Fezzik In Paris

dumb idea of the week: activating our cards

geepgeepgeep

July 21, 2015

What were, to this point, true chip-and-PIN (PIN-priority EMV-equipped) credit cards were replaced yesterday with the farcical, ridiculous, chip-and-signature style cards that are apparently going to be the interim card standard in the States. Thus while Europe has been on chip-and-PIN for the past 15 years and is working on phasing out swiping (and only continues to accept swiped cards due to tourists coming from countries with joke-level card security like the US), the US card issuers are doling out these abominations that require you to sign a receipt. Not a big deal in the US, but when French merchants outside of the tourist areas (which are, you know, where people are when they live in a country) aren’t used to seeing this mix (the guy at the Monoprix register went “What the hell? Signature?”), and when the PINs aren’t actually hard-coded in chip-and-sig cards as they are in the chip-and-PIN cards (so we can no longer buy or even retrieve tickets from the SNCF machines, to say nothing of any other non-human-attended machine), trying to actually use the goddamn card as intended becomes a lot more difficult.

Even with the 1% foreign transaction fee (which I happily ate, because the card was PIN-priority), using the US-based card for daily expenses allowed us to avoid the misery of shuffling funds to a European bank account without worrying about running afoul of FATCA (read up on that gem of a law if you want to see something that was supposed to keep the very wealthy from offshoring but seems only to have managed to fuck expats over), without the delay inherent in moving funds across international lines, and without having to deal with a forex trading company because wiring funds via our bank is stupidly expensive, slow, and per their explanation, “not trackable” (read: funds will disappear, may take up to 3 weeks to be deposited, and then magically reappear).

The best part? The very best part? They didn’t even tell us that the cards were changing; not until my stomach sank as I read the letter that accompanied these two worthless pieces of plastic did I have any inkling that they were in the process of completely defeating the purpose of us even possessing these cards.

So thank you USAA for downgrading from PIN-priority to signature-priority, for changing it without warning us, for making a supposed “World” card miserable to use anywhere outside of the States, and for proving, yet again, that behind all the flag-waving and quotes about your integrity and insistence that you’re different, you’re just another lousy bank.

reprise: bastille day

geepgeepgeep

no comments

July 14, 2015

We took the path of least resistance with this year’s défilé; as opposed to camping out at Concorde, we camped out in front of the television. While I saw more of the parade than I did last year, I have markedly fewer pictures of said parade.

The planes, however, remained (relatively) easy to photograph.

The opening act.

A slightly better picture.

This guy came in to work so he could stand on top of the building and take pictures of the planes. That’s dedication.

These look good in yellow.

The French equivalent of Air Force One.

dumb idea of the week: chilling the wine

geepgeepgeep

no comments

July 11, 2015

Oops.

on budapest

geepgeepgeep

no comments

July 11, 2015

There are instances in which the progression of an idea to an action (or in this case, an experience) are not immediately clear; I know that at some point, I said “hey, I’d like to go to Eastern Europe. Budapest is supposedly very nice,” but I don’t really remember when we decided to actually go, nor did I really pay much attention to the travel arrangements, the responsibility for which fell to the Purrito. I do know that I wasn’t, to be honest, particularly enthusiastic about the flight, and that whatever residual enthusiasm I might have had was further dampened by the taxi strike that took place on the day of our departure, which, when combined with a mouvement social on the RER B to CDG, threatened to make the journey to the airport nearly impossible.

We made it to the airport, though, and we’re both glad that we did; our adventure in Budapest proved to be one of the best trips we’ve taken, and it was certainly the best time that we’ve had outside of France.

I did genuinely wonder what the hell we had gotten ourselves into when we landed at the amusingly small and oddly set-up (the gates for certain airlines are literally just warehouses out on the taxi-way, despite the terminal itself being a modern, well-designed specimen), and I had further doubts later that evening as we wandered from our hotel (we stayed on the quieter and much more residential Buda side of the city) and through a large tunnel under Castle Hill. Riding the funicular up the hill was a novel experience, though Fisherman’s Bastion proved to be every bit as contrived as the Purrito’s Rick Steves video had warned us that it would.

In any case, things improved at dinner. Despite a misunderstanding as to whether our waiter’s name was his actual name or a culturally-imperialistic joke (as it turns out, there are people who are actually named Igor), we ate, went to bed, and embarked upon our Eastern European odyssey the next day. While we had been wavering on Monument Park, it would up being the highlight of our trip. Returning to the city, we hit the very strange central market, with all of it’s cabbage-y and sausage-y food, distinct lack of deference to international intellectual property laws (hello counterfeit hard rock, winnie the pooh, lion king, frozen…), and matryoshka-doll chess sets (slight twinge) and followed that up with a run through (and up to the top of) Saint-Istvan’s Basilica. We attempted to hit the Terror House, but it was too late, so we proceeded back over to the Buda side of the city to figure out the food situation. Two Hard Rock shirts and a bottle of local wine later (we’re dispelling any sort of air of sophistication we might have been cultivating, but we keep doing it because it’s funny), and we were ready for bed.

Day two consisted of a visit to The Hospital in the Rock (a WW2 era hospital built in a natural cave system, which was later converted into a non-hardened hospital bunker that had approximately a snowball’s chance in hell of surviving a nuclear attack), the Terror Museum (where one began to understand just how badly the people of Hungary had suffered for nearly a half-century under the boots of first the Nazis and then the Soviets), and a visit to one of Budapest’s best known mineral baths, Széchenyi thermal bath (where the Purrito proved to be a questionable shipper of Geep-containing cargo). Dinner at the best pizza place in Europe (seriously) was at Marxim’s, a communist-decorated dive bar.

Perhaps the most poignant part of our trip came as we were leaving; our 62-year-old taxi driver pointed out, with pride, almost everything of interest that he saw as we made our way to the airport (the medical school, a children’s hospital, the law school…). Doing the mental math, we realized that he had been born only 3 years before the shitshow that was the 1956 revolution and, per our unpleasant education in the Terror House, the stunningly awful aftereffects.

“This country has a lot of problems,” he told us before continuing, now with a hint of defiance in his voice, “but they are our problems.”

The view from the tarmac. Welcome to Hungary.

The tunnel. We have to go through this to get to the Chain Bridge (and Castle Hill) on foot.

It certainly seems like a long tunnel when one is in it.

The funicular at the bottom of Castle Hill.

Looking down from the top.

The actual view from the top of the Hill; that’s the Széchenyi Chain Bridge in the center.

The 62-year-old taxi driver that took us back to the airport told us that these buses had been around since he was a child. He pronounced the general willingness to ride in these rattle traps “crazy.”

The first of many Trabants that we would see.

Miscellaneous fake shit (seriously, all of this was built for the 1896 millennial celebration of Hungary) from atop castle hill.

Another “modern” bus.

This sign made me ever-so-slightly sad.

Budapest’s parliament building.

Seriously? This shit has to stop.

I actually kind of like the brutalist/realist art style.

The Purrito told me that I had to post this. It’s apparently a testament to the weird shit that I take pictures of.

Unlicensed taxis. Real taxis are fine (and, relatively speaking, not particularly expensive), but riding in an unlicensed cab is apparently a quick way to find yourself extorted.

Stalin’s boots.

The entrance to monument park.

Another Trabant. There are signs on the back window encouraging people to sit in it. Little did we know that it would try to eat the Purrito (the door handles inside the car don’t seem to work).

A big damn statue.

Sculpture.

It’s hammer (and sickle) time.

A surprisingly artistic monument; it’s meant to show the conversion of the useless bourgeoise (the dandies to the left) into a lean, mean (or at least starved and oppressed) army of communism.

The park isn’t a monument to the past; it was Budapest’s answer to “what do we do with all of this useless shit?” As such, irreverent photography is encouraged.

The view towards the entrance of the park.

The vintage street cars were entertaining.

Saint-Istvan’s Basilica. Another big damn church.

…definitely not a French church.

The hand of Saint-Istvan resides within this reliquary (rarity: it’s actually his hand; a series of posters showed photographs from the hand’s recent unpacking and checkup). Hilariously, one has to pay 2 euros for 2 minutes of backlighting.

One of my people.

Derpy lions (per urban legend (read: not actually), tongueless) stand guard on each corner of the Chain Bridge.

A buoy.

My attempt at taking a more “normal” picture of the scenery. Am I doing this correctly?

A very manky Marriott.

The entrance to the Hospital in the Rock (no pictures allowed inside).

The baths.

Marxim’s Pizza, home of the best pizza in Europe.

The small museum (boneyard) outside of the airport.

An old (but used until surprisingly recently) turboprop airliner.

In Soviet Hungary, first class… actually isn’t that bad.

I’m still not sure why a commercial airliner had a place for a person to climb down and look out of the nose, but OK.

Their Tu-154.

A retired tarmac car (the reverse side of light bar on top of the vehicle says “follow me”).

on heat: the green place

geepgeepgeep

no comments

July 5, 2015

We’ve been granted some respite from the heat; after a week spent oscillating between the mid-nineties and the low triple-digits, today was both wet and overcast enough that the temperature only managed to creep into the low 80s. As my fingers seem to have lost that sweaty adhesion to the keyboard, I’ve been working on the post from our trip to Budapest on and off throughout the day; given the time, though, it’s certainly not going up this evening.

The week ahead looks to be a bit cooler, with temperatures projected to stay under 92 or so, though I’ll readily admit that I’m not looking forward to dripping through the day (and into the night) again.

We did manage to add a somewhat novel tool to our arsenal: go to the mall. Friday, which proved to be as hot as Wednesday (read: 100 F or so), saw us flee to Les quatre temps up in La défense. Unfortunately, everybody else had this idea as well; it’s soldes season in France which added to the numbers present in the mall. Still, some air conditioning is better than none, so we took our time, did some shopping, and even managed to extend our stay into the later parts of the evening by buying tickets to the VOstF (version originale sous-titres français) showing of Mad Max: Fury Road.

As someone who has watched and rewatched (and rewatched…) the first two Mad Max movies (Thunderdome sucks), Fury Road was not at all what I expected, but it was awesome. The presence of the French subtitles was unexpectedly entertaining as well; as someone who has never been able to tune closed captioning out, they made for an entertaining vocabulary lesson and another reminder (in a very long procession of reminders) of how idiomatic languages are, and how certain things just don’t quite work in another tongue.

Unexpected bonus: French theatres (or at least this chain) sell Pringles at the concession stand. Now if only they would sell us a bottle or two of wine as well.

dumb idea of the week: going to class

geepgeepgeep

no comments

July 2, 2015

Yesterday marked the last day of our classes at the alliance francaise, at least for now; while most of their offerings (read: those during the day) continue on, the evening classes that we attend are spun down through the months of July and August, as historically, effectively nobody shows up.

In true poindexter-like fashion, however, we decided that we would “finish strong” and attend the last of our respective classes; the final accounting saw three in attendance in the Purrito’s class, while four people were in my own (typical class sizes for each of us hovered between 8 and 12).

Though we knew better, we paid for our obstinacy; the alliance is most certainly not air conditioned, and the stand fans that are in the rooms were hardly respite from the 102° F heat that Paris was subjected to yesterday.

To say that, at the end of the two hours, we were soaked would be an understatement. Not wishing to introduce any additional heat into our already toasty flat, we grabbed food from our usual post-class café, where, in retrospect, I managed to leave one of my handkerchiefs on the table (it didn’t tie the room together or anything, but it was, unfortunately, one of the nicer ones that the Purrito bought for me during our time here).

Lesson learned: we should have been at home, on the floor, panting in front of the fans alongside the cats.

chat in the window

geepgeepgeep

no comments

June 25, 2015

The Alliance francaise, like effectively everything else in Paris, is surrounded by apartments. Last week, while waiting in the hall for our respective classes to begin, the Purrito and I found ourselves staring out the window and into a woman’s apartment as she brushed her cat. As we watched, she gingerly brushed the grey long-haired cat who happily sat there, and did not run away, roll into a position so as to deny access to the shedding zones, or otherwise attempt to deface the person wielding the brush. After she brushed him, he happily rubbed against her knees, clearly appreciative of the attention and love that he was being showered with. Before finally disappearing deeper into her apartment, she brought him a toy and he played with it. Throughout our invasion of their privacy, the Purrito and I remarked at how loving the cat seemed to be, how much he seemed to appreciate her, and how little he seemed to want to seek vengeance on her for putting him in a sky crate, forking over $2k (per head), and flying his furry ass 7000 miles so as to be with his clearly uncaring owners.

Witnessing the interaction between that cat and his owner, we felt incredibly unappreciated.

Thus we decided to cheat on our cats.

Our trip to the musée des arts et métiers was cut short by our appointment for the café des chats, which is, as one might imagine, a café with cats running around. After finally managing to locate it’s near-literal hole-in-the-wall location, we entered, sat down, and were more or less promptly ignored by both the server and the chats.

While we would eventually interact with several of the felines due to our strategic positioning in front of an apparently-favored window, we were somewhat arbitrarily denied meaningful food (despite the table behind us receiving what looked like pretty decent things to eat). Having almost reached the low-sugar point of no return, I settled for a rubbery, largely tasteless muffin and an embarrassingly overpriced bottle of Orangina. The Purrito wound up with a cheesecake of some sort (though she reported that it was edible) and a similarly ridiculously-priced bottle of Perrier.

Defeated, we headed home, where our fuzzy demons proceeded to pretend not to give a damn about the other cats that they had to have smelled on our clothes.

Furry bastards.

Un chat.

Deux chats.

Yeah, dude, I think this place it a shitshow, too.

picture dump: musée des arts et métiers

geepgeepgeep

no comments

June 24, 2015

Laziness (and the fact that we really didn’t spend much time here, owing to extenuating circumstances) prevails; commentary is confined to the picture captions.

The purrito dug this building.

One of three arches along the road that leads to the museum.

One of three arches along the street that leads to the museum.

Arch the second (no, we didn’t get to the third one).

It’s a science museum. In a church. As the Flying Spaghetti Monster (ramen!) would say, it’s sacrilicious.

A Foucault’s Pendulum. (Umberto Eco reference goes here)

The view from the transept.

“Fast” car.

The walls here are very well kept.

Somewhat of a junker.

Even the ductwork is gorgeous.

An early satellite? No, that’s an early solar cooker.

métro interruptus

geepgeepgeep

no comments

June 23, 2015

Yesterday felt like a sort of karmic retribution, albeit for some unknown transgression; having started off with forgetting my phone (and though I wound up retrieving it, I subsequently forgot its slipcase), it progressed through needlessly standing in line at the Centre de réception des étrangeres for an hour as I waited to retrieve my updated carte de sejour, and it ended with a hike to the Alliance francaise amidst pouring rain.

I found myself in the middle of the most noteworthy occurrence as I travelled from work to the CRE; aboard a line I’ve never ridden before (the M2, for the curious), we very suddenly braked and came to a complete stop in the tunnel between two stations. Weird braking on a métro line is not, in and of itself, an odd occurrence, though this was certainly the most aggressive braking I had ever experienced on a train; I’m obviously not well-versed in the technical aspects of the trains (particularly with the spread of rolling stock across the system), but I could have sworn that the (tire-equipped; the M2 is not a steel-wheeled line) were pulsing in a manner akin to that of an ABS system when it engages in an automobile.

A train sitting in the middle of a tunnel isn’t particularly unusual either, and unfortunately the ten minutes that rolled past before contacting the Purrito to request that she check the line’s status on the RATP site (one doesn’t get a data signal in the tunnels, but it’s rare not to be able to send and receive texts) weren’t particularly abnormal either.

Lights going out: not particularly abnormal. Next stop sign board going dark: hadn’t previously witnessed it, but only a few of the metro lines have them. Lights, board, and air handling system going out, and two of the doors on the tunnel-wall side popping open: now we’re in unfamiliar territory, confirmed by the brief, if audible freak-out, of a couple of people in my general vicinity.

After the lights came back on, the conductor came into the train, armed with what was apparently a manual override key, and secured the open doors. Asked what the deal was while closing the second door, she apparently provided a non-answer, given the exasperated reaction from the group posing the question. After a few more minutes of uncertainty, the train began moving again, and we proceeded to the next stop with everything apparently back to normal.

I suppose that the train was having an off-day as well.

planar geometry

geepgeepgeep

no comments

June 20, 2015

I played white-collar hooky yesterday (read: I used some PTO) and we headed to Le Bourget Airport for the 51st salon international de l’aéronautique et de l’espace.

I took quite a number of pictures.

The new Rafale.

The salon is more of a trade show than an actual airshow (the public is only allowed access on the final three days), so it stands to reason that if you’re buying a new military toy, you’re going to want to buy something to hang off of said toy.

Business man. Business jet.

It’s an Italian reincarnation of the Beechcraft Starship; gorgeous lines on this one.

Rockets fly (in the course of blowing shit up, anyway).

We saw a large number of drones. We also saw a number of large drones.

More drones.

The birds seemed to be inspired by the aerobatics.

Weird “loitering” solutions abounded; I wonder if they actually sell any of this shit.

Lord of War is a pretty damn cool movie.

A carbon fiber cub. I want this.

Mandatory holyshitpeople shot.

I was expressly forbidden from even looking at these. (To be fair, yeah, I probably would have chuked)

Philae, who woke up this week.

Le Bourget is also home to the French air and space museum. You can walk through their 747 and their Concordes for a supplementary fee.

…you can not, unfortunately, walk around on that top deck.

It’s amazing how much more comfortable economy class used to be.

Vorenus Nam-catted when we showed him this picture.

An attack helicopter in the process of busting a move.

Synchronized, dancing, consumer-level drones.

The inside of the preproduction Concorde.

The retired Air France Concorde.

Kind of a tight fit, but 3.5 hours from NY to Paris was probably worth it.

Exterior shot.

One of the aerobatic planes being returned to its display area.

The A350.

This thing screamed down the runway, popped up into the air, and then proceeded to fly in tight circles around the airport.

Watching an A350 jump up into the air is one thing. Watching an A380 do it results in audible exclamations of “holy shit.”

One forgets that commercial airliners wallow around for passenger comfort, and not because they’re incapable of maneuvering.

Like the A350, the A380 flew in tight circles around the airport. The dramatic music playing over the speakers added to the effect (and also made us snicker when they overplayed their hand).