how to write

I've been writing quite a bit over the last year, on this blog but also on my homepage. I have never had a formal education on the subject of creative writing and remain mostly clueless about the inner workings of a good story. But I know one when I see one. Today it struck me again, harder than in a long time.

Dave Sedaris is an American in Paris who happily, and hilariously, shares his everyday trials and tribulations of the City of Lights. His latest story, a linguistic promenade, had me laugh so hard that I literally had to walk away from it for a moment to calm down. I recognized myself in the story – with two notable exceptions. First, I have not given up on French completely yet. Second, I don't go see doctors much and in the rare case I do, I make sure to wear presentable undergarments.

The piece also told me something about the composition of kafkaesque narrative. While talking about nothing in particular, random encounters, unrelated in space and time, are craftily woven together to create an effortlessly flowing, highly enjoyable read. The end is in the reader's head.

This Thursday, I'm going to Rome for a week. I'll keep my eyes and ears open for bizarre observations and unusual anecdotes that might later serve to illustrate my own peregrinations. I'll have to be careful who I talk to, though. The only thing I know to say in Italian is d'accordo.

wine and vinegar

Drinking wine in France is immensely satisfying. The selection is incredibly wide, the quality excellent once you know your way around, and prices are enticing. I always buy more than I can drink. My bikes have to share the basement with increasingly many bottles.

At the same time, bitter complaints can be heard about the hardships producers face because of rude weather, feeble consumers, low prices due to the bargaining power of gigantic grocery stores, and markets being eroded by imports from Argentina, Australia and South Africa. Not that I've ever seen foreign wines in a store, but that's a different question.

The situation is indeed dire for some. Bad wine does not sell. If you produce lousy quality, you're left with hectoliters of red piss in your cellars that you can't get rid of. Instead of letting the market reward the good and weed out the bad, the French ministry of agriculture pays winemakers handsomely to have excess wine distilled into ethanol.

This policy has come under strong fire from the European Union recently as they rightly see it as misguided. Ripping out poor vines to moderate supply is the advised solution instead. However, this policy does not find eager followers here. I wouldn't even be surprised to read about road blocks and strikes in protest.

I was VERY suprised, on the other hand, to read an article in L'Express detailing the problem as it is, presenting French wines as world class and in an enviable position, and denouncing mediocre producers for their failures. If your French won't let you understand the article you can at least go through the list of recommended wines, exquisite in their quality, mostly moderate in price, and almost entirely unknown to the grand public. A treasure trove for you to discover.

back to school

This weekend marked the return to normalcy of French society. Stores have unboarded their windows and people are ambling in the streets. Roads are clogged and parking is hard to get for those who need it. I can buy cheese again because La Crèmerie has reopened shop. Kids are sent to school. The two-month hiatus that is summer has come to an end.

Traditionally, on this back-to-school weekend French political parties hold their summer universities, gatherings in scenic places to chew the fat and soak up the last rays of sun before tinted office windows with block any exposure. Besides, the meetings also let the higher-ups discuss strategy, interact with party activists, and present their faces to the media and thus the public.

Le Monde, this most serious of newspapers, page after page of content with hardly an advertisement to repose the eyes of the weary reader, has been doing its duty to the fullest. Epic article follows epic article ruminating over every word that was uttered and withheld and the ramifications for France. I often find myself in my institute's breakroom sifting through the overabundance trying to skim the cream.

My pot is so full already that the planned entry in this blog has evolved into a lengthy essay I'll publish on my webpage soon. It's so exciting to watch what's going on now that the paralysis of summer has been lifted.

the alpe, once again

When I rode up l'Alpe d'Huez today, all the painting from the Tour stage a month and a half ago were still visible and legible. I was struck by the discrepancy in representation between different countries. Names of Spanish, French, Dutch and German riders (and even a very fitting "Quäl Dich, Du Sau") were written on the tarmac, but hardly any Italians or Americans were eternalized. I encountered Erik Zabel an order of magnitude more often than Floyd Landis - this on a climb that might have decided the Tour. I know for sure that many Americans visited the Alps to cheer their heros, even after Lance. Do they not know how to buy paint in France? And what about the Italians? They could have just brought it over in their Fiats.

Anyway, l'Alpe d'Huez was only the first challenge of my day. If one continues climbing instead of turning around at the Arivée du Tour de France one gets to the Col de Sarenne and to the base of les Deux Alpes on the other side. Or, to be precise, this is what happens if one climbs the right road. What I did, ignorant of the local topography, was pick the wrong road, a sustained effort that took me to the Lac Besson where the road ended. Very nice view into what looked like a 1500-meter hole surrounded by cliffs, but not really what I wanted.

A few minutes later, I was back at the Arivée and picked the alternative road, which did in fact turn out to be the old postal route over the Col de Sarenne. There were turns, a high-Alps panorama, dry and wet water crossings, and rudimentary pavement. It felt like mountain biking on 23-milimeter tires. The descent on the other side was of a different class. Good surface began about a kilometer down, and then the fun really started. I'm glad I didn't ride this up because the road drops about a solid K in only ten.

As it was, I was already toast when I got to the base of les Deux Alpes. I tested the first 200 meters but then wisdom prevailed. Another HC climb wouldn't have been possible. Easily possible at this point, even with the customary headwind, was the ride into Bourg d'Oisans, downhill for the most part. Seven kilometers farther, I got to the place where my car was parked, and gladly traded bicycle for motorized tetracycle because I'd had enough of the pounding wind by then.

Life was better half an hour later when I sat in Vizille refueling on a delicious Italian ice cream sundae. So what if they forgot the paint?

---

"Quäl Dich, Du Sau", which can be translated with "Suffer, Asshole", is what Udo Böltz famously advised Jan Ullrich when the young German was about to lose the 1997 Tour in the Vosges mountains. Wiser words have never been yelled at a cyclist.

the one mighty and strong

Sometimes the many pieces making up the puzzle that is our world combine in curious ways, conjuring meaning from what is really just a freak coincidence. The other day I listened to X96 for the first time since I left the US. Literally five minutes into the stream, excerpts from a newspaper article on Warren Jeffs were read, detailing what a fine teacher that fellow was at the Alta Academy, scolding girls for being too cute and not sweet enough.

For the uninitiated, Alta Academy was a private educational institution almost in the middle of Salt Lake run by fundamentalist, polygamist Mormons of a particularly fervent, radical, and dangerously nutty kind, the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Warren Jeffs became the leader and prophet of this sect and is now the husband of most women in the community, which is restricted these days to a desolate strip of dirt on the border between Utah and Arizona. He also considers himself the One Mighty and Strong, sent to earth "to set in order the house of God".

Having finished Under the Banner of Heaven, John Krakauer's captivating account of religious fundamentalism in Utah, not too long ago, I was left wondering what the sudden attention was owed to. The mystery was unshrouded a little further down the show when, probably for the umpteenth time that morning, the story of Jeffs' apprehension outside Las Vegas was run. The man had been on the run from worldly authorities for several years. Now, out of nowhere, a highway patrol cop had taken him into custody. Apparently, the invisibility shield on his Escalade was defective.

So much for today's edition of Stories from Zion. In other news, we have music and, against all odds, it blends with the theme. Passionate debates can be held around the question of who might count as mighty and strong in popular music. Without a doubt is Bob Dylan's status as the one singer-songwriter mighty and strong. Two fine articles in the New Yorker, a very recent book review and a profile from 1964, paint a vivid picture of the man and are certainly worth reading. If words don't do it for you, get the complete collection of Dylan's recordings at iTunes, 773 pieces for $200.

In case you are, just like me, still and always looking for new and interesting music, here are three French stations I discovered recently. They're far removed from the charts, don't annoy with excessive commercials, and have decent sound quality streaming from the web. Radio Nova plays mostly world music, TSF is full of jazz, and France Inter Paris plays everything, or so it seems. All have a playlist that goes along with their songs, vastly more enjoyable than anything X96 offers musically. Enjoy!

liberal press bias

Just saw this on Google Video (beta forever) and thought I share it with those who haven't seen it yet. White House Correspondent's Dinner on C-SPAN. I've always loved this channel, but better than wasting an hour and a half on the entire video is spending a quality half hour on the two snippets below.

Here is Stephen Colbert analyzing politics.

George W. Bush even brought a look-alike to be able to convey his message with more vigor.

Deutschland Tour

Ignored by most in the world, especially with Landis's denials taking up most of the space, the Deutschland Tour, Germany's answer to the Tour de France (ha!), is currently taking place. Here in France, I have hardly a chance to follow the race. TV is keeping its distance, and newspapers are quiet. My source of information is radsport-news.

Tonight, coming home from a party with plenty of wine swirling around in my head, I read that Jens Voigt won the biggest mountain stage of the tour. Two things are notable. First, Jens is not a climber - he's the guy who aggravates the peloton on every other stage with epic escapes. Second, he's been riding in yellow since yesterday. It's not quite clear how that came to pass, but I'm very happy for him.

He's an extremely sympathetic guy. For him, riding hard is his job. Riding himself into a coma is what he thinks he's getting paid for, and he always finishes with a smile. Tactical considerations bore him. He attacks like being stung by a tarantula, and nine out ten times he finishes empty handed. The tenth time, the world of cycling talks about him. Like earlier this summer when he won a Tour de France stage, and like right now, when he's really close to winning the Deutschland Tour.

The other thing that made me very happy was Eric Zabel's riding. Over countless years, this guy has been one of the best sprinters in the world. He's now reaching the autumn of his career, and he still hasn't won the Tour de France. Today, he woke up and decided to attack like he's never done before. With another guy, he set the pace for close to 190km. As I said, this was the Tour's biggest stage, and a king of sprinters was doing most of the work. He didn't win, but he had a lot of fun - and the good spirit to high-five his partner for the day, and laugh when they were finally caught.

That's what cycling's supposed to be. Heroic adventures, great stories to talk about, and no testosterone. Face up to it, Floyd!

minus two

Last weekend I went out both days for medium long rides, totaling 250km and 4000 vertical meters. It's far into the season, almost halfway back out of it in fact, and I'm still suffering from what should be enjoyable rides. Sunday evening and all through Monday, my legs felt abused and I was very tired.

Tonight, after two days of resting, I was ready for more. The air was somewhat chilly after literally two months of canicule - dog days - when I set out to make myself suffer on the Col de Porte, to test my new wheel and old legs on a long steep climb.

The col is very steep in its first half, seven kilometers averaging above eight percent. Taking it easy, frequently cruising in granny gear, I tried to conserve power for the push to the summit. My strategy worked well. I knew I had gone fast even before checking my bike computer when I came to a stop panting, coughing and chucking up lung as if I had just finished Puke Hill to start the Wasatch Crest Trail.

15.3km and 1100m elevation took me exactly 58 minutes, two minutes less than the hour that I've managed to scratch before but never convincingly beat. The next goal is obviously a 10 mile average, requiring to chip another minute off the climb. If I did the ascent once a week instead of once in a while, I'd be there already, and I'd be in better shape for epic rides on weekends. But sloth is often harder to overcome than a seven percent col.