Saturday, September 27, 2008

"I'm Having Words" in England















In England, rather than say "we're in talks" or "we're discussing the topic" they say "i'm having words." It's so literal, isn't it?

There are a few things which have stood out as being particularly foreign to me here in London.

On TV the other night there was a sex education show. Standing next to the program's presenter there stood a naked woman who must have been 9 months pregnant. The presenter kept poking her in different places to show what happens if you poke a pregnant woman.

In the mornings, they actually play the song "London Calling" on the radio. The British are even literal musically.

And, if you're lucky, you can hear in-depth discussions on call-in shows of listeners' lucid dreams. The radio stations are public, nationally funded entities-- so at the end of the day, tax money pays for talk of dreams.

Thursday, September 25, 2008

In France, they peel things.

In France, everyone peels apples, pears, potatoes, peaches, cucumbers, and anything else that one can peel. Now, I do not necessarily report this as a bizarre act. Perhaps one could have an aversion to the fuzziness of a peach or the juxtaposition of texture between the interior of the cucumber and its exterior lair. Perhaps. The perplexing part to me is this: why does no one in the States peel an apple and everyone in France does? I have never seen a French person eat a non-peeled apple just as I have never seen an American eat a peeled apple. Yes for pie or cobbler or any other delicious baked apple treat, Americans peel apples, but not for a simple snack.
So I asked a French woman why she peels apples.
“Did you know that no one in America peels apples?”
“No. We do here in France. Or at least, my mother did, so I do.”
“Why do you peel your apples? Just because of your mother?”
“No. I suppose they are too crunchy if you don’t peel them, too.”
“Too crunchy?”
“Yes.”
“In America, one of an apple’s merits is its level of crunchiness.”

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

Assignment: First Impressions














Tim is now in Paris, and I am finally in London. We both have seen and heard some very strange things. Assignment: Report your initial findings of strange behavior in public, on the radio, inside the television box.

Wednesday, September 3, 2008

45 Minutes in Los Altos, CA

Downtown Los Altos is a small place. There are two busy streets, State and Main, and both are lined with neighborly cafes and beauty parlors. There is an ice cream shop. There is a pharmacy. There are two banks. When the hustle bustle of big city State and Main are too much to take, you can walk to the very end of the street, cross Foothill, and find the redwood grove on University.

Redwood Grove is magic. It's secrets and faded young adult novels found in city parks. You walk down a paved drive, and suddenly the suburbs fade away. Redwood planks form walkways through a compact forest of endless, tallest trees. The trees grow next to a creek where you can find thousands of blackberries in the summer. (It's best to roll up your pants and walk in the creek with a bucket to collect the blackberries. They taste wonderful in pancakes and muffins).

Everything is quiet here, except for one night a year. One night a year, kids who attend nature camp at the grove are invited to bring sleeping bags and snooze under the endless trees. When I was ten, I couldn't sleep on sleepover night. The trees were just too tall.

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