Wednesday, 12 May 2004
Nothing Much: An Exercise in Task Avoidance
Tonight's palette-tickler was lasagnes chèvre-épinards and another serving of those feathered vegetables. After making sure the greens were clear of any errant plumes, I settled in for a cheesy gooey goodness while reading articles on the Web.
I hadn't started this entry with a point in mind (do I ever?), but it strikes me: I used to read a lot of books, maybe a novel or three a week in addition to all the required reading I had at whatever level of school I had reached at that moment.
By university, I'd almost completely converted to magazine reading, mostly things I'd started subscribing to while in high school. Their articles were so much easier to fit in between university coursework and my pay-my-way-through-university job, on the bus or at the dining table. Plus, the technical ones (and there were many in that mix) were that much more topical for their appearance in a periodical.
The advent of the Web brought a promising medium that was overflowing with possibilities. While the forecast is often "possibilities of crap, and lots of it," I started reading more and more while online. Ironically, I now find myself in a country whose reading habits are very periodical-oriented, and yet I don't remember the last time I read anything of substance in "real" print.
I guess what I'm trying to say is, I was going to actually sit down and write the first few of many (many) new entries. Instead, I spent my evening in front of the unholy progeny of television and magazines - though some of it was good stuff.
It is worth mentioning that my much-maligned laptop's display is positively kick-ass for extended reading sessions.
Wednesday, 19 May 2004
Puff, Puff, Puff
I'm writing this one the return train from Geneva to Paris (no, not with an Internet connection - but being the obsessive-compulsive accurate person I am, I'll have dated this entry to reflect the actual time).
We had to run to the train and quickly negotiate our way through customs in order to make it - and we did, with less than 30 seconds to spare. The taxi that was supposed to have come, didn't. Our client's office is on a private driveway that looks like something leading to an abandoned house (in fact, the office itself looks like an abandoned house - perfect camouflage). The driver had come and left; when we called to check on his status, the central controller told us that he'd simply called in to say that the address didn't exist. Grrr - this in the age of GPS-linked computer maps.
Anyway, our client very graciously drove us to the station - or, at least, tried to do. Traffic in central Geneva is a nightmare, especially in front of the train station, because of never-ending work on laying down tramway track. Today was even worse, with us hitting the end-of-workday traffic on the day before a four-day weekend (four days for others, at least; my coworkers and I are working a normal week).
The result is that we got close, but not too close, to the station - and that was even after our kind benefactor had made a blatantly illegal left turn (and ran a red light doing it). We covered the rest of the way running, with traffic lights, dazed travelers and various small animals all conspiring to slow us down.
Customs wasn't too bad; in fact, the agents opened up a second line just as we arrived, panting. Aside from customs in Amsterdam's Schiphol Airport, the Swiss-French customs lines in Geneva's train station is consistently the smoothest I experience. Today was even better.
So, we just made it to the train - unfortunately taking (imminent departure requiring it) the wrong section of a two-section train. At least we got to cool off in first-class seats until we changed at the next station. I'm sure I made for a pretty picture: shortly after sitting down, I burst - burst - into sweat, as if a fire sprinkler system suddenly went off. (I have theories about exercise having conditioned me for that, but really you don't want to hear any more about my sweating. Or, at least, I don't intend to expound on it.)
And that's my story. With all the gripping, dangerous and living-life-on-the-edge qualities that you've come to expect from my stories. Thank you, and good night.
In France, They Call It "PQ"
Sitting for a moment earlier today, I had little to do for the present moment but contemplate my immediate surroundings. So I scanned what was in front of me - the walls, the floor, the sink - when my eyes fell upon the package below the chrome-and-porcelain assembly before me.
Toilet paper.
Living in a foreign land as this intrepid adventurer does, one will often encounter reminders of how even the most banal objects take on new twists through necessity - be that cultural, linguistic, or other. Such as, for example, mentioned purely by happenstance, not meant to provoke the more sensible natures of those among you - the "you" to whom I refer when referring to my readers - the plastic-shrouded, neatly-rolled, paper products under my intent gaze.
Toilet paper.
Switzerland, by nature, is a multi-lingual country. Europe, by extension, is an even larger jigsaw puzzle of cultures and languages - often overlapping each other, and even showing a general disdain for national and political borders (if, indeed, concepts could be anthropomorphized to have disdain, or any other emotion for that matter other than the more or less neutral malaise that many of us are accustomed to - and indeed expect - from intangible concepts such as "culture" or inanimate objects such as "cats").
So, having firmly established necessity, one can immediately understand the presence of the hieroglyphics - if not, indeed, their meaning - that served as labeling on the clear plastic packaging surrounding the toilet paper. A number, "16," was followed by a line drawing of a cylinder. This, in turn, was followed by another number, "250," which was in turn followed by "x" and three wavy rectangles superimposed on each other in an isometric view. Or, in shorter terms: "16 (cylinder) 250 x (three wavy rectangles)."
The brevity of this mathematical formula, optimized for efficiency and clarity, can be expanded into English as, "Sixteen rolls of 250 three-ply sheets." Which, in retrospect, is actually summarily clear and brief.
But what of three languages? (German, French and Italian, the three official languages of Switzerland.) Or eleven? (The official languages of the 15 countries in the European Union through 1 May 2004.) Or 20? (The current number of official languages in the expanded, 25-member European Union.)
The E.U. offers economic opportunity if not equality, but the associated price is the requirement (by necessity if not by law) of labeling for the local consumer. Toilet paper, in its utmost simplicity, can actually present a more complicated problem than a cereal. The latter item's ingredients must be listed, but lengthy translations are limited by space. That, in turn, limits the region in which a single package may be distributed (usually geographic, with linguistic affinities). Products such as toilet paper "only" require finding simple concepts (such as geometric shapes used to approximate the product) to represent the content.
I've gradually shed my faux-professorial/British colonial language because, conversely, this entry is getting more serious. Residents in the US are only beginning to experience - with Spanish, and maybe Chinese - the effects of product localization. Taking it up a notch, Canadians are required to support "only" two languages (English and French) by law, but this has been the case for a much longer time. Europe, by law and necessity, has the aforementioned twenty languages to deal with.
Now, this has all been rather academic (and I've tried to underscore that side, as well as - hopefully - its humorous dimension). But there is a very interesting, and concrete, side-effect to using wordless product representations.
Children learn by example; they pick up language form those speaking it around them, from mass media, and - yes - from everyday items, like products on a store shelf. Despite having a pretty acceptable level of French before moving to Paris, I still find myself learning new terms or new uses for old words - even now, almost four years later.
But when a label is purely symbolic, how do you express it verbally? Not that I'll often need to ask about rouleaux de papier de toilette - but surely, it'll happen (and it has) at least once. Not to mention that learning a second (or third, or more) language is often a matter of learning vocabulary to express concepts you already know in your native tongue. It's a lot harder to make a linguistic transition when you are able to rely on what amounts to visual cheat-sheets.
Iconic representations' main (if not only) short-term benefit - finding the right thing, quickly - is even debatable in its usefulness. Symbolic understanding is still based on cultural and historical contexts ("historical" on both personal and cultural levels). What guarantee do you have that your potential audience will infallibly understand "(wavy rectangle)" as "sheet of paper"?
What about more complicated representations of physical objects, or images of objects that your audience has potentially never encountered? A spark plug is hardly an everyday object for much of the world. In the year 2000, the United States counted almost 134 million passenger cars. Even then, how many people have ever seen their engines, much less done maintenance on them? I can only imagine that this segment of the population will dwindle, as the 1950's grease-monkeys disappear and manufacturers continue to obscure or obfuscate engines' inner workings.
How about another challenge: How would you explain what an arrow represents to an alien from another planet? Or "danger," as represented by the color red?
Like most of my entries, this one serves as little more my sharing my mental meanderings with - well, let's admit it, a potential audience approaching zero people plus my computer. But I hope that someone may have found it interesting - maybe even you.
Try to remember that things aren't as obvious as they seem. Even speaking in your own language - to a person, who shares the same background, and lives in the same area as you - there are so many pitfalls that it boggles the mind. Considering every other known animal that surrounds us, it's pretty amazing that we communicate at all. And sometimes, even successfully.
Sunday, 23 May 2004
Useful Non-Verbal Communication Methods, Part One of a Potential Series
As a public service - and for no other reason in particular - I bring you certain gestures that may prove useful when in France. Unlike spoken language, these are efficient and unaffected by any sort of accent - or indeed, the lack of any language skills whatsoever.
- Camembert
- Action: Bring thumb towards flattened four fingers, repeat a couple of times (similar to the American gesture to signify a chatty person, but with the emphasis on the closing movement). Imitates action of closing the rounded lids that cover a camembert cheese.
- Meaning: "be quiet," "shut up" (French expression, "camembert")
- Useful: When someone just won't shut up.
- Mon œil
- Action: Tug gently on outer corner of eye with index finger from hand of same side.
- Meaning: "yeah, right" (French expression, "mon œil")
- Useful: When signifying sarcastic disbelief.
- The Middle Finger
- Action: extended middle finger, thumb and other fingers folded, hand raised, arm slightly extended. (Come on, did I really have to tell you that one?)
- Meaning: "screw you," "fuck off"
- Useful: When telling someone off.
- Worth Noting: Quasi-universally recognized. Can be used even if other hand is occupied.
- The European "Sod Off"
- Action: Bring one arm across chest, extending elbow, with forearm (between elbow and wrist) parallel to chest and ground. Bring other arm straight up, bending elbow just underneath first arm such that the forearms are crossed in their centers. Hand of raised arm - if not both - clenched in fist.
- Meaning: "screw you, "fuck off," "sod off, wanker"
- Useful: When telling off a European.
- Worth Noting: Much more visible from a distance. Makes clear to those surrounding you just who is the target of your wrath.
Well, Someone Will Always Have Paris, I Guess
My good friend Valerie is going to move back to the U.S. Half-French and half-American, she had a long-term goal to live in France. Once here, she planned to stay for the rest of her life. So her news - while positive for her career - took me aback.
Well, maybe that's too strong of an expression. See, I need to express surprise without actually feeling surprise.
I have this longstanding theory: those who move to another country, and who have already decided on their length of stay, will leave the soonest. Those who come with no real expectations of how long they want to live there, end up staying for a long (if not very long) time.
Almost every single one of the expatriates I've met has backed this up through their personal "why I'm in France" story. And it's not error due to a small data sample: I've met many expats, being as I am a member of a club dedicated to them. Piles and piles of empirical proof, though of course I've never bothered quantifying any of it - effectively meaning that it could just be wild speculation. But I'll still trust my "gut analysis."
Valerie does plan to return to France, eventually. But no matter how I rationalize it, I never really expected her to leave in the first place. Once she boards that plane to New York in August, my theory will have yet another supporting piece of evidence. And I'll have one less friend in Paris.
Tuesday, 25 May 2004
So It Ends With a Whimper, Not a Bang
So anticlimactic it was, I never even thought to mention how my experience with the worker-thieves came to a close.
One week ago yesterday, after several weeks of halfhearted phone-tag, I ran into the owner of the apartment above mine. Daniel (his name, and much easier to write than repeating some descriptive sentence) had hired a contractor to fix damage in my apartment. Said contractor, in turn, was apparently very let down by what can only be termed a professional betrayal on the part of his workmen (man?).
Anyway, despite the fact that the only real proof that I could present was a list of long-distance phone calls, Daniel got € 50 from the contractor, which he passed on to me. That's almost twice the cost of the calls, but doesn't really cover my frustration or what I had lost (a favorite sweater, a bit over € 15 worth of shiny, never-circulated, first-year-they-existed coins).
Nor does it help me with the fact that I still have to find a contractor on my own to repair the broken floor panel and the unfinished plastering in my kitchen. Fortunately, at least, the owners of my apartment have promised to repay me those expenses. Not that I have the time or the energy to do it anytime soon...
Being the cynic that I am (or rather, have become), I wonder whether I got the full amount that the contractor had paid to Daniel. Or if anyone in the chain of people really even did feel any remorse. I know that I would have just rather lived in an apartment with cracks than put up with this. Like I wrote before, it's hardly my responsibility to put up with this kind of crap, much less arrange for repairs.
See, kids: this is what "they" mean when "they" say that what doesn't kill you will make you stronger. Rather, what doesn't kill you will just wear you down to a nub, an object eroded such as to presents the smallest possible target to the world and what it throws at you. Sometimes I think, if my love of music or movies didn't require auditoriums and theatres, I'd probably become a hermit.