Sex is to French movies what _______ is to American

As an instructor of French I had to lead one-on-one conversations several times a week.
A gruesome task when you have to listen to a 101 student trying to make the distinction between the different nasal sounds "on"/"an"/"in" three hours in a row. Thank God for the "r" diversion in the middle.
It REALLY numbs your brains out, trust me.

But with more advanced students it was of course different (though scarily enough, not that much sometimes. But that's beside the point). We usually talk about French movies they saw the week before as part of their 'exposition to the target culture'. It's a strong belief of language acquisition pedagogy that students learn a lot that way; I guess they can thus see that we belong to the 21st century as well. You wouldn't believe the questions I was asked in 9 years of teaching in the US.....

Anyway - whether it triggers excessive enthusiasm, curious recording or outraged embarrassment - and, frankly, between the two extremes I am not quite sure which one makes me the more uncomfortable as an instructor -the one single element everybody is pointing out is sex. More specifically, nudity.
Yep, you see boobs, butts and sometimes even more.
Ron-ron-ron, oh la la!!! Mon Dieu!

See - when a man and a woman actually have sex (you know...it happens...especially in movies where things are incredibly accelerated and revolve around drama) the woman doesn't keep her bra on; that would pretty stupid of her actually given the fact that it's a major erogenous part of her body, and she supposedly put herself in that situation to get pleasure out of it. And seriously, who gets out of bed wrapped up around sheets? WHO?!?!? Did they all join the "Never nudes" along with Tobias Fünke in Hollywood or what?

But wait, I have even more shocking: actors walk butt-naked not only in mainstream movies but also in TV shows and  - supreme horror - commercials. On TV and on billboards. Believe it or not - women take their clothes off in the shower and you do see their nipples while they are rubbing Dove, Nivea and what not in their skin.
Crazy, I know.
These Frenchies....
I am the first to admit though that sometimes it is a tad too much; having a naked lady on her kitchen floor caressing a bottle of olive oil is not totally necessary (unless you want to use the oil in question for purposes that are not strictly culinary, and that is another question; cf. Last Tango in Paris for similar misappropriate usages of alimentary products).

To sum it all and put it quite simply: the Janet Jackson 'incident' would have generated a big laugh, some sarcastic comments and that's about it.
I would say it's rather healthy. But I am obviously biased.

The traditional opposition between slow-paced, dialog heavy and psychology oriented French movies and their more action based American counterparts is this one: sex vs. violence.
I do not agree.
To be fair let's keep it very 'concrete'.
To me the US equivalent of (gratuitous) body exposure is vomiting.
Throwing up.
Puking.
And I find it quite disturbing, to be honest with you.

It's one of my Russian colleagues that brought up the subject for the first time in 2001. And since then I have been watching closely and she was totally right. For some reason TV and film producers think it's appropriate (funny? instructive? telling?) to show people getting sick. When people are drunk (OK), scared (maybe), exhausted (really?), even happy (yes, sometimes - I promise) or for no reason at allthey throw up. Not only that but they do it in close-up shots -you could almost tell what they had for lunch if you really wanted to - and with the corresponding soundtrack.
It grosses me out so much.
I mean - why?!?
I am not sure about what it says on a culture shocked by its own nudity but fascinated by its perpetual upset stomach....if you have any answer for me, please share them with me.

I feel like I am missing something here.
Excuse my French and my blunt honesty but personally, I'd take fucking over puking any day.

Cinna-not-bon

Here we are once again: Fall has finally arrived. Please let your coolness relieve us of a suffocating summer, but don't yield to Old Man Winter too soon. Amen.

This - by the way - is one of the only concessions I will make to weather comments. I just don't get it. Why do people feel the perpetual need to talk, worse, COMPLAIN about the alteration of atmospheric conditions (fancy, huh?)?!?Dudes, seriously, nothing is going to change because of your rants. We are already trying hard enough with all the crap we produce. So do us all a favor, just accept the sky as it is and just shut up already. Or hook up with The Weather Channel guys, Tom Skilling, Ginger Zee and Amy Freeze (sic).
Leave. Us. Alone.

Fall.....there is much to say and write about it. But to make it quick, let's just say that this morning was just the pure illustration of what it can be at its best.
Like - Norman Rockwell picture perfect. If there was such a thing. (Since there is not, we'll have to do with this on the right and not complain about it. The fact that we are not really going to talk about pumpkins is totally irrelevant here.)


Blue sky. A flock of geese. Fresh breeze. Football practice in the park. Hats on toddlers (which I call champignons, or mushrooms, for that very reason...big hat on small bodies? Yeah? Got it?).
AppleFest in Lincoln Square.
I mean, does it scream Fall or what?!?!?
It was crowded; I don't know if people have an insatiable appetite for the forbidden fruit but they surely act like it. My assumption: they are starving for all the goodies that go with it: apple butter, pies, tarts, turnovers...ya know...the good stuff (my theory is that biting repeatedly in the actual fruit, chewing its flesh, swallowing while trying not to smear juice all over the place is way too much work. Much easier to gulp down a slice of pie, right?). And of course brats, sauerkraut and potato salad because OktoberFest is around the corner, we are in Lincoln Square and let's keep priorities straight: we all need a side of protein with our fruit.
So - prepared food everywhere, and here and there, some fresh apples for the bravest souls.

I have to admit that I don't care very much for apples but I do love a good tart (and you know it). Yup, a t-a-r-t and not a p-i-e which doesn't belong to my childhood pantheon of all good things, thankyouverymuch.
Remember Miss American Pie? Guess what the key word is?
But when in Rome....so I learned to eat pie. Sure. Why not. Not bad. But one of the things that really bugs me about them is cinnamon. More often than not a slice of apple pie tastes just like cinnamon. Which I like. As a spice. In small dosage.
But not as a main ingredient.

So I am asking you here and now: what's up with America and its obsession over cinnamon?!?
Seriously?

Finding it in apple pastries is one thing; they are, after all, complimentary flavors. Even MY grandmother was using it, and hers before that. But when every single piece of cake, muffin, or scone tastes like cinnamon - not to mention coffee, buns, cereal, bread, gum, candles, and toothpaste* - I say STOP.
Really guys.
Hold on a minute.

I understand; it tastes good, has a sweet, woody fragrance and these sticks look pretty cool in a jar. Of course you want to benefit from its antioxidant proprieties and make it lower your blood pressure. I get that. Is it really 'romance enhancing' though? Naughty you....you wouldn't get very far with me using your "Cinnamon Flavor Breath Spray", I can already tell you as much. Even if it's seen on TV.

You should really let it be. Chill out. Take a minute, and remember - in silence - that merchants, traders and your great-great-great-great grandpa died - no less! - far away from home, on the Spice Road to bring you back a whole bunch of other spices. Choice. Ginger, saffron, five-spice, cardamom, nutmeg, cumin, pepper, paprika.....
Check them out.
They are in little jars as well.

And please, don't make toothpicks or floss out of them.


*I haven't checked (just 'cause) but I am pretty sure there are some cinnamon-flavored condoms out there......right?

Bed Stories

Last week Reuben and I went for a little getaway in Door County. We badly needed it; our summer had been pretty awful. As well as our spring. And winter. Oh well. It happens. I am placing all my bets on 2011 to be the year of permanent, never-ending and glorious bliss.
Blindingly bright.
I already have my sunglasses on.Anyway - we made reservations in smaller hotels. Nothing fancy this time, just a bed and a shower, you know. Wooden cabins, outdated picture frames, quilts and lacy window treatments. Country-style. Cheesy much? Oh yeah!
Everything was good and well until we settled down for the night after a long day of riding in:
- the car for close to 6 hours
- a smelly ferry on a very choppy Lake Michigan
- and a couple of ancient bikes we used to tour the island (Washington) we were at. On. Whatever. We did in the wind and under the rain.that's what counts.

The bed was squeaky, very bouncy (powerful springs, lemme tell you!!) but also...............very small.
Full-sized small.
Bummer.So now for most of the world a full-sized bed is NOT small. It is just perfectly normal. And in any case, a big upgrade from one's twin from childhood. I happily shared one of these for years without questioning, feeling squeezed, uncomfortable or claustrophobic.
I never fell off of the boat either. Even by 'rocky' waters (insert stupid grin here).

But everything went awry 4 years ago when Reuben decided that he was tired to deal with dwarf-size furniture and pulled an American move on me.
He bought a KING size bed.
Oh boy. Oh man. Oh God.
That was the end of the world as I knew it.
At least it was not Californian.

The thing is just huge. HUGE. Ever heard of ménage à trois? I am sure this bed was created for that particular naughty purpose. I jokingly say to all my friends who are considering taking the ultimate step that going from queen to king is just asking for divorce. Seriously - how do you keep the intimacy alive when there is an ocean of pillows, cotton sheets or - way worse - fleece sheets (ahhhhhhhhhhh!!) between the two of you?!? Add to the equation a cat or two, a demanding dog and a wife who likes to sleep at the edge of the bed, and there you have it: a marriage in peril.
Just kidding kids.
Or am I?

At first I was not a big fan. I was cold, felt lonely and abandoned by my bed partner. I missed feeling his hairy legs on mine, his respiration on my neck and his vicious kicks in the middle of the night. But I quickly realized that it was indeed......nice. Incredibly so. I could almost sleep in a diagonal without bothering anyone. Sweee-eeet!
Our Ikea bed is not the best nor the most comfortable in the world but I grew really fond of it. It takes most of the room in a little chambre but what the hell?!? This is, after all, a BED-room. Right?
The only thing that still bothers me a lot about my XL-size bed, American fashion: the price tag of the sheets. But every luxury has its price.

So that night we laid down, turned off the lights and closed our eyes. Trying to get away from each other. Bodies way too close.
He got up - on my sleepy suggestion - in the middle of the night to go on the sofa.

That says it all.

I hope we'll never have to move back to Europe.
We'll be screwed. In the bad sense of the word.

No Pain, No Gain

I already talked about my coming to running: how it came as a surprise since I always dreaded it and therefore loathed it. How thanks to my friend Erin I got into it, signed up for 5Ks and decided to kick up a few notches. How I learned to enjoy it, excitement and soreness alike and how it allowed me to stay sane in moments of disarray.

Three days ago I ran my first half-marathon.
13.1 miles. 21.1 kilometers.I was exhilarating.
And painful. Of course. Actually much more than I had anticipated. I had gone through my summer training without noticeable trouble and was not prepared to have my lower back killing me (not so) softly the way it did on race day. It started almost right away, mile 2. I was 3 minutes under my 11:27/mile pace, my breathing was right, the weather was perfect and then I felt it: a dull ache in my loins worsened by every stump on the ground. I tried to change my form, straightened up, arched my back - to no avail.
I knew then that the 13 miles were going to be even longer than they already were.

But you know what? Despite the pain, the fatigue and the gradual disappointment that settled in when I found out that I wouldn't meet my goal time I enjoyed every single minute of it. OK, most of it...and now that my body has recovered I am looking forward to the next challenge. To next year. To - maybe - even a bigger challenge.

Running is freaking addictive.

It is hard to explain why because seen from the outside it looks nuts. Boring. Useless. At least it's what I used to think, and I am sure that most people out there would agree with me. Most sports have a purpose, points to score, an opponent to defeat, a task to accomplish. You have tools, partners, a coach, a program, a common goal.
Running is mainly a solitary activity. You don't need much to do it, and you certainly don't need anyone. It is you against a clock that you set however you want, a pair of shoes, your legs and your lungs. And no real direction.
It is simple and pure.


Sunday will forever remain in my memory as one of the very special days of my life. For many reasons.
Accomplishing a goal that you had fixed for yourself months in advance is in itself very satisfying. And I have to say that besides the mundanities of everyday life I hadn't achieved anything in quite a while. Quitting school a few months ago was liberating in many ways but irremediably deprived me from this sense of accomplishment that is so essential to one's life. Dedicating to this program 6 years of my life to the detriment of my physical health, sanity and self-esteem to get nothing concrete out of it wasn't particularly pleasant. It was - and some naught days, still is - painful. Maddening. Frustrating. Despite people's encouraging comments of: "You made the right decision". Other people's decisions are always much easier to validate, aren't they?
So crossing the finish line - ironically enough, just a couple of blocks away from campus - after months of hard dedication gave me an incredible rush of happiness. I raised my arms, yelled "We Did it!!" and would have been ready to hug the first random person to cross my path. Fortunately for both of us Reuben was just behind me; we kissed, exhausted but elated.

Doing this incredible journey with him was an incredible gift. I kept telling him he was crazy, insane, loco, fou, Сумасшедший, 狂人 and the biggest monkey to ever walk on Earth for wanting to run the race with me without proper training. But in reality I am damn impressed by my silly hubby. He did it. Out of love. To support me. He was initially supposed to run by my side the first 3-4 miles - the hardest for me. But he stayed the whole time. Encouraging me all the way. Pushing me. Handing me water and Gatorade. Telling me "you got this!" every time I needed to hear it.
That made all the difference in the world.

I was not alone in my journey. Fellow runners supported me all along; we shared training stories, exchanged tips and routes, suffered through the summer heat. And on Sunday I had 20,000 companions to carry me along the way. I never thought that I would enjoy running among other people, total strangers, the way I did. But for a couple of hours we were all mates. Breathing, sweating, and pounding the asphalt of Lake Shore Drive in unison.All embarked on that same adventure for different reasons and with different expectations, but all of us united by the same objective: cross the line.
And the spectators.
I never anticipated that. Hundreds of them, all along the way. We were all cheered on by families, children, cheerleaders, sign bearers, and rock bands. ROCK BANDS people. I felt like a star. "Did you know that you were my hero?" one sign read. My two favorite? "Run like an angry Kenyan" and "You are all very good at exercise",
LOL assured.
Emotion too.

When I stepped on the red line I had tears of joy in my eyes. I felt overwhelmed. Exhaustion, pride, happiness, disappointment and a little sadness to not have anyone there with us to share this special moment in our lives. I watched with envy other runners being greeted by family and loving friends. They were hugged and congratulated. Acknowledged. Some even had flowers.
We rested for a while on the grass of Jackson Park, stretching, smiling, taking a few pictures, still in awe of our accomplishment. Then we got up to walk back to the car parked on campus. People started to send us congratulation messages on our phones. But the most important ones were missing. My closest friends, my family. I took solace in thinking they didn't understand what that day meant to me. And welcomed all the others who did.
We celebrated with brunch in Wicker Park, and a festive dinner at one of the most wanted restaurants in town. A lot of pork was involved. Pints of beer as well.
When I went to bed that night my legs were not even sore anymore.

I am hungry for more. I heard that runners are kinda crazy like that.
I prefer saying: motivated.

Blog Shout Out: Et si on se promenait...à Paris!

This is my first time doing this.
People who know me will tell you that when I love, I love. For real. A lot. I came across this little gem of a blog on Twitter and fell head over heels for it.

This is amazing.

"What about taking a stroll in Paris?" (rough translation of the title) is not really about the text content, rather minimalist (even though you can still find some very useful information in some entries). What makes it all are the PICTURES.

They are fabulous. Gorgeous. Fantastic.
And make you discover a secret, out of the beaten path Paris. Little alleys, small squares, hidden gardens and cours intérieures, shop windows, restaurants - this is all worth it, and breathtakingly beautiful.

Since all the pictures are copyright material, I cannot share any here with you but GO AND SEE THEM.
http://beegirl.squarespace.com/

Enjoy!

Restaurant Review: Brixie's, Brookfield, IL

OK. To qualify Brixie's of 'restaurant' is totally overkill. And people who know the place have probably chuckled.
It is not a restaurant.
Brixie's is a bar, pretty divey at that, that serves food. Bar food. Not gastro-pub fare, nothing elevated, elegant and refined. No. Bar Food. Fat, greasy, artery-clogging, heart-stopping, hip-fattening and fingers-dirtying.
YUM.
(At least they haven't put 'deep fried butter' on their menu yet; only in Texas. I really need to go and figure out for myself what's going on over there....there must be something in the water...)

From the outside, Brixie's look like a warehouse or a garage. Not very inviting. But don't be fooled and push the door: you'll be rewarded by the best beer selection around, nice and welcoming people, darts, pool and "The Hotter than Hell" burger that deserves by itself the trip to the 'burbs. And with them being open until 4am, there is really no reason for you not to go.

Review written on Yelp 8/25/2010:
"History of Brixie's, fine drinking establishment in the lovely town of Brookfield, IL - according to Mister Aurore L, former resident who used to haunt the locale on a regular basis between 1987 and 2005:

1 - in the beginning, the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep.
2 - the plot of land used to be a watering hole where bison came to quench their thirst by the thousands, even breaking the ice in the winter to achieve that purpose. 'Break ice' is actually the etymology of the name Brixie's (deformed and transformed over time. See rules of historic phonetics for more details)
3 - in 1934 a family of immigrants lost their construction business because of the economic crisis and decided to open a bar. They decided to call it Brixies to honor their past (brixies = brick + ksi - ksi being a pressure unit: kilo per square inch).
They heard later the rumors about the watering hole, and thought it was a very happy coincidence.
4 - in 1987, Mister Aurore L discovered the place. At the time it was licensed as a package goods store and had shelves and shelves of liquors and a tiny bar.
5 - M. A. L. became a regular, got drunk and sick for the first time within its walls and learned how to become a pool shark feared by the most ferocious players.
He will tell you of his exploits on occasions, when he's in the mood and doesn't feel too hungry.
(Tip: you can buy him off with fried chicken)
6 - M. A. L. took A. L. one night to meet his friends and when she wasn't impressed with it (she had some perception issues at the time), decided to cut all ties and vowed to never come back. He cried for days. Brixie's would have too - if it could have.
7 - A. L. made her debuts at the pool - under the patronage of the former hero of the place.
She totally flipped. That was a flop.

8 - M. A. L and A. L. went to Brixie's one night after hearing marvels about their burgers. They discovered much to their surprise that the place had had a face lift, and lost a couple of pool tables but had definitely gained a lot in the 'appeal' department.
Among its charms:
- a juke box
- two dartboards
- a super cool retro looking little booth in a corner
- 32 beers on tap
- more than 100 beer by the bottle!!!!!!
- late opening hours, we are talking about 4am during the weekend, 3am otherwise (kitchen hours differ)
- $8.50 for the Hotter Than Hell burger served on a pretzel bun with jalapeno slices (13 of them on mine), smoked gouda, chipotle aioli and a big, thick, juicy patty of meat. KRAZY DELISH. Perfectly cooked meat, pretzel bun - I am in paradise.
- $5.50 for make you own mac'n'cheese
- pretty dilapidated bathroom stalls - it's a must.Totally worth the trip kids.
Be a part of history, go to Brixie's!"