into the wall. Spending all of my time huddled beneath a blanket sipping on hot tea or complaining about how unreasonably cold it is. If that's old, I don't wanna get old. Fortunately, I don't think I have to worry about that too much as the ol' sweet breads in me ain't what they used to be. It's a rock and roll lifestyle I lead, man.

Feeling like a bag of smashed assholes did not stop me from traveling, though! It was the mother in law's birthday, so back to France we went for the weekend for a party. It wasn't so bad in the end, except the train ride made me dizzy and the wind she was a-frigid. And when we got there I couldn't enjoy the food or booze as much as usual. I say as much as usual because there was no way I was going pass up free food and booze -- luxuries that they are. So I had a glass of a punch that made my throat feel like it was being torn to shreds by some sort of fiery magic sword, and I followed it up with a sugar coated, fruit filled doughnut like object. My gluttony was satisfied but my poor throat was not. Nothing like coating your wounds in sugar and alcohol.

On the way back we used a car-pool website because it was cheaper than a train. We found a girl on a website, contacted her, and ended up getting a ride from her. Turns out she goes to the same school as the wife and studies theater and works in a shop that sells tarts and things down the street from where we live here in Brussels. Who woulda thought. "I stare at her pastries through the window all the time!" I exclaimed, proudly. My wife gave me a puzzled look over that one, but otherwise nobody felt creepy and it was a nice ride. No hitch hiker murder stuff and everybody got what they wanted. Better than the train, really.

She had a funny story about her acting classes: Apparently they put the students through the ropes and thin them down to only a handful. One guy made it through the process thanks to his intensity, but he seemed a little odd to all of the other students. Later, they would find out that the reason he was such a one dimensional character was because he was a little... well, mentally retarded. That part alone had me cracking up, because if you've ever known a pretentious art student or theater actor, the idea that a mentally handicapped individual was mistaken for one of their own is fucking hilarious. I would cherish the moment I could use that fact against someone. " You don't understand how difficult it is to act and bare your soul! Someone like you wouldn't understand!" Ah yes, but a 39 year old retard might.

They had to kick this particular fellow out because he kept harassing some of the younger guys in the class with text messages, telling them he wanted to "fill up their little butts". Now he's trying to sue the school because he insists he was kicked out for being gay. I really wish I could be in the court room to hear those proceedings.

Bongos in Bruxelles

Oh, how time flies when you're having fun. Been a while since I updated. The reasons for that being, limited access to the net because of limited funds and because there's a security guard at the wife's school who is an asshole and likes to kick me out after hours so I can't use it so he can watch soccer matches uninterrupted. Belgians.

Unfortunately, the once mighty American dollar does not go far here, and so even after some money sent from relatives in the Fatherland, we remain broke. The type of broke where you involuntarily turn into a vegetarian and become weak and feebleminded like vegetarians do, and the type of poor where the idea of Ramen noodles sounds like a gourmet meal. I'm going to say something here that will probably disgust or anger those who read it but, I miss Ramen noodles and you asshole kids in the states who gripe about it don't know what you're missing. They're like 1 Euro over here. That's about $1.45 a pack in the US. Considering we made a Euro stretch a week that's some high shelf shit right there.

So when it comes to food it has been pretty basic but I shouldn't complain. Belgium seems to have 3 basic stores: Lidl (cheapish) Delhaize (middleish and mysteriously has a Food Lion brand logo) and Carrefour (middle to high). The last two take credit cards - so there's some actual useful information for someone traveling. I usually walk down the road to Lidl and grab some stuff, although if you have any bottles of beer laying around some times you can take them to Delhaize and get some change back. 40 cents will get you far these days, kiddo.

Anyway, to honor my Irish heritage plenty of potatoes are being eaten, to honor my French heritage, plenty of crepes (or pan-crepes as my wife likes to call the ones I make) are consumed and the Soy sauce I can't explain but I will say that it was one of the better food investments I've made in poor times and I believe there should be a bottle in every house or traveler's pack. It managed to make the rice and noodles a little less boring. Minced garlic, fried onions (put ketchup on 'em and pretend they're onion rings without batter, kids! It's log, it's log, it rolls down hills it...)

Living in Brussels isn't so bad other than it being expensive. I mostly stay home and do the Charlie-Work for my wife. (Speaking of, I've been trying to keep up on my Always Sunny In Philadelphia this season. Thank god for the resilient Pirate Bay cause even if I had TV it doesn't air over here.)

To reach our immaculate apartment you must first climb about 100 stairs (moving in sucked) and once you're there you find a nice studio apartment about the size of your parent's two car garage. We also have no door on our bathroom so when we have to shit we close the door to the bedroom. I hear cars honking and sirens blaring constantly from my windows (which are along the slanted ceiling) and at night there's music playing in the streets below. Oh, and there are drug dealers too. I happen to live in the African district of Brussels and let me tell you, those Africans love their marijuana and heroin. Or at least, the white kids that venture into the area to buy the stuff sure love it. The drug dealers seem to prefer new clothes which I must say isn't a bad idea because if I'm going to buy scag I'd much rather buy it from a well dressed man standing outside of Chicken Spot, rather than some jerk in a dark alley that smells like poop. The cops keep a healthy presence in the way that they would on the TV show The Wire, meaning, they ARE present, if not only to meet a quota so the politicians don't piss their pants. I learned this the hard way after getting my camera and some money stolen. I'll leave that story for another day because it involved ample doses of extreme stupidity on my part.

African food is pretty good, though. 5 euros a plate or so, chicken, steak... beans rice, whatever. They have pimento that will light your ass hairs on fire for a week. I believe that's an exact quote from the Michelin Guide...

I hate European milk though. I could write a whole post on that but suffice it to say, it comes in a box and is warm and it doesn't taste like milk should. I know the cost of having fresh milk in a cooler in a shop and having to throw some of the product out is looked at as waste, but France and Belgium: your milk tastes like shit and I hate it.

Instead of washing things down with milk of course I much prefer beer. Brussels is great for beer but I am poor and if there's one way to stop someone such as myself from drinking nightly, as I would, it is to be poor. If you'd prefer to be a Wino, though, Lidl has a nice Cabernet Sauvignon for only 1.68!

I've managed to make the woman happy by drinking less and losing some weight due to the hippy diet, but god damn it am I bored. I hear you say, But Drew, you're abroad! Living the life! My response is: There's a reason money is such a popular thing and it's because without it you can't do anything and that includes even when living in the magical fairyland that is "abroad" or "Europe". Walking around and seeing the sights is great until you see a pub you'd like to visit, or you see a group of giddy Japanese businessmen running around giggling like school girls with waffles and ice cream and frites they've purchased from a nearby goodycart. I hope your fries and waffles were burnt and your ice cream melted, salarymen. I mean, it's fun and all, but just like anywhere it loses it's brilliance when you're not in a great mood and -- probably to many who have been here for years -- when you see it all the time. I haven't grown tired of it, obviously, it's just hard to cherish some times.

Work-wise, I'm trying to get some customers for conversational American English classes but that ain't panning out so great yet. I did get one guy who was interested. we planned to meet on a Wednesday night but we got lost and couldn't find each other in the downpour of rain that was unleashed upon us. We tried to meet up at Hector Chicken, some fast food chicken place, but it didn't work out and so we said we'd try again another day. He apologized and sounded a little sad, like he had desperately wanted to find out what Quentin Tarantino movies were really about, but lost the chance. All he was left to do was stand and ponder the wonders of the world, soaking wet, in front of Hector Chicken. I left sadder though, because while explaining American pop culture references to a curious Flemish man sounded fun and all, I really wanted to get paid. Bring home the bacon as it were, to the woman. Alas the only bacon I could bring home was myself and I cannot be eaten. YET...

Until next time, Bonjour.

American Alien In Paris

Got asked to do a few things (cleaning, etc) since I had asked for instructions to help earlier, so I ended up staying here a bit longer. I was also asked to go on an archeological thing with Marine's father, so I happily agreed. Meanwhile, they've got two kids visiting... 10 year old girl and a little boy who is 5. They're quiet and polite.

The boy's never met anyone other than French people before. I assume this because after he heard me talking he asked why I didn't speak French and if I were an alien. As in, an ET alien. That was funny and cute, but I wish he'd stop staring at me suspiciously at the dinner table. Ain't no alien gonna travel a million light years to hang out and eat crêpes!

Although he's right in every other sense, I am from another world and have no idea what the hell is going on.

Still searching for a state of grace...

Spent most of the day doing just this



Smoking and sitting on the bed staring at a church. Listening to Street Dogs.

Feeling like you've over stayed your welcome isn't a good feeling, although it is becoming a more common and common experience for me. Guess that shows what point in life I've come to. It's hard explaining to the wife why I haven't yet found a place to volunteer at for sure, because nothing sounds good. Which isn't the point, it isn't supposed to be good, I guess, just work and a roof over your head. But how do you spend 100 Euros to fly to Ireland if you don't have it and how do you work in southern france when you have a hard time with the language? Either way, I try and not let any discouragement show. Gotta be the strong one.

It helps nothing to admit you've made a mistake either, although I'm not sure what the right course of action ever would have been. I'm not saying I'm giving up or that my plans are going to fail, it's just not easy and you can't admit that to someone who is already worrying themselves to death over other things. Gotta stay positive and "in the present" as a friend told me. Maybe I'll find something tonight. I hope so, because it's Friday and I planned on leaving this weekend. C'est la vie.

Here, have a Street Dogs song:

Power Converters and Electric Wizardy

I was kinda worried about finding a decent and inexpensive power converter once I got over here, cause I brought my Eee PC and wanted to be able to stay in touch with people. So I went to this big supermarket they have over here called Carrefour, which is kind of like a Wal-Mart... except it has two floors, it's in a shopping mall, and some sections are pretty gigantic, especially the grocery area. Why we Americans don't have more of that going on, I don't know, cause we're supposed to be the consumer whores. Anyway, you can buy anything you want, really. A baguette or four, some pâté, two bottles of Johnnie Walker Red, some lubricant, a Twilight dvd, whatever, just have a blast.




I, however, went there for a power converter and after standing around for 15 minutes waiting for a service rep to become available (one of the small annoyances about living over here after being in America), we finally got directions to a power adapter that didn't cost 60 god damn Euros. In fact it was like 8 Euros and it was universal. I hadn't seen those before so I was amazed. European jacks to American, vice versa, and everything else. It's like the swiss army knife of power adapters and if you're traveling anywhere I recommend you get one. Saves you from having to buy a new adapter for each country. Also don't fry your shit - my laptop was apparently made to withstand the conversion of power, I don't know if everything else can.

Onward

So today I've done a whole lot of nothing; past few days I've been helping out with whatever needed to be done. I glued some broken furniture back together with some Sader glue (whatever the hell that stuff is, it's powerful). Climb ladders, put in light bulbs, whatever.

Other than that, I should be looking for a place to go on Help Exchange, but I've been postponing it because I haven't felt like I'm ready to go volunteer and work my ass off. For anybody who doesn't know, it's just an organization that helps you find room and board, in exchange you work for a set amount of hours - whatever it is the host requests. Some have photos of their land and detailed info on what their project is; renovating an old building in Ireland to create a coffee shop, renovating a giant French château, cleaning up pig shit. The world is yours! Of course the options aren't always great and it requires money to travel to the places, some which are pretty rural, even if you're already on the continent. There are some sweet deals though, like helping maintain a hostel in exchange for some $ once the backpacking season starts up. Or getting 50 euro a week for groceries.. still haven't figured that one out.

I've found a few places I'd like to go but it would mean taking a plane or a long train and both are expensive right now for some reason. I might be leaving this weekend 'cause I feel I've overstayed my my welcome, helping or not. So that's a short amount of time to pick a location, contact them and wait for a response. Here's hoping I manage it.

"But wherever I have gone, I was sure to find myself there"

Obvious to all, obvious to me, but I will reiterate:

You are who you are wherever you are.

Get Your Own Map

View Larger Map

Random Observations #1.3

Here I will list random observations, stunning revelations, and other random things going through my head lately. They may or may not have anything to do with traveling.

- I have a hard time reading French so I think I may have washed myself with bubble bath soap this morning, and possibly used actual body wash as shampoo. It all looks the same to me but at least I smell good. I am too lazy to google the terms and educate myself on what I am using, for now. It makes shower time mysterious!

- Aside from attempting to communicate with my wife and others, my sole motivation in trying to learn French is so that when I buy kebabs, I don't get ripped off. When I am, I want to be able to argue in French. This has happened to me so don't you dare tell me that it is unlikely, I got ripped off by Tunisians and I'm angry god damn it.

- I just Googled "michelle obama nude" even though I knew it would return nothing. I also am not attracted to her. I felt compelled. I don't know, just felt I needed to share that. I did find this, though. (Not work safe)

Kebabs, shawarma, and all things Godly

So in my previous post I mentioned how my main motivation for saving funds, aside from living a happy and stable life, is to buy kebabs. Or "shawarma" as some like to call it.

What I said is true and it is because, until you have tasted the pure bliss of a galette-style kebab with "Samourai saus" and fries, you have not lived. Without having previously eaten Shawarma you don't know what real food is, it is like trying to picture a fourth dimension.

Don't believe me? Well think about this: I have hated mostly all green vegetables for the majority of my adolescent and adult life. I even hated some vegetables of other colors. I was a vegetable racist. I sustained myself with meat, perhaps some ketchup or other sauce, and potatoes. I need not mention how fried and battered vegetables aren't really vegetables, cause if they were, then I could have practically been called a vegetarian. Instead, I was mostly a carnivore, sticking my nose up at anything remotely healthy and calling it rabbit food. Until I met my wife, and kebab.

To impress my wife and make her not think that I was another fat American scumbag, I ate salads she and her mother made, prepared with vinaigrette (those were actually pretty good despite having to chew on something green)... I ate any vegetable she threw at me, even leek. Which was a mistake. But the point is, I broadened my horizons and was willing to try things, willing to endure the horrific and unnatural taste of fresh vegetables on my pallet IF there was a taste involved that could counter balance the situation. That is, I started to eat like a normal human being.

The first step after all of that was a local Shawarma restaurant in Brussels. We were sitting in a bar one night having a drink and I noticed that a lot of the local population, mainly of Arab descent, were walking up to this restaurant and ordering lots of food (which was mainly a food stand with a big window, the kitchen in front of you consisting of about 4 by 12 feet of room to move around). I was curious and asked my wife if she knew what it was all about and why it was so popular.

She didn't know, but after hooking up with the likes of me she was also opening her mind to new and disgusting things, so we headed over to try it out. For 2.50 EUR we got a giant galette kebab filled with salad, meat, and samurai sauce. I was still hesitant about the salad but I forged ahead knowing I was going to at least be eating some form of meat. I also didn't know what samurai sauce was, all I knew was that it was supposedly "hot", as in spicy hot, and that sounded nice. For a few days on my obsessive return trips to the Shawarma, I even mispronounced it as "sam-why" because that's how the French seem to pronounce it. Only later did I realize it was named Samurai after the noble Japanese warriors. And it lives up to its name. It is one of the most noble sauces I have encountered, aside from perhaps Heinz Ketchup, which holds-fast a position in my heart.

In the end, it is possible that the combination of my wife and kebabs saved my life. At the very least, it saved me from nutrient deficiency, which is also one of my utmost concerns.

As a tribute to the world of kebab, I suggested to my wife that we name our first born child Kebab. The second will be named Penguin after our obsession with the book publisher Penguin. Penguin and Kebab - noble samurai names that no one could make fun of at school.

I also intend on opening a kebab shop in the US, primarily in the south, where the meal has yet to be properly introduced (the greek just fuck it up with their gyros and lack of samurai sauce). I will be rich and will eat kebab at my leisure. Interesting facts I found while researching for my endeavor:

United States: Shawarma is usually found in regions and localities that host a concentration of Arab or Jewish population, such asDetroit, Baltimore, Chicago, South Florida, California, Washington DC, and New York City. An almost direct result of the conflict in the Middle East, shawarma is also popular among American soldiers when returning home.

So in conclusion, I intend to make myself rich off of the food that I love and that has treated me so well, by exploiting American veterans from the south.

editor's note: it turns out that after continued research it is estimated that kebab has not been treating me well, but that it has instead been poisoning me slowly with an extremely high calorie diet. I feel betrayed, and yet I remain as loyal as ever.

Bones and stones

Right now I'm in Long-Pres Les Corps Saints, France, staying with my father in law and his wife.

The only way for me to accurately describe this town is "French" which, I am aware, is not a good description at all. But it's French, as in, perfect stereotype of a French village, exactly what you'd see in the movies (as an American) and the type of place you want to get away to when you actually think of France. The bread baker is next door, a bell chimes in the town center every hour, five chimes for 5pm, etc, you can walk to the doctor, tailor, pub, post office. I like it a lot, although there isn't much going on. I'm still not sure what the hell the kids around here do for fun, actually, aside from driving their god damned loud scooters through the town non-stop. If this were a small American town I would take the usual guess as to their nightlife and say it's probably lots of premarital screwing and getting plastered, but if that's what they do I'm not seeing it. Then again I didn't see much of it when I was a teenager either. I'll never be a cool kid.

The weird thing about observing the area is that I don't see any poor, druggie looking people walking around, which is strange to me as an American. When I first got to Belgium and France, walking around at night I constantly had my guard up, waiting for some sort of fight or something. But it doesn't normally work like that over here. It's relaxed.

This place, though -- it's as quiet and innocent as you're going to get. I've been in small Mayberry towns before but there seems to always be some seedy rednecks around addicted to [whatever] who are trashy and loud and uneducated and have a litter of kids following them around in dirty diapers. That's life... except not here, apparently. The houses are beautiful, the people look happy, the women are hot (I'll leave it at that), and the area itself has beautiful rolling hills, little forests, babbling brooks. Yes, I actually saw a "babbling brook" running through the town with a cute little bridge running over it, don't gimme any crap.

And of course, everything in France is historical. Outside of my window is a fairly ancient church, and by fairly ancient I mean it is older than my own native country. The other day I found bones laying in the yard where workers had dug a hole to put in a gas line. There was a human femur and clavicle lying in the pile of dirt. It's Europe, you know, there are lots of bones. So what do they do? They throw it in the dirt pile and leave them to throw back in the hole later. I got to check out the old bones and snap a photo, because I found it all pretty neat. I can't see something like that happening in the States or Canada, though. If you find bones there it's either "sacred" Indian remains, a murder victim, or someone's grandpa. People would tell you to fuck right off and leave them alone for the "authorities" to take care of.

Speaking of historic areas, today I was helping cut wood for winter in a little forest owned by Marine's dad. In those woods there are multiple trenches, one of which I got to dig up last time I was here. Over the years the trenches were filled in, but you can still see the indentation in the gruond. When you're digging them you come across very light colored soil which means you've hit the walls where they stopped digging. Makes it easy to recreate the thing and look for artifacts. I found some metal crap, looked like a tin for food, etc. It was very interesting for a WWII geek like me. That's the type of stuff I dreamt about doing years ago when I was planning a trip to Europe. Now it happens when I have no intentions of looking for it. There are still huge holes in the ground from artillery and maybe stuka bombs - it's pretty rad. Marine's dad once found a couple tins of food out there that were unopened. He was curious one day and made the mistake of opening one. Apparently it wasn't a nice smell, but the meat was still inside. Disgusting, reeking ZOMBIE NAZI MEAT.

Anyway, it turns out a regiment of Senegalese infantry under French command fought in those woods, thusly the trenches and such. Rommel had attacked with panzers, of which 12 or so got knocked out, before the Germans captured the woods.

Next to the woods is a town called Airaines - I had a beer there today while we took a break and watched horse races. It's odd casually sipping a beer in a small town that you know was completely obliterated in WW2 - everything except the church which looks old as balls (and coincidentally is old as balls) - which was used as an infirmary for both sides. A Gabonese officer was executed by the Germans and there is a monument for him in the town. For those interested:

When World War II broke out, he came out of retirement and took command of a battalion of Gabonese volunteers at Bordeaux, then later was captain of a company in the Infanterie Coloniale Mixte Sénégalaise, which fought Germans on the Somme River. After three days of resistance, the company was left with only ten Africans and five Europeans, and they surrendered near Amiens. But the German officer would not treat N'Tchoréré as an officer, and when N'Tchoréré refused to fall in line with the black enlisted soldiers, the German shot him.

N'Tchoréré's son Jean-Baptiste was killed in action in the same area a week later.

Charles N'Tchoréré has a memorial in Airaines, and in 1962 he was honored on a postage stamp of Gabon

Horse races... gotta explain that one. The French fucking love horse races. It makes me feel like I'm back in the 40s or something, the idea of sipping a beer at the local pub with the townfolk, everyone nervously waiting to hear that their horse as won . It seems pretty confusing, though, what with keeping track of the numbers and this and that. They have races in the day, in the night, and then they have more, bigger races on the weekend. They're all about bettin' on those horses. If I had any money to burn I'd probably try it just to say I've done it, but I have to stop myself and think: What's 1 Euro? The answer is: 1 euro saved is 1 euro closer to a kebab with samurai sauce and that's more important to me than any horse. My kebab addiction is all consuming, but I'll cover that one later.