jill/txt

Hons, do go look at Judy Horacek’s August cartoons and scroll down to the bottom, that one about naming the nameless dread. Not a bad idea, huh?

Virtual Storytelling is the name of a conference in Toulouse this Novemeber. I’ve only had a quick look at the list of presentations so I can’t swear to its being relevant, but it’s in France! I don’t think I’ve got any travel funding left this year though. (via Grandtextauto)

Friendster’s been gaining a lot of fictional characters lately, and of course they’re all friends and all write testimonials for each other. I’ve asked Conan the Barbarian and Hermione Granger to be my friendsters. Kind of regret I didn’t ask Snape, but enough’s enough.

[update 20/8: Danah Boyd has a far more interesting and knowledgeable analysis of “fakesters” in her Connecting Selves blog]

She falls in love with Pierre on her eighth day in Paris. They meet in cafés and in his garret apartment: he is the most romantic lover she has known, her most patient French tutor. But with each conversation, each night of love-making, the language becomes more her own. She is able to express herself more fully, more completely, but Pierre remains the same, as simple as the French she could speak and understand when they met.

Tonight, a little past midnight, they’ll come home to his garret after drinking with his simple friends. Afterwards she’ll pack her bag silently, calmly, and walk down the long, winding stairs, shutting the door behind her for the last time as she steps onto the empty street. The words he’ll yell through the window to her are the last she’ll ever hear him utter: You used me! You used me to learn French and then you threw me away!

She registers his switch from imparfait to passe composé with a slight, smug smile.

I like this definition of Eloise Oyzon’s: Blogs are a first person narrative in real time. and further:

The story is focused upon the protagonist, it may be extremely personal/personable or the story may be of a larger scope - ie. technological trends and innovation as they affect our hero, with occassional tangential tidbits hinting at life beyond.

Yes, I’m home, but not quite at work yet. I’ve read, written, played, eaten, drunk, run, climbed, swum, slept, spoken a lot of French.

My hedge needs trimming, the rose bush needs tying up and there’s weeding to do. My lavender’s not dried out yet, though. The lavender fields in Provence were harvested the second week in June, and flowers that have been left uncut are dry and grey. My Northern lavender bushes are still a delicious blue.

To my surprise, I discovered that Southern France is just like Australia, or at least just like the parts of Australia I love best: hot blue skies, dusty red earth, dry yellow fields and trees and plants that fulfil exactly the same functions as the eucalyptus-scented flora of Australia, though their scents are different. The coast has village after village exactly like the trendy beachside suburbs in large Australian cities, the cafés, parking slots and houses exact parallels, though Riviera beaches are skinny and mean compared even to Melbourne’s city beaches, and noone would dream of going to Melbourne for its beaches. Inland Provence has ancient villages piled high against hillsides, but the interiors, the gardens and the cuisine are modern Australian: terracotta tiles, space, herbs, relaxed meals and delicious food.

At Ségriès a friend from Queensland was surprised that I found Provence so similar to Australia. She’s used to a tropical Australia, while my Australia is drier and, of course, the stuff of dreams of home more than everyday routine. When my sister arrived (born an expat as I was) she echoed my words without having heard them: It’s amazing! It’s just like Australia!

There are differences, of course. There are fields of lavender, Roman ruins and tiny villages every few kilometres. There is incredible rudeness as well as genuine friendliness and charm. Quite often waiters will roll their eyes at your impertinence in existing, especially if you don’t completely understand the menu. But if you speak French and ask questions that the person you’re talking to can easily answer (Is it “une glace” or “un glace”?) they’re almost certain to be friendly rather than rude. There are no Swedish tourists. In fact, though the Côte d’Azur is obviously tourist-infested, almost all the tourists from from other parts of France and you can spend days at the beach and in restaurants without hearing any language but French.