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"This is an important project."

                            ----Anonymous (Okay, my brother).

So, I've started floating the idea of the 40@40 to a few people.  Responses typically fall into a few categories:  

1. Yawn 

2. Sounds like fun, let me see it when its done.

3. This is easy, just make sure you include these 15 songs...

I've already started a number of other debates with folks who fall into category 3, and say things like "WHATDAYA MEAN no Nirvana???" or "If you don't include 'Melt with you' then you are a damn fool."
---And I quite like the category 3 people: at least they CARE.  (But I could do without the "oh and how about..." texts after they've been drinking.),  I think those people have started to personalize the idea, they think about what there lists would include, and chafe when ours don't always match up.

THAT'S OKAY! This is, and always will be a 1000% subjective and personal endeavor.

I was excited to tell my brother about this idea.  He was skeptical at first, because I think he saw it as a (derivative?) greatest hits project.  This was evident when he pushed back on my sketch of my first decade picks.

"Tainted Love? Soft Cell?"  

"If you've got that in there, you've GOT to have 'Take on Me' right?"

---Actually no, I don't.

"That ridiculous, Take On Me is a CLASSIC.  Classic song.  Classic video."

---True, but that's not the only criteria.

"Whatever"

And so here was an early and strong challenge to the very CONCEPT of the 40@40.  

But I am up to it. I decided not to eschew (or at least not wholesale cop-out) on the "why Tainted Love and not Take on Me"? question.  ---It isn't any fun to respond "because it is my list, now get off my lawn."  So I've stewed on this question a bit. 

I hadn't yet formulated my answer when, a few days later, I got an email from my brother that simply read:  "Does White Town's 'Your Woman' make the list?  ----Great question! And showed that maybe he's more of a 3 than a 1 after all!  

Here was my answer:  

"THAT is a close call. It is currently in the 'maybe' column for my second decade.  It speaks to the same part of my soul that "Tainted Love" does---for whatever reason: when I first heard them, or how they sounded, or what I was doing at the time, I NEEDED those songs then and and now more than anything by A-Ha or Duran Duran.  The top 40 is a tricky and personal and revealing list!"

---not bad for typing with two thumbs on my loaner phone while (clearly not) putting the dishes away!

---and that answer was good enough! Because it generated the quote at the top of the post.

So, I was feeling pretty good again about what I was doing, and where this was going.  And then, just for funsies, I watched the Take On Me video. 

 ---Man, that's a good video! Very clever use of animation, and the happy ending seems earned.

---Come to think of it, I don't remember ever even SEEING the Tainted Love video....

---What's that like?

---WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?

---SERIOUSLY, WHAT THE ABSOLUTE F---?

It is a GOOD THING I was already pot-committed before I saw that video.

Now, technically, the above isn't the exact version of Tainted Love that makes the 40@40 cut----the most important thing is for it to have that aching "Baby, Baby, Baby, Where did our love go?" interlude for it to count.

But STILL, that is one randomly (yet persistently) offensive video!  And yet, that eyeliner? You GO 1981 Marc Almond!

F

Top 40 at 40: An evolving list of rules for the 40@40

Since I'm here, and since I actually found the neon yellow notecards I've started dashing my list out on, let's go over the rules.
The 40 songs must have been recorded/released at some point during 1977-2017.
I am going to break the 40 songs into the 4 decades.

The factors (to be weighted in annoyingly varying and internally inconsistent manners) that go into selecting a song include:

1) Historical importance/affection for the song*
This one is easy. A big part of this is nostalgia, and so reflecting my "original" love for the songs matters. BUT, this can't be the only factor, and it can't always count the same every time---otherwise "Walking Like an Egyptian" would make the cut, and SPOILER ALERT, it doesn't.
I say historical importance for the "song*" because it could also be read as "song/band/event" depending on WHY I feel compelled to weigh this factor more heavily.

2) Current attitude/enthusiasm for the song
This is an interesting one.
When I am picking among my "classics" -- New Order, Pet Shop Boys, Depeche Mode -- how do I choose the right songs?
The ones that I've loved the longest or the strongest, or the ones that I love the most, RIGHT NOW?
This will also be an important factor for the last decade----which SPOILER ALERT, will look/sound different from the first 3.
(Reflecting the fact that we consume music differently, that trends/genres are meaningless and, oh yeah, I'm old and lazy and don't "discover" bands anymore, so I'm stuck with the stuff I've heard).

3) Appropriateness of the song for the function (party/public consumption)
I want people to come to the party, and I want them to have a good time.
This means that no matter how important "Total Eclipse of the Heart" and "Angel" (by Eurythmics) were to my survival of Middle School, they SPOILER ALERT aren't making the cut.
This means that for artists like Everything But The Girl, even if factors 1 and 2 lead me to "The Heart Remains A Child" or "Walking to You" I am still going to end up picking "Missing" or "Wrong" or "Lullaby of Clubland"
--- unless things go CRAZY SOUTH over the next year and I say "screw it, we'll all be sad together!" ---
--- in which case, I'll at least probably save on the bar tab, because who is going to stick around for THAT? ---

4) We are servants of time, true, but we aren't exactly model slaves
There is tension in the structure of this construct.
Just on my slapdash notecards, I can already tell that 97-06 (my Twenties!!!)*** will be the hardest to pick just 10 from.
So, I may develop exceptions to the rule and factors (all reasonable, of course) to allow me, to say, sneak an older song later, or vice versa.
It can't be a free for all, because, some of the fun/interest is the tension/problem of winnowing it down.
This means I'm still stuck filling out a "Thirties" list----so if I have to take a lesser PSB song from a recent album and sacrifice something from a more critically successful period, then so be it. Every song will have some sort of story/explanation---especially the close calls and the rule benders.

Okay, I think that's enough on the RULES for now. More to follow and much to change around them all.
F
***I've been thinking about this as strictly dates (77-86, etc.) until the moment of that "***" when I made the connection to my life. That "my Twenties" exclamation was a real-time realization of how the time frames also match up to my own decades. (Likely obvious for everyone else, but hey, YOU AREN'T THE ONE WRITIG THIS, so BACK OFF!)

TOP 40 at 40. An experiment. A life. (Too much?)

I've got an idea. It must be a good one because I keep coming back to it.
You know I'm serious about it because I've started writing things down.
I'm going to throw a dance party for my 40th birthday.
That dance party will feature my top 40 songs from my first 40 years.
There will be challenges:

-->WHERE to have it?
---->WHO will come to Ohio?
-------->HOW do I pick just 1 Kasabian song?
----------->WHAT do I do about the last 10 years of music, a veritable desert when compared with the first 30 years?

I'll come up with solutions to these all, and probably tell a few stores along the way.

Here we go.

F

A Series of Fortunate Events

WEDNESDAY

I’m staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror of McAllister’s Deli.

I’m regretting the blown opportunities to have done this the right way:
1) That night on the back porch when we shared cigars;
2) The front 9 of the 3-par when Rick helped me look for my fifth lost ball;
3) Dozens of other already forgotten, but clearly superior snatches of time.

Why hadn’t I manned up and asked before now? Hard to say.

Was it a desire to wait for the perfect moment? A sneaking suspicion that Rick was actively avoiding the topic? Or, maybe just a general unwillingness to spoil his goodtime?

So, here was my non-moment moment. My chance to skip the shaky preamble and get to the heart of the matter -- preferably before my club sandwich arrived at the table. (Because even if he said “no,” I’d still have all that crispy bacon to look forward to).

Ryan’s dad went easy on me, granting his blessing and only threatening to kill me once if I screwed things up. (This was a threat I’d heard before, and that I later got in writing).

With Rick’s blessing I had my final co-conspirator on board and it was time to put the plan into action: Cue the fake phone call from the sister’s boss, credibly establish the “last minute coup” of rooms for 6 at a historic bed and breakfast, continue with my own performance as the absent minded, somewhat distant spectator to the whole matter.

THURSDAY

Thanksgiving day was simple. All I had to do was gamble on horses, study and collect the ring just feet away from her, and make pretend small talk with a room full of dangerously knowing smiles, all while fighting a severe head cold. Somehow, I pulled it off: I got the ring without Ryan seeing, no one spilled the beans, and I even won big on a filly in the eighth race-->which leads to my horse betting advice: pick your horses like lottery tickets, have a favorite number and ride it to victory. Another piece of advice: don’t go to Churchill Downs unless you are fully prepared to marry a Richardson.

SATURDAY

With the b&b innkeeper on my side and the “keeping it real” bouquet and bottles of cava in place, I was feeling good about the impending proposal and trying to put a positive spin on how our engagement was going to be built on this foundation of lies and deceit.

The final act was set to occur along the tour of the house and after keeping my cool for the past 6 weeks, I was at my wits end. I had even thought about pushing the whole thing forward a day and was not going to waste another moment after we got to the B&B with this pretense.

I fake-introduced myself to the innkeeper, and retook the tour of the house (a lovely red brick Victorian in Louisville’s Historic District, it is said that the imprints of happy children, former residents, still…). When we got to “our” room on the tour, the innkeeper pointed out the attached balcony, and thoughtfully suggested that we “go out, and take in the view.”

A well laid plan leads to perfect execution:

Inn Keeper: “….and this room has a lovely balcony. Why don’t y’all take a look?”
Me: “Hey Ryan, let’s check it out!”
Ryan: “What?” (hissing) “No, we’re in the middle of the tour…”
Me: (leading her forward) “C’mon, it’ll just take a second…”
Ryan: (turning head backwards at the rest of our party) “But everyone is waiting…”
Me: (voice lower, mind racing, hand pushing against Ryan’s hip, other hand opening the balcony door) “there is something cool out here, uh…”
Ryan (still hissing) “it’s rude”
Me: (voice even lower ) “Go. Out. Side.”

So we step out onto the balcony, into the cool fresh air, and a vista of the park. My bride to be looks at me with shock and growing recognition in her eyes and coos romantically those words I’ve longed to hear.

Ryan: “Forrest, you are acting really weird, and you are starting to freak me out.”

I begin stammering out a semi-improvised speech. Ryan, still confused, takes a step backward, tripping as her heel slips on a divot in the floor and falls back to sit squarely on the banister of the second floor balcony. This is not going well. (I’d prepared myself for the possibility that she might say “no” but I hadn’t planned on her jumping!)

Acting fast, I got down on 1 knee. Maybe stuff sounds better from down here? At least it makes it easier to grab her feet if she did in fact attempt to go over the ledge. The kneeling helped, but opening that little box saved the day.

“Holy S--t”
“Is this for real?”
“Does the inn keeper know?”
“Does everyone else know?”
“Did my mom and sister see the ring?”
“So, are we not staying here?”

Me: (still on the ground) “Babes, can I get a “yes”? I think I’m kneeling in some gravel...”

From here I was pulled to a standing position, and we kissed to make it official. I secretly celebrated her eagerness to put the ring on herself, and save me the embarrassment of admitting that I have NO IDEA what the correct hand or finger would be. Back inside we went for hugs and cheers and chocolate covered strawberries.

I got engaged in Louisville on a gloriously clear Saturday night.
I woke up Sunday morning with a beautiful fiancé, and a WICKED champagne hangover. Seriously, why hasn’t anyone ever warned me about this?

History Project Part One: The JETS, from three seats.

I've come up with a new idea. Only time will tell if its worthwhile.

In an effort to shore up my quickly fading memory, I've decided to try and remember every concert I've ever been to, and write something about it.

Now, as Billy Bob Thornton said in Bad Santa "They can't all be winners, kid" So, some will get a blissed out narrative while others will get a catalog-like description (Say, 40 Acres Fest, or any band that I saw for under $10).

Most likely, the entries themselves will have little to do with the actual shows themselves, as not even I care about 10 year old concert reviews.

The first concert I can remember attending was for a band called The JETS when I was in elementary school. Since I don't remember most things that happened before the Seventh Grade Dance, this first entry is going to be written in stages. I'll write everything I can remember about the experience, and then talk to the other main players: my brother and my cousin.











--MY TAKE ON THE MATTER--

First and foremost, I have no idea how I even got to go to this show. We didn't go to shows when I was a kid. We went to the converted mobile home that served as the local library and we went to family barbecues...and I'm talking the homemade brick barbecues built in the backyard, not some Weber Grill BS. Shows specifically (and events that cost money generally) just weren't on the radar.


My only memory of The JETS pre-show was an album cover over at my Tia Mary's house. (Note: ALBUM cover, talking about actual records here, old timey stuff). The JETS from their photo seemed like a nice enough, young group. All singers. Possibly a Menudo rip off. My cousin Pat and her sister used to babysit me and my bro when we were very young. I always liked it when they watched us because they'd make us pancakes for dinner.

I think they'd stopped doing that awhile back when we got invited to the show. I don't know if my cousin Pat had free tickets, or had a friend bail, or got bribed by my parents. No clue. Of course, as a kind, you NEVER think of the stuff that is going on the background. Its just OF COURSE I want to go to a concert! I LOVE concerts! Wait, what's a Concert?

I remember being very excited about the Jet show before we went. I remember peppering my brother with questions about what to expect at the show. I remember asking if we'd get to do the Wave (he said no). I asked if there would be CANDY (he said no). I remember the show was held in downtown SA, maybe at Hemisphere arena, although probably somewhere smaller, like Majestic or the Lila Cockrell.

To be perfectly honest, my memories from that show are made up of the peripherals. I remember how loud it was. I remember how stoked I was that they had Peanut M&M's. And, guess what? We DID do the Wave at the concert! But most of all, I remember the drive to the concert. I think my cousin had a two door compact. I was in the front seat. We parked in a parking garage near the venue. The parking garage was one of those multilevel concrete jobbies with the corkscrew shaped up ramp that went all the way up to the top.

By the time we got downtown I was too excited for words. My brother had refused to clue me on what the show would be like, so my imagination was off and running. As we entered the parking garage, Pat slammed on the gas, and took us zooming and twisting up the corkscrew. I was stunned, I was confused, I was scared. I think I heard her laughing as we jerked from side to side in that little car. I thought we were being chased.

It was just one fleeting moment, but its the best memory I have of Jet. Entering the second turn, lurching in my seat, looking up at the ADULT, smiling and enjoying herself and messing with her little cousins. Heart in my mouth and stomach in the floor. Welcome to the show.

--My BRO'S TAKE ON THE SHOW--

So, I talked to Chris about The JETS concert. He remembered some more technical details, but came up lacking on the behind-the-scenes info that I so craved. Chris confirmed that the band WAS called The JETS (Score one for the deegster's memory.) But Chris corrected me that Pat's sister, Zibbit*, took us to the show. (See, this whole experiment proves that I need external sources for my own memories. I'm going to spend the rest of my life trying to get people on the record, like a 40 yr version of All the President's Men).

*Zibbit, short for Elizabeth. Did I come up with that nickname for my cousin Elizabeth? I like to think so. I still use it. I wonder if that bugs her?
People I met in Middle School still call me Deegan, and I don't mind. People I know from law school still WON'T call me Major* and I mind that very much.

*Major, as in, Major Deegan Expressway. Sadly, it never caught on.

Chris told me he looked Jet up on Wikipedia a few years back. They were a family band, that got taken to the cleaners by their original manager. "A sad story" he said. Chris remembers the concert as being a fairly last minute affair. He agreed with me that it was a very small venue, and that the concert was during the day time. He wasn't nearly as interested in the "how did this happen?" aspect, and could offer no clues. Sadly, he did not remember the car ride to the stadium. Nor did her remember ever listening to the Jet record. Although I clearly remember seeing it.*

*Of course, I also remember him trying to convince me that his Men at Work record (yellow sleeve, and again, emphasizing the fact that these were actual records) was the bee's knees.

--ZIBBIT'S VERSION--

As luck would have it, I got to see Zibbit over Christmas break, and got to spring my nostalgia questions on her. My mother, with her unlimited capacity to humor me, stuck around our family party past our scheduled departure time because she knew I was waiting for Zibbit. (Mom doesn't remember the show, and she swears she didn't bribe Zibbit to take us. She also denies handing out fliers to strangers asking them to please take me off her hands for short stretches of time when I was young....which is what I would have done). Honestly, I'm shocked that I wasn't Paddington Bear'd by the time I was 7.

Zibbit and her husband Al solved most of the mystery. Yes, we had gone to see The JETS. Props to husband Al for INSTANTLY knowing the answer to this question, and bonus points for his remembering and singing a Jet song.


Turns out, Zibbit worked for a P.R. agency and had gotten free tickets to the show. Al remembered the details better than Zibbit. He was off at basic training and was jealous that me and my brother got to go (he'd been stuck going to the Stuttgart Ballet...sucker). Both me and my brother were right that the show had taken place during the day, and somehow, I had actually guessed the right venue, Lila Cockrell*

*Where I would go on to slay all competitors in a 3 year run of Science Fair supremacy.

It was a longshot, but I went ahead and asked Zibbit about the car ride. When I described my memory of the parking garage, Zibbit's sister and husband both burst out laughing. Her sister knew EXACTLY what I was talking about, and had been taken on a similar corkscrew swirl of her own. Zibbit explained that she parked at the top of that garage every day for work, and by that point thought nothing of zooming her way up the ramps. When I told her it was my lasting memory from the show the whole room agreed.

--So that's my first show. Nice to know that I got at least some of it right. I loved going back and peeking behind the curtain. Next up, (no kidding) Young M.C. and Milli Vanilli: a tale that involves betrayal, jealousy, and a half eaten funnel cake.

Agricultural Tourism

Sure, they look happy now, but wait
till the buzz wears off.

Mack Brown came to Texas while I was still in undergrad. The Longhorn Football program had been in a funk for some time, so they brought an out-of-stater in, to shake things up.

That first year, the football team had a slogan that went (something like) *Come Early*Be Loud*Wear Orange*

If I was to advise folks on how to attend the Tomatina, it'd go (something like) *Come Early*Be Drunk*Wear Goggles*

Come Early: in order to be in the mix, you gotta be close to the trolleys, and to get close to the trolleys, you gotta be at the front of the parade route. Oh and all the bars (wisely) close by the start of the Tomatina, and you need to make sure you
Be Drunk: it makes the details like your lack of sleep, minor assaults and mob-like overcrowding seem way funnier.
Wear Goggles: you may not be able to see much during the event, but you'll still be able to see afterwards. And, after all, cultural food fights be damned, you've still got a test tomorrow.

I got into a fight with Frenchie before the Tomatina. He didn't see the point in throwing down 50 euros to take an overnight bus to some middle of nowhere town to hurl tomatoes at strangers for a few hours. (THIS is why it could never have worked out...)

To me, it was a no-brainer. Merely another (and more literal) step in the immersion experience.

Turns out, the highlight of the event may have been the beginning.

As discussed in the last post (seems like yesterday) the tomato slinging can't begin until somebody pulls a ham down from a 30 foot high greased pole. Use teamwork, Sin problema? right? Nope. Rarely have a group of drunken dudes been poorer equipped to perform a task.

Any and all progress/ascent is torn down by the actions of envious also-rans. Its a parade, its a mosh pit, its a really messy opera. And its got a cast of characters:

Crazy Rugby Guy: green t-shirt, all neck and biceps this one. He'd barrel his way up the base of the pole, attacking it, and his fellow climbers, with equal ferocity. He never made it too far up the pole. He was too busy settling scores along the way.

Eric the Wanker: Lanky blond haired kid. We knew his name because it was written on the back of his shirt...right above a bulls eye. He was lighter and better suited to scamper up his fellow climbers and made decent progress. But, he lost all of the crowd's support, and earned his title (which was
chanted at him) after he grabbed by the throat and tossed down...

Brave Girl(s) 1-3: I think in total we had three girls give the greased pole a go. And none of them until a half hour in. My guess is that the girls needed to be waaaay drunker to decide this was a good idea. All of the girls were crowd favorites, and actually got some support (among other things) from their fellow climbers. But, after Eric's heinous and bloodthirsty act, the girls rarely made it past the first rung. (Maybe it was the lack of sensible shoes).

The Banana: My personal favorite. A guy in a banana suit. He was literally carried on peoples' shoulders thru the crowd and toward pole. Chiquita raised a whole host of new questions: What's with the banana suit? Attention seeker? Mockumentary Filmmaker? Laundry Day?


Now, I've seen a Twinkee go skiing and a Bear take an Intro to Marketing exam. Hell, I've even worn a cape for good luck (but not in a long time...no, really, months). Someday I'll have to stop that banana, halfway up a greased pole, and ask him "what makes you tick" Or, I could just lay off the acid.

And finally, The Cow: Another costumed character, but this one (somehow) seemed less elegant than his fruity counterpoint. But what the bovine lacked in class, he made up for in skill, as he made it up quite high.

There was actually a moment when we had the cow, 30 ft in the air, dangling from the ham at the top of the pole...legs flailing, udders exposed; receiving such helpful advice from the crowd as "MOOO!" and the occasional flip flop tossed at his head. I'm sure there was some cultural insight to be gained then, but I was too busy shouting "come mas pollo!" while pounding warm San Miguels.

Sadly, this gang of jokers never managed to actually bring the ham down. They just managed to unwrap its netting. But, the day wasn't getting any cooler, and the crowd wasn't getting any soberer, so the powers-that-be deemed the ham "gotten" and so the cannons sounded and out came the trolleys.

[Helpful tip, if you hear the chant of 'camiseta, camiseta' in your vicinity, take your shirt off, or have it ripped from your body. Now, if you hear the chant of 'pantalones, pantalones' RUN! You're at the wrong festival!]

People do get their shirts ripped off, the reasoning behind it isn't clear. What IS clear is that when those shirts get wet, they can be used as some seriously stinging whips. Why are the shirts getting wet? Oh yeah, because there are a cluster of enormous water cannons, indiscriminately spraying the crowd...ostensibly to keep us from overheating, but really, just trying to knock folks over.

So here's how the Tomatina works. After the canons go off, 5 gi-normous trolleys (dumptrucks, really) drive thru the choked streets (how no one get run over here is a miracle). The dump trucks stop at predesignated spots along the street and 10-15 people in the back of each trolley dumps loads, and loads, of just-past-prime tomatoes on the cheering crowd. The whole thing is reminiscent of the musical numbers performed along a parade route...but much harder to wash out of your hair.

These early stages are hectic. Everyone is pressed along the sides of the streets. Although climbing walls/telephone poles is considered, anyone at a higher elevation is a natural target, with further to fall. The main goal here is to stay above the fray, flinging tomatoes that are tossed your way, and acclimatizing to the conditions (like scuba).

All of these trucks eventually dump their remaining tomatoes (and passengers) into the middle of the road. This is when the real war commences. You see, by now, the above mentioned water cannons have been spraying the entire street for almost an hour. So when the contents of the trucks come pouring out, we've got more of a V-8 River than a Street.

Once the battle gets going in earnest, everything speeds up. You're struggling to see thru foggy goggles, getting knocked silly with pulp and trying to respond in the general direction of your assailants. At some point you have to make the call, stay on the sidewalk, or dive into the river with the crazies?

So, into the river you go, fishing for tomatoes in the red soup, ruining that pair of $10 sneakers you bought specifically to ruin, half wishing you were bald and loving every slightly acidic minute of it. The laughing sloshing romp continues until the second cannon fires. You pull off your goggles and squint in the bright sunlight.

You and your fellow tomatina-ers look like extras from 28 days later: Tattered clothes, dazed expressions, lots of fake looking gore.

Taking the whole scene in, you shake your head, starting to chuckle at the madness of it all--until WHACK! the first soaked t-shirt smacks you in the face. Time to get the F out of here.

Learn Spanish, In FRANCE!

This is what I´ll be doing tomorrow. Finally participating in the food fight I´ve dreamt about since I was a child. Nothing ever looked as fun as the foodfight during the opening credits of ¨21 Jump Street¨and my favorite Cheers episode was the Thanksgiving Food Fight Episode (Shelly Long Dressed as a Pilgrim, getting a bowl of mashed potatoes to the face. Comedic Genius).

My school has organized a trip to the Tomatina for this event. On a TEST DAY, no less. My list of instructions is hilarious. NO SANDALS. NO DIGITAL CAMERAS. Wear a Bathing Suit, Goggles and Ear Plugs. Underwater Cameras OK, but BRING NOTHING YOU CARE ABOUT. (Love that last line, and I didn´t even add the caps.) According to Wikipedia, no one has any idea WHY the festival started, but only that it quadruples the population of a tiny town for one day. The tomato throwing lasts about an hour and cannot begin until one of the participants climbs a greased pole to pull down a ham(!?!) (All holidays should begin this way)

But That Post will be written when I return...if I make it back.

Soooo,

I fled the Country for the weekend. Heading with Ben to St Etienne, his beloved home town for some good French food, a tour of the neighborhood and the BIGGEST FOOTBALL MATCH OF THE YEAR (for this small town, anyway).

St Etienne was lovely, and completely empty. Everyone in Europe takes August off (where do they all go? most likely the outlet malls in Leesburg).



I visited two of St. Eteinne´s three museums. (Contemporary Art and Industrial Art, I skipped the Mining Museum). The employees of said museums were flabbergasted that anyone not on a school fieldtrip would actually be visiting on a sunny day, and an American, no less!

One way to feel better about my level of Spanish, go to France. Its a nice reminder of how far I´ve come. I´ve been able to ask for bathrooms and more bread for WEEKS in Spain. In France, its back to hand gestures and bugged out eyes. Benoit´s parents own a gorgeous condo on the Main Street of town. The house is long and full of windows and warmth.

I stayed in Ben´s room and he stayed in his brother´s room. The first day was like any first day with a host family. You say your pleasantries run out of common language, and then play a form of ¨memory¨ and ¨name that tune¨
¨Dustin Hoffman?¨ they would ask.
¨Jean Reno¨ I´d reply.
We also made a trip to Ben´s old restaurant. The food was incredible, definitely up to the billing.

The highlight for me was the Foie Gras course. They were stunned that I´d never had it before. (but, I assured them, I loved salads, so this shouldn´t be a problem.) It was delicious of course, but more importantly, any time I ever see Foie Gras on a menu again, I get to say ¨You know, the BEST foie gras I ever had was at this amazing out of the way chef owned French Restaurant in....¨ that alone is worth the price of admission.

The restaurant is located on a tree lined cobblestone walkway that collects a good number of other restaurants and bars. As Ben has been out of town for 3 months his return equates to the biggest event of the month.

We couldn´t walk ten feet without the servers and owners of places stopping us and shepherding us in for a drink.

¨Metallica?¨
¨Air.¨
And on and on.


Once we ditched the parents it was on to more clubs. One called Pushkin, which had white padded walls in its interior (made more and more sense as the night went on).

We finished off the night at ¨The Mine¨ where hearing Eminem´s ¨Without Me¨ followed by the The Jackson 5´s ¨I Want You Back¨, is frankly, to be expected. Also, I give my new friends props for knowing more of the words than me.

The football match was Sunday night and ended up being a let down. The next door rivals (Leon, those scum) were clearly bigger and faster and just wore St. Eteinne down. At the end of the day, I was okay with that. Didn´t know if I could handle a victory celebration on top of everything else.

I gotta save something for the Food Fight of My Dreams.

See you after I´ve taken about ten showers.

Forrest