All the cars in France are the same.
I counted, one time on the street, while Anna was in the store buying sandwiches at 10:00 PM after a hard night of scrounging in the streets for house supplies. Among the items we found: two pots for cooking, some cups, a wicker chair, a knife. But I digress: while Anna was in the store, I counted cars. 9 out of 10, the same type. Different brands, years, sure. But all the same. That hatchback, small, Euro-style economy size with the decent gas mileage and surprising cargo space, if low headroom. The rest are trucks or rich people driving cars that look like '85 Mercedes sedans. I literally can't tell the difference between tens of manufacturers and makes of cars.
They all look the same. I guess that's the style that works. And the style that works, if it works, is applied uniformly here. Look at the hair, or the clothes. Everybody in the latest fashion, which means everybody wearing the same uniform. The one that says, "Don't mind me, I'm hip and up-to-date. Nothing to see here." Or they wear the uniform of the concerted nonconformist, the one that you get at the non-conformist store next-door. And not just clothes, but hairstyles, lifestyles. But it's just a uniform. This is a by-product of rich society. When you have the luxury to be bohemian, to be a beggar, or to be a pinstriped businessman all with the same amount (or lack) of effort, it follows that the distribution would be uniform between them. But they end up looking the same, because the approach is the same: buy the latest thing, discard the old. Where does it go? Right in the street, for the taking. That's what we're finding out.
The beggars here look like everybody else: wearing nice clothes, but asking you for money. I'm thinking, "Are you sure you shouldn't give me some money? You see, my supply is limited, and the dollar-Euro exchange rate is pretty pathetic these days." On the one hand, it makes me feel good busquing in my normal clothes; I'll not seem out of place. But sometimes it feels like everybody is an impostor. So, basically, I feel right at home here. Same as in the States. Come visit!

la france!

Hi all,
You (the people that actually know me who read this) are probably wondering why I've been incommunicado for this last while. If you weren't, well, at least I have a reason. I moved to France, you see. I'm writing this on my laptop in my new apartment just off the center of Montpellier, FR. The town is in the south of France, about 1.5 hours from Barcelona, Spain, and about 4-5 hours south of Paris by train.
The apartment is right next to the town center, and it's beautiful, and all newly redone, and not too fantastically expensive. Definately less than a hotel ;-) We had it secured within 28 hours of arriving here. That's not to say that it wasn't extremely frustrating finding it! Even though it was unfurnished, between finding (nice!) things in the street and extremely nice neighbors and landlord, we've got a bed and a table and some chairs and a hot plate, so really the only things we need are a fridge, and an oven of some sort. That's pretty good, for no money thus far! At least we can cook, eat it on a table, and then go to bed. That's some pretty important stuff that one takes for granted when one is not travelling.
I've been using lots of exclamation points. That's to imply that I'm excited. Actually, I should write that we're excited, because none of this would have been possible without Anna, her french, her patience, her money, her companionship. She's the one who got everything done. I just haul it home. They call me "muscles."
The address:

Donald L. Anderson
244 Rue de St. Maur
34000 Montpellier
FRANCE

That's probably enough for now. I'm going to put another post when I get a phone number. And, of course, I'll write more and more and more, as time goes on. Send me an email, or your address if I don't have it, and I'll write you letters. It'll be great!
paix et amour,
Donald

Two Things..

Don't use a Windows computer. Have you noticed that it totally sucks? Normally, I try to stand the middle ground on these issues, but there are better options, people! Did everybody keep using the Ford Pinto after they found out that the fuel tank could explode? No. Your fuel tank is exploding, people.
Also, I put up some new pictures of a trip I took with friends Anna and Daniel to Montreal. Go and see them, if you crave visuals.
paz y amor,
Donald

Anna and Donald Go to France!

As you might have noticed if you were really closely reading this blog in the last month, the whole tense of all of the verbs in the introduction paragraph at the top changed from "we" to "I" at some point. That's because this blog was originally supposed to be both mine and Anna's, and we'd post our travel musings here. But then I wrote a whole bunch, and Anna felt like this blog wasn't hers. So we made another one! Donald and Anna Go to France! This is where you can read up about our adventures/see our pictures, etc. The especially keen among you will notice that I put another link there on the sidebar where you can get to it as well. Yay! More ways to waste your time, while simultaneously informing your personal relationships with me and/or Anna K. Przybylski! Life is good.

Montreal

I went to Montreal (pronounced "mon hray AL") yesterday. A preparation of sorts for going to France (you know, because they speak french in Montreal...). Every time I drive into Montreal, it's this logistical driving nightmare that involves half an hour of frustrated driving (I accidentally wrote "deriving," which would be even more frustrating), ending in randomly ending up exactly where I want to be. But I'm not writing just to complain (contrary to popular belief). I just like writing (parenthetical phrases).
Montreal is sexy. It's big. It doesn't feel law-abiding in quite the same way that the rest of Canada does. There's a bit more of an edge to the city. Like people are thinking a bit harder, or giving it their best shot, as opposed to coasting by. Something like that. Something to differentiate it. Going in the beginning of September, it's almost easy to forget that the whole city is encased in a block of ice for six months out of the year. But, unlike some American cities I know, they really make good use of their summer when they've got it. Bodies wall to wall. I like that. Sexy wall to wall bodies. Well, maybe not all sexy. But good enough, for Canada.
In other news, I'm painting and scraping paint off of things ("which is it?" you say. I say "Both."), like for money. That's a hoot. Anna's here. She's really great. We do things like go for walks and canoe and (potentially sometime in the future) go for bike rides, and have french lessons, and cook dinner, and chat and roll around on the floor. These are good things. These days that's what it's all about: maximizing the good things and trying to avoid/deny the existence of the bad things.
Okay everybody, repeat after me, "Everything is fucking great. Bad things have no power here" (make sign of cross with your fingers and wave them around in the air).

Muse-Meister Muses More

I've noticed that some people play up or down, depending on the team they're playing. They'll just barely scrape by, your worst game ever, playing against the losers, but you give the real good players a solid run for their money, and sometimes they win and sometimes they don't, but they tried their best. There's something about seeing those other people play well that makes them play well, but they forget when the other team sucks.
Then, there are those people who always play at the same level, regardless. This is typically a very high level, in my experience. You may remember these people as the ones who ruthlessly trounced you playing badminton in high school gym class, and had no remorse about it whatsoever, even though you were just being nice and you let the scrawny ninth-grader in on your team. Those people went on to be Olympic athletes, or gas pumpers, depending, not on their consistency, but on their original level of quality.
I'm one of the former. By virtue of being surrounded by all of these wonderful people, I look really good in relief. I'm that scrawny ninth-grader, who just played the best badminton game of his life, because y'all were nice enough to put me on your team. So keep up the good work, people. You're making me look good.