Naughty London

Today is my third day of commuting to work and the journey has been going smoothly so far, even if the trains are usually crammed with people managing to read newspapers or books. It's a marvel to watch them as they carefully use every inch of available space in a way that won't bother the other commuters, folding broadsheet newspapers in origami patterns...

It takes me about half an hour to get by underground from Swiss Cottage to Baker Street, where I change trains to King's Cross, then walk to the British Library, situated nearby the Station. At Baker Street Station, you see several references to Sherlock Holmes, the famous fictional detective who lived at 221B Baker St.

And er... Well, by the way, I learned in Wikipedia this morning that the expression "changing at Baker Street" is a euphemism for anal sex, since Baker Street is one of only two stations on the London Underground (the other being Paddington) where you can change from the Hammersmith & City Line (pink) to the Bakerloo Line (brown)!! London of course is also famous for its 'naughty' and sometimes seedy side, perhaps I will post more about this at a future time.

A City's trivial Journal (1)

This is a new section of my blog that takes up from one of my favourite films ever, "Wings of Desire", by Wim Wenders, the idea of "assembling, testifying and preserving" bits of reality in an urban setting. In this brilliant film, one of the raisons d'etre of angels roaming Berlin is to observe and record the simple joys of human experience.

I am no angel, but will report here pleasing or moving (but true!) unimportant facts I have observed in everyday life in London.

Sunday, 17 September, 2006
Tottenham Hale Tube Station - An escalator squeaks and manages to sing the first two measures of "Happy Birthday to You" in a 'voice' similar to nails scraping down a chalkboard...

From the British Library

Isn't it amazing that nowadays - provided you have a "portable" job like translation - you can set up a temporary office about anywhere in the world where electricity and an Internet connection are provided?

I am comfortably seated at a desk at the British Library, one of the greatest libraries in the world, with my laptop wireless connected to the Web, and thinking about the oceans of opportunities that are available in this professional lifestyle just leaves me totally flabbergasted.

Why couldn't I work from Rome? Prague? Tokyo? Sydney? How exciting that would be! Perhaps I was meant to be a postmodern nomad, after all... But for today, I think I'll have a pint to that in a nice London pub.

Cheers!

Snap (1)

A fine specimen of pubgoer (who is obviously not "Hugo Boss man").

London, 22 August, 2006, 5:30pm

Blackfriar Pub, that boasts walls clad in green, red and cream marble, covered with illustrations of merry monks, bustles with activity at this time of the day. In this extravagantly ornate look-alike church - or scaled down cathedral - every inch decorated in marble, mosaic or bas-relief sculpture, a man in a well-cut suit is nursing his pint of bitter and picking at a pile of pistachios, bought from the bar for £1.50, neatly and conscientiously putting the husks in an empty glass.

Halfway through his job, Hugo Boss starts fiddling with his BlackBerry then gulps what's left of his beer before taking out an empty white envelope from his smart leather briefcase, only to pour for 75 p. of pistachios in it. He secures his saved feast with a flick of the tongue, slips his Precious in his briefcase and walks out of the pub, looking content with his lot.

Prologue (in English)

It all started when I suddenly thought of my great-grand-mother and wondered why she, as a Quebecker, would always be called Mary instead of Marie. Was she English? American? Was she brought up in the United States? I asked my mother, who asked the eldest members of our family but nobody knew. Then I said to myself: "Do I really need to find one drop of English blood in my veins to justify my keen interest in the English part of my cultural heritage, as a Canadian from Quebec?"

I hope not, but my doubts about that only highlight how difficult it may be for the Quebecois to come to terms with this heritage and enjoy it without any guilt, not to mention that a crime of lese-majesty such as this can get you insults from some fanatic Quebecois nationalists who still resent anyone with an English name or daring to speak the language of Shakespeare for things that happened generations ago...

I've started to ponder what it means to be North American, Canadian, French Canadian or Quebecois when I left Canada to immigrate in France, four years ago. Today, I live in Paris but spend a lot of time - actually, up to a couple of weeks a month - in London as well, which leads me to write a blog to share observations I made about the strange people that we, Quebecois, take after so much but differ from just as much: the French and the English. In that context, I like to use the Eurostar as a physical and symbolic hyphen between both founding cultures.

But first of all, I should make sure you know that I am not an anthropologist. I am not making any claims about the accuracy of my observations, and politics is not my cup of tea, really, even though speaking French in North America in the 21st century can be regarded as a political statement as such. However and hopefully, through this blog I'll meet other people who celebrate la différence whilst enjoying the homo quebecus' underestimated and politically incorrect - because so often disregarded - Englishness.

Welcome to my blog!