The Ruling Class

Hello World. I tried to write a post last night, but my scatterbrained self couldn't put fingers to keyboard. I apologize for not being a prolific blogger over the past few weeks, but it's been all coffee and rain and library and no fun. I've promised unwritten updates on the Balkans and have been a poor email correspondent, so, sorry. Replies are coming soon.

But not until this weekend as I've been busy churning out an 11 page paper on the Russo-Japanese War and now have to begin another 10-pager on the EU's role in Kosovo and another worthless paper for my French language class (on the history of Roland Garros) before I can begin studying for my exam hell week at the end of May. But I should not complain for these are temporal troubles and will be gone all too soon as my time here draws down to what will be the end of Paris.

A brief update and story: This past weekend, I went to Bourgogne (Burgundy). We stayed in Dijon and, yes, I bought a jar of mustard and ate and drank very well. The highlight of the trip was a visit to le château de Villemolin that has been within the family of the Marquis De Certaines for the past 500 years. The De Certaines are hosting a Tufts student this semester at their apartment in the seizième and had the whole group down to their immense château for a tour and hors d'œuvres. On the tour the Marquis traced their family's history, showed off a desk that had belonged to Napoléon himself, and, interestingly, told the story of how he is both a Son of the American Revolution and member of the Order of the Cincinatti, the pseudo-American aristocracy formed by leading American and French officers from the War of Indepedence. He's more of an American than I am.

Upon returning to Paris and informing my host family that I had been to another family's château, they got quite curious and, as it turns out, know the other family. In fact, the Comte De Pemille is a distant cousin to the Marquis De Certaines. Marie-Joelle pulled out a large register full of inbred aristocrats and traced the connection between the families and it was all so funny and passé that I felt woefully inadequate to not have a château to the Helms name nor a lineage of dukes or counts. In the register, each child is listed with his year of birth so the aristocrats can continue to not pollute their bloodlines with the 3rd Estate. I'm mostly kidding here, but it is quite interesting to see their history and tradition in action as they hold onto a culture that is dying away.

Detours

So I've been meaning to finish writing about my trip to the Balkans (I've yet to write about Dubrovnik, Budva, Prishtina, Sarajevo, and Mostar), but they will have to wait since I just got back from Prague and rather than letting that city slip further down the back-burner I thought I'd knock it out right now in pictures and a few brief words.

May Day. I arrived on the First of May in Prague and the city's as gorgeous as I'd heard it would be. The Charles Bridge, the Castle, the Cathedrals, the (anticlimactic) clock. Beer is cheaper than water and the smell of sausage and fried cheese (as good as it sounds) hangs in the air from the street carts serving the hungry hearts of Prague. Many thanks to my friend Caitlin for taking me in for the weekend and showing me around!

Pictured above is the Lennon Wall named after John (Lennon) and, during Communist rule, this wall provided the only means of public expression in the city. Youth wrote lyrics to Beatles songs and continually frustrated authority figures who would paint over the graffiti only to find new messages written the next morning. People still write on it today.

At first I thought it was nice to have people signing their names to the wall, but that changed fast when I saw four girls (I'm going to assume they were from New Jersey based on accent and general surly demeanor) sign their names to the wall as they posed for a photo in identical black leggings. You know the girls I am talking about. If it had been colder I'm sure they all would have worn Ugg boots and no one who stuffs their feet into those horrendous sheep killers should be allowed to make any contribution to public discourse in my opinion.

They weren't contributing to the spirit of the walls earlier days, only detracting from its once forceful message of disobedience in the face of injustice. Today, speech is open in the city. The country's joined the European Union and within the year will start using the Euro. Moreover, twitter, blogs, and Facebook have made public expression (however minute and trivial that expression may be) available to the masses. Jersey girls -- stick to the Book. The only people I saw signing the Lennon Wall this weekend were not Czech and it struck me as just like a Che Guevara t-shirt that the wall had been sapped of all its initial power and force. What does it mean to sign your name to that wall? Is it to associate oneself with ideas of rebellion and counterculture and revolution that have been repackaged and bought and sold back to us (drawing on ideas from David Foster Wallace's brilliant essay, E Unibus Pluram)? Is the message diluted and, ultimately, gone? Or am I just over thinking all of this? Probably.

I'd just prefer to see the wall remain static and decaying, a historical (and crumbling) landmark to the horrors of the Communist period and the suppression of speech in Prague. Apologies for the digression but this post is called "Detours."

There and Back Again, Part 1

When I got off the Metro at Felix Faure on Monday after 17 days in the Balkans, I first noticed the trees. They were green. Spring had crept up on Paris while I was gone and I was sad to have missed the flowering buds turn green in my favored Luxembourg Gardens. But oh my did I have a great time in Croatia, Montenegro, Kosovo, and Bosnia. I'll try and give a brief rundown of each city over the next few days.

Zagreb served as my entry and exit point to the region. In my first moments in the city, I noticed the wide spacing of the streets and the exaggerated distances between buildings; a place with space to spread out and grow unlike the often cramped and narrow quarters of Paris. We ate well and cheaply and drank beer from 2 liter bottles and almost saw a riot break out a soccer match. Having met an American, Korean, Frenchman, and Englishman all of whom worked for Adidas in Germany, we decided to check out the local side, Dinamo Zagreb, play a match at their home ground. Buying the cheapest tickets possible, we stood in line to be searched with all the other fans, but the crowd turned violent as the search process allowed only one person to enter at a time and, with the match set to begin, the most die-hard supporters began pushing and shoving, eventually overcoming the barricade and the riotgeared police who decided not to challenge the on-edge crowd. It was the only moment on the trip where I felt at all unsafe and decided not to take my camera out for the 5 or so tense minutes before the barricades finally fell so sorry that I don't have any photos of the event. Zagreb's a fun city and worth spending a night but doesn't hold a candle to the blunt charms of the Adriatic coastline.

Split. It's 5 AM Easter Sunday and I have just arrived into this sleeping port city, devoutly Catholic and still hanging in the morning fog. Unable to check into our hostel until at least 8, we sit along the waterfront, hungry and bleary eyed from a night bus from Zagreb and waiting and praying (it is Easter) for a bakery or anything to open up. By 7:30 we buy bread and soon after get into our hostel room and collapse into beds. Such was my introduction to Split a city mired in history. Sure it's pretty, but so much of Croatia's coastline is more beautiful that looking back Split's a dulling place. Diocletian's Palace is the highlight but otherwise there's not all that much to see or do. The city is the gateway to get to the Adriatic islands and those islands and Diocletian's Palace are worth the trip so get in and find the Jadrolinija booth (for ferry tickets) and get out!


Hvar. I think Hvar spawned the phrase "we win at vacation." It is unfairly beautiful. Why this little island gets to have it all I know not. Detroit should be pissed off. Hvar's old Medieval town center, framed by the spires of two monasteries sits below a 15th century Venetian fortress towering over the city and looking out onto the ever so blue as always Adriatic. Renowned for its nightlife come summer, in April the season hadn't yet begun and the island died at about 10 PM but the days were gorgeous and there was much sun to be had on the rocky beaches.

This Is Water

In several emails written during my recent trip to the Balkans, I tried to communicate the color of the Adriatic Sea and despite using countless adjectives and modifiers, I never found the write expression to capture the deep, heavy blue of the Croatian coast. Nor could I define the incandescent humming blue-green of the Tara River Canyon cutting down from Sarajevo to Mostar or the depth of the graying fjords of Montenegro. So, stealing my post title from a David Foster Wallace essay, here are a sampling of photos from the Balkans and back again.

Travel Update: Prishtina, Kosovo

Where to begin? Since my lost post, I've darted down the blue watered Croatian coastline, ducked around the largest fjord in southern Europe and climbed over the Accursed Mountains. I've ate more burek and drank more pivo than is good for anyone and now I'm dodging this Kosovar rain/mud storm at an internet cafe. The trip's been so many things and I hope to provide a little more synthesis when I'm back in Paris on April 27.

But for now, I'll give a quick summary of my time in this young nation. My friend Rafael and I left the bus station at about 6 am and walked up Bill Klinton (that's how they spell it) street and made our way to the "city center." The city has no true center except for the UNMIK compound (UN Mission in Kosovo) housing lots of police and development workers. This is the first time I've really seen an active UN or EU in a developing country. Aside from all the SUVs brandishing the yellow stars of the EU, I haven't seen any unified projects except for the park financed by the Italian government near my hostel. Thanks, Silvio!

But, otherwise, Prishtina sprawls for several dirty and dusty blocks of cigarette hawkers and concrete buildings. I hope the US remains high in the hearts of the Kosovo people because if we make a bad move and they catch up with the rest of the world in Bush bashing they'll have to rename just about everything from Robert Dole Street to Route 66 Cafe.

Off to Sarajevo tomorrow, then an extended stay in Mostar before dashing back to Zagreb and Paris! Will have many, many pictures when I'm back.

Bordeaux Rosé, Take Us Away

First of all, congratulations to Caitlin, for winning the first ever Sacrebleu! trivia contest. Her knowledge of The National's musical catalog surely merits a fine bottle of Bordeaux (which I now know is actually not very helpful when purchasing wine since Bordeaux itself is divided into upwards of 50 AOCs -- Appellations d'Origine Controlée). I will bring another one of these contests along soon and I assure you it will be much more difficult. Caitlin, your prize awaits.

I had a great weekend in Bordeaux. Sun, wine, cheese, saucisson, baguettes, markets, churches, blue rivers, cheap hotels, and new French friends. Only 3 hours on the TGV so a good bet for those looking for a weekend out of Paris.

For those without cars, the tourism office runs guided tours into wine country, visiting two Chateaus each with a degustation des vins following a presentation of the vineyard's history and production methods. Preferably, one would have a car and could drive into Medoc and Saint Emilion and study the differences between the different styles of Bordeaux wines, but for travelers on a budget this guided tour was not a bad deal.

So, this is all true. Go to Bordeaux if you need some wine and sun.

Bordeaux rosé, take us away:

And all the wine is all for me

Off to Bordeaux for the weekend with my friend Winston. I'm happy to be getting out of Paris for a few days. As I cram for my art history exam tomorrow morning, my mind wanders South and I cannot wait to get on the train tomorrow and see trees and fields and sun.

Will report back Sunday with a belly (and backpack) full of wine.

But before I go, I am happy to announce the first Sacrebleu reader contest. The title of this post comes from a song by one of my favorite bands. Be the first to post the name of the song, the name of the band, and the names of both albums the song appears on in the comments section and you will receive a brand new bottle of Bordeaux to enjoy. No googling allowed (on your honor). Only catch is you have to pick it up in Paris before I drink it.

Happy guessing (though I have a feeling I know who is going to win) and if any readers have been to Bordeaux and have any travel advice, let me know!