People You Meet on the Way

I dislike excuses --- unless they are made by me. Nevertheless, I did not make an excuse in my last post about the extremely long delay in my first blog post and my arrival in Grenoble. But I really wanted to. The excuse goes as follows: “L’internet est hors de service.” This sign, announcing that the internet was out of service, was my first greeting at my apartment complex as I moved in last week.

As one addicted to the internet, this announcement was a bit of a let down. I had looked forward to logging in and to making an “all’s well” call back home, for free, using a voice-over internet device called a magicjack. Instead, the ‘hors de service’ led me to make an ‘all’s well’ call back to the States and to be price gouged on international roaming. In theory, my magicjack allows me to avoid international calling fees. In theory. Currently, the non-theoretical fees amount to $1.00 / minute on my phone plan, which is at least € .01 / metric minute. See my previous post on my knowledge of such metric conversions.

These conversions, which are useful for physical measurement, are essential for budgetary management. Accordingly, I understand that the euro is a convenient way of reducing my buying power, whichever European border I happen to cross over. This feeling of a lack of borders is codified in a graffiti statement on a nearby bank: “les frontières sont dans nos têtes” --- borders are (only) in our heads. I wish I could tell my American cell provider this important information.

I would call to tell them, but it would be too expensive.

Political statements are not confined to graffiti here (though one wonders if political philosophers moonlight with spray-paint). In a particularly daring move (for me, anyway, who is content in his flat), I decided to take the tram last night, for no real reason. Though, I do enjoy the beeping sound made when one validates their tram card.

I hopped on the train at Saint Bruno and knew immediately I had made the right decision. An armchair philosopher rode with me, and I was treated with his verbal graffiti all the way to Echirolles (the ancien Village Olympique from 1968).

Pushing 70, he had distinguished spectacles, a Bergerac-esque nose, and an in-decipherable accent. Actually, he looked like a diminutive Ben Kingsley. I see this in hindsight, which is good, because I like Ben Kingsley enough that I would have wanted to take a picture with ‘him’ and tell everyone I was on a tram with Ben Kingsley.

Luckily for me, every proclamation was both loud and occurred several (read: several) times. His emphases occurred predictably at the end of every sentence as if he bottled up his outrage for a grand finale at the conclusion of each thought. No periods, only ellipses between finales. His audience was large, and unwilling. He did appear to direct most of his pre-finale thoughts to an equally-old woman sitting across from him. She seemed completely disinterested. But Ben would bellow, first to her, and then adjust in his seat slightly to the rest of us as he completed encore… after encore.

In fact, I used the woman as a template to feign disinterest as Ben crossed into subjects I would have reserved for theses. He was far too difficult for my still-adjusting ears on his first proclamation, but second and third proclamations became progressively clearer. Apparently, the tram was an appropriate soap box for subjects ranging from the Iraq war, to French imperialism, to bourgeoisie capitalism.

I say that I feigned disinterest. I was very interested, but ‘j’avais l’air de’ disinterest because each thesis, no matter how it began to his disinterested conversational partner, eventually ended in a finale against the United States. Repetition: “What have the Americans gained in Iraq? (slight turn, always more volume) What is the value of money?” Same answer to both, always more volume: “nothing.” Finally, a non-rhetorical chorus emerged: “Good Americans criticize their government.” Several times on this point.

He believed this one quite strongly, a polemic that demanded he stay rotated and gyrating in his tram seat. I had to smile. Perhaps he should have told it to an American, instead of his disinterested audience. Maybe he needs a blog. Perhaps his internet is always hors de service as well?

At the very least, I should have asked Ben a favor. Could he please call my phone company in the States? What about my internet service provider here? Two things to ask, preferably in the form of dual rhetorical question, which he has perfected: what is the value of money? What do borders mean? Rien, nothing. So, no more roaming fees, and fix the internet SVP.

But in the meantime, until Ben does make this call (for me, he would do it because I am a … Canadian), I am sorry if I don’t call back more often, or blog more often here. That’s my excuse.