It's a blurgh post

Ugh. Well, I finally am home again, home again, and this time only an hour and a half past my intended curfew. The joys of med school and hanging around whipper snappers (most of whom I believe are older than me. Then again, I'm the cheapest drunk in the group, so huzzah? Huzzah. We'll go with a rollicking huzzah on that one.), even on a school night like this very night.

There are many things I wanted to discuss once upon a time. First, there was the talk of my famed unicorn shirt. It's okay if you haven't heard of it- it's pretty underground, but the story behind it, and the wonderful luck it has given me doesn't lie. But that's a story for another time when I'm not making noises with my mouth.

Likewise, there was a possibility of speaking about those who delete themselves from e-mail chains unnecessarily. I mean, the e-mail chain might just be there for your amusement. I get that maybe it's not funny, but, dude, it totally is. Stop hating on the business, man. It's very un-dudelike. Nobody likes an un-dudelike dude.

There was probably something I was actually going to talk about. I might figure it out while I take out my contacts, because I am extremely sleepy right now (but I know that sleeping now will not end well for my condition tomorrow).

Well, I took out the comics and read through some webcomics, and still no idea what I was going to write about. I'm sure it was something inspiring AND invigorating, like a textual cold shower, or a verbal dip into a brisk pond on a cold December morning. Not that I've done things like that (well, cold showers happened in France due to the lack of water heater. Well, maybe not so much the lack of water heater- I believe that there was a water heater that worked just fine once upon a time. The problem was more the degree of control over the temperature of the water. Apparently a single degree change on the rotating temperature control would change things from, "Well, thank God I brought these three sweaters, because it's going to be a cold winter in Siberia until Comrade Stalin finds out about this grave injustice and brings me back to balmy Moscow," to, "Well, Padre Torquemada certainly has been putting the coals to these baths today, because I'm going to get some serious scalds."), but I can imagine the invigoration. It's almost palpable.

But, alas, I cannot recall the glorious post I surely had in mind for you. This in no way is a means of stalling for time as I develop a new idea of what to write on this barely imitable Tuesday evening (now a Wednesday morning- where does the time go?). Even if it were, it would be a rather poor means of doing so, as my mind is mostly occupied by the sentences I'm writing rather than the subject about which I might have the opportunity, nay, the privilege of writing.

Of course, now I've gone and Google Mapped the place I stayed in France. I've been having some freaky weird nostalgia about it. I mean, I guess nostalgia about France in itself isn't too weird, but the fact that I'm having nostalgia about my experience living there might be. Working was great, traveling was great, but living there? I was dealing with Bev, the landlady who a.) regularly insulted my future profession, b.) didn't vaccinate her kid and was surprised when (who would have ever thought) her kid got measles, and c.) TRIED TO INSIST I GO TO THE DOCTOR WITHOUT INSURANCE WHEN I HAD A COLD.

This is more what it looked like if I turned right out of the place, and was about 10 feet taller, but it's not inaccurate. It really was a nice place, all in all, but I was sharing it with some rather terrible folks now and again.

Oh. OH. I think we have a subject.

That's right. We're doing another installment of, "Oh, Bev." For those of you that are new to the whole Rob blogs about his troubles thing, Bev is the term I used for my landlady. There's a nice story about that, and I feel like I'm far enough removed from it all to say what it is.

See, Bev's real name is Claire. She means well, and down South, we'd probably regularly use the old, "Bless your heart," on her. Unfortunately, she was a bit stressed, so I'm sure I didn't see her at her best, and she tended to rather... unscientific understandings of science and medicine. But I digress. See, her name was Claire, and one of the first conversations with her involved finding out that she had gone into menopause. This was not something she told me, but she DID tell her son in a voice that I could hear while we were all at the table. Yeah. She apparently forgot that I spoke French and could pick up on context clues. Maybe they don't teach context clues in French elementary school? I couldn't speak to it.

However, that made me think of, "Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret." by Judy Blume.

She bears a striking resemblance to the love-child of Skeletor and Evil-Lyn.

Unfortunately, my years in Knowledge Bowl and Quiz Bowl did not prepare me for books on menstruation, because somehow I made an ill-advised leap from Judy Blume to Beverly Cleary (writer of the Mouse and the Motorcycle, AKA Ralph, The Magical Toy-Motorcycle Riding Mouse Who's Like Stuart Little But Less Useful and With a Happy Ending That Doesn't Leave You Wondering If He Ever Finds Margalo, And What Was The Deal With Harriet Ames? He Just Kind Of Left Her In The Lurch. Why Is This A Kid's Book, And Why Do I Suddenly Have A Beach Worth Of Sand In My Eye? No, It Will Just Take a Minute For Me To Get It Out, Don't Worry. I'm Not Crying.). That leap brought some serious inspiration, because what does Claire translate to? Clear. Like Cleary. Beverly Cleary. Bev.

That's right. From me not knowing who the authors ACTUALLY were of various books, and from a single conversation, I came up with Bev. But, hey- it speaks volumes about her. I mean, doesn't it just FIT someone who breaks the law by not vaccinating her kids and then, AND THEN railing on the medical establishment (it's really a mafia, you see) and how all doctors and pharmaceutical companies are only in it for the money.

Come at me, Bev.

These things, okay. I can work with it. I get the feeling on some doctors, and certainly pharmaceutical companies (it's their goal to make money, after all, even though that implies that they need to make a solid product that does something nominally new). Heck, even the vaccinations I can deal with. It's her life, and she has the right to some degree of autonomy (though not based on the French legal system, but whatever), so if she's not going to let herself be vaccinated or get her kid vaccinated, I suppose that it's her (INCREDIBLY ill-advised) prerogative. Groovy. Hug a rainbow. Hug several rainbows.

Once your kid gets measles, well, okay. A bit of a public health risk, so maybe some of that autonomy might not be necessary. But, I mean, surely she'll tell the doctor that Elmo (Elmo's her daughter, you see- one of my friends commented on her son having googly eyes in a baby picture, and he's quite an eater, so he is therefore Cookie Monster, and his sister had dyed her hair a bit red when I got there, so she's Elmo. IT MAKES SENSE, DAMN YOU) hasn't had her vaccinations. That way, (s)he can treat Elmo appropriately, and problem solved, right?

Oh. She didn't tell the doctor.

She didn't tell the doctor?

Really? She didn't tell the Doctor? (But with a Scottish accent, see.)

She didn't tell the doctor. She lied to a health care professional about her daughter's vaccination status (which the doctor probably could have (and hopefully did) check with a quick set of titers), and so her daughter had to get her measles treated the hard way.

You know, I could deal with this. I could deal with the whole "Okay, so I don't like established medicine and really prefer the remedies, because that's what has worked for me, and I think that's really best." I might not agree with it, but I could deal with it and understand where she was coming from. It would at least be consistent, you know?

Then came the cold.

See, as part of the whole "I'm teaching in France!" thing, I had a visa, which was pretty great. Looked a whole lot better than my passport picture (or at least more like me). Yes, there was a whole lot of paperwork and visits that I had to go to, but I got a clean bill of health as an immigrant for the 9 months I was there. In theory, I was supposed to get a social security card that would entitle me to the super-cheap health care that comes with the French system. Of course, bureaucracy being what it is (and what it is being invented by the French) meant that I sure as shit wasn't going to see that card anytime. And sure enough, I didn't. Thankfully, I have a pretty good immune system and avoided injury, because that would have meant an awkward talk with a doctor about how, no, I'm not insured, but I will be any day now, because by golly, the system works!

So while Bev and Elmo are dealing with the freaking measles (MEASLES. THIS ISN'T SOMETHING YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO SEE IN THE DEVELOPED WORLD ANYMORE.), I come down with a cold. Heck, maybe it was even the flu- I wouldn't really understand the difference, because I just knew that I was congested and coughing. However, I DO know my body, and I knew that this was something that would resolve without issue, because it's just a cold/mild flu. Bev sees me one day and says that I should go see the doctor. I respond that it's a cold. She responds with, "Well, you should see a doctor anyway."

I do NOT say that, first off, I'm uninsured. Second off, what is a doctor going to do for me? If it's a smart doctor, MAYBE I'll get some decongestants or a recommendation for cough drops. If it's a bad doctor, I'll get a prescription for some antibiotics that I certainly won't use, because I'd rather not be responsible for creating a super-bug (even though it would be a pretty cool way to go down in the history books, I guess). Either way, problem not solved, whereas handling it myself (as I was doing, mind you) will take care of the problem soon enough. And do you really need to be worrying about a cold? YOUR DAUGHTER HAS MEASLES. But, of course, medicine can't fix that, with its fancy "vaccines" and "evidence." Nope. That would be unthinkable.

Anyway, here's some puppies to hopefully cool down that rage that may have rubbed off on you.

OH MY GOD I WANT ONE What was I talking about?

Some things you just do not mess with

You may think this is an Oh, Bev post. You know, based on the vaguely confrtontational title. But you'd be wrong.

This is about Rob baking. And following (more or less) a recipe. Because some things are sacred. Not in the "Hey it's a cathedral/mosque/synagogue/other place of worship and we should maybe respect that faith's religious beliefs while inside" sort of way. No, the flippant sort of sacred that I tend to use a lot more.

I am talking, of course, about Toll House cookies.

For those of you unfamiliar with this recipe, I'm sorry for your wasted childhood/allergy to one of the included ingredients. I've been eating these since I was a wee lad and making them since I was a slightly less wee lad. I almost considered doing something different with it this time (adding ingredients, things like that), but I wisely changed my mind and just followed the damned recipe (with obligatory adjustments, mainly involving vanilla and salt). So, for your viewing pleasure, here we go.

THE SACRAMENTS

So, here's what I used for this round of cookies. You can see the stuff wherever I put the pictures this time.

250 g butter, softened
310 g flour
1 tsp and change salt
1 tsp baking soda
150 g white sugar
~165 g brown sugar
Vanilla (Lots)
2 eggs
400 g dark chocolate (70%)

Don't add tomatoes. That's just a bad idea.

Yeah, they don't exactly sell semi-sweet chocolate chips out here, so I went with a few bars of dark chocolate. Between chopping and tasting, I'd say 380-390 g of the stuff actually made it into the dough. I probably chopped it a bit too finely, but this is manly baking time (more on that later).









WE THREE BOWLS

First off, I cut the butter into cubey things to let it soften a bit more quickly. You know how I am with stirring in butter. Not great, that's how. Meanwhile, I combined the flour, salt, and baking soda in a small bowl (or tried- it was almost too much for the small bowl). This gave a nice little photo opportunity with the chocolate.

Say cheese! But seriously. Don't add cheese either. That's also a bad idea.

COMMUNING WITH THE DOUGH

And at this point, I started making the actual dough. I went ahead and combined the two sugars, the vanilla, and the butter, slowly adding the butter (1 cube at a time) and trying to stir it as much as possible. Around this time, Bev decided to enter. She advised that I mix the dough with my hands to get the butter in there even better/more easily, as I was using a wooden spoon. I prefer to do these things the way I've done them (since that's worked in the past and I have no reason to think they won't keep working), but she certainly didn't help her case by adding something along the lines of, "It makes it much more sensual that way."

What. No. I'm not wasting dough on my hands unless I'm trying to get it onto cookie sheets or I'm cleaning the bowl. Also, sensual is not a term I like to associate with baking. Apt though it may be, just no. She also proceeded to add something about how much fun it was to lick your fingers afterwards. No, Bev. Again, not wasting dough, and second, I don't want to hear you talking about sensual and licking, because that makes me want to throw bleach onto my brain. Whatever hallucinations the lesions that produces will be a long respite from the mental image you just had to give me there.

Let's temper that with an image of the dough, post egg.

What do you know, it did become a bit of an Oh, Bev post.













Anyway, I got the butter in pretty well (without resorting to my hands) and proceeded to add the eggs one at a time, stirring as I went. This makes the dough look kinda ooky, but that's why we don't stop here. That and it's bat country.

Then I gradually stirred in the flour mixture, which gets tough because good Lord does the dough thicken. But that's part of the greatness. One reason that I don't want to waste the dough on my hands earlier is because (despite what I literally just said) it's delicious on its own. Salmonella be damned. I've yet to have that problem, and even if I did, it'd be a small price to pay for the deliciousness of Toll House cookie dough. It's even fine without the chocolate.

So thick. So delicious. Marry me, Toll House.

After the flour went in, I added the bajeepers out of that chocolate. And lo, a terrible beauty was born.

Terribly DELICIOUS.

BAKING THE FLOCK

Before

And now's around where things supposedly get really easy. I say supposedly, because like everything that's theoretically easy (pasta, rice, etc.), I always manage to screw it up somehow. Basically, instructions are to throw the oven to 375 F/190 C/T6/460 K and bake the cookies (put in tablespoon sized globs) for 9-11 minutes or until they're cooked.

And around now, you're probably saying, "Gosh, Rob, how could someone as handsome and intelligent and incredibly modest as you screw something like that up? The instructions are incredibly clear!"

And I reply with, "Oh you. Yes, those instructions seem clear, but you really want to use a teaspoon, NOT a tablespoon, to get the right volume and spacing and such. And also, ovens lie to you. They lie something fierce."

But Toll House cookies aren't about uniformity. They're about delicious. Yes, some got a bit burny on the bottom. Yes, some are a bit bigger than others. Yes, some got a bit conjoined. But they're still phenomenal. If I could change anything in how I did this one, I'd throw in more baking soda- these came out a bit flatter than what I'm used to getting, and I think it comes from the extra sugar (the American recipe calls for 3/4 cup sugar and 3/4 cup brown sugar I believe (maybe it's 1/4 cup of both), but I clearly added more brown sugar) and the extra chocolate (336 g corresponds to the actual pack of chocolate chips you get from Nestle). But regardless of the "goût particulier" that Bev somewhat complained about from (she claims) the baking soda, they were still well received by Bev and Elmo, and the teachers at my school ate them up. I also got a comment from the directeur (read: principal) about how this sort of thing helps with the ladies.

Cue knowing nod. Not that I have any ulterior motives with this New Year's Resolution or anything.

Now if you'll pardon me, I'ma have one more before I go to sleep.

I'm Sorry, Old Chum

Hey everybody.

It's time for an "Oh, Bev." It was originally going to be lighthearted. Then she pulled some shit last night, followed by shit tonight. Now you get the lighthearted one. You also get a rant.

But first the lighthearted bit! This "Oh Bev" can be said with a slightly dismissive but mostly amused tone, kinda like, "Oh, you wacky hooligans, putting a hat on my mailbox. When will you learn that mailboxes don't wear hats?"

Apparently there's a manifestation tomorrow- I don't know about what, but it's apparently education based because some teachers at my schools are striking (of course), but I'm not, because I think the children of France are better served by me working, and it's they that I serve, really, rather than the French government. Yeah, that's right- Rob makes himself look superior because he doesn't want to get docked pay.

Anyway, that's just backstory. This is the Oh Bev.

The other evening, Bev said that she would go to the manifestation tomorrow, if the weather was good.

What.

I mean, I get that it sucks to be out in the rain, and I get that the French seem to love going to manifestations. Hell, I love them too, when I can go- the food there smells great, there are lots of parades and people and stickers, and who doesn't love parades and people and stickers? Okay, fine, I can get not loving parades and people necessarily, but stickers? That's a sad life.

But to decide not to go to a manifestation because it's raining? Really? You crazy, Bev. You crazy.

And now I rant. And this is why I have the subject- I'm sorry for what I'm about to put my blog through. I... I'm just really pissed. Like, absurdly pissed. Not in the fun British way either. In the hot-blooded, American, "Let me declare war on something because I got me some anger to work out" pissed.

Every once in a while, Bev makes me a meal. Likewise, I share one with her. Nothing too fancy- pasta and cream sauce with chicken from me, maybe some fish and salad from her, things like that. Generally, my food gets criticized ("The rice is too sticky," "The pasta is too firm," etc.), but I like how it tastes, so I brush it off. I don't criticize her stuff, because, a.) it's good, and b.) I don't think it's right to criticize something someone made for you. It's the footie-pajama problem. If Aunt Flo gives you footie pajamas that you hate, you still wear them when Aunt Flo comes around. You at least wear them once to let people see them so they can tell Aunt Flo you wore them and how much you liked them or something along those lines.

But hey, Bev means well, she usually says it's good aside from this one issue, and I know that my rice and pasta have some issues sometimes (though the sauce, AKA the important part, is generally pretty solid).

There's also the issue of Bev believing that she has to give me all sorts of unsolicited advice and tips in the kitchen, and because she said them, and because she "knows what she knows," it's clearly the... freaking gospel (the time for swearing will come, don't you worry little F-bomb. Your time in the Enola Rob is coming). For example, she's a believer in the olive oil school of pasta (add some olive oil to keep the pasta from sticking together). I was not raised in that school, and having (finally) tried it both ways, I prefer without. But she will still INSIST that you need to add olive oil, and otherwise it's crap (more or less).

And that brings us to our second Oh Bev moment. And this and the third one are not funny, wacky moments that just make you wonder a bit, but hey, no harm done. These are... freaking death glare Oh Bev moments.

Monday night, I'm making some rice to go with my red beans and sauce. I'm not super at making rice, but whatever, it comes out as rice, albeit a bit overcooked sometimes, and I eat it, and everything's groovy. Anyhoo, having had some bad luck with rice cooking uncovered, I try it about half-covered this time. Bev comes in and is doing her cooking thing in the kitchen and says, "Normalement [Note: God do I hate this word. Let's go with a translation of normally- I just hear it so much from her and in her arguments with Elmo (the new name for Bev Jr the female) that it has taken a super condescending tone], you don't cover the rice." And I'm feeling a bit antsy, because she and Elmo are in the kitchen working on cooking, and I'm trying to get out of their way, but I was in there first. So I reply (pretty calmly I might add) with, "Well, I think it depends." To which she gives a, "Well, I know what I know," while basically throwing up her hands.

Fast forward a few minutes, and I'm taking the rice off. She asks if it's sticking together a lot, to which I reply no- it was a bit overcooked maybe, but not terribly so. And I go to attend to other things, and she looks at it, and gives it a dismissive laugh that I hear through my headphones and do my best to ignore.

Wow Bev. You're good at this politeness thing, aren't you?

But hey, she just didn't think my cooking was that great on that one and was trying to give advice on something that she's aware that I've had trouble with now and again. Far out. No worries. Honestly, got this ranted out to Kara (who is a wonderful person for listening to me rant about shit like that), and wouldn't have made it to the annals of Oh Bev (if annals they may be called).

If not for tonight.

Tonight, I was making some Bourtheto for Bev and Elmo. I had made Bourtheto for the first time on  Sunday for a CouchSurfing thing in Melun. Fun times were had by all, and the people there REALLY enjoyed the soup. Hooray! So of COURSE I'll let Bev and Elmo have some- heck, Bev was watching me make the soup and wanted some and was nice enough to let me borrow a pot to take with me, so I figured she deserved a chance to taste the soup, which she complimented at the time!

I proceeded to ask Bev if she'd rather I make the bourtheto tonight or tomorrow (while at the Monet exhibit, or rather in line for the Monet exhibit but that's another story, so I could get back to make it if necessary). She said she'd be back tonight around 8 PM and that she'd prefer I do it tonight. Groovy. Easy enough thing to make, just needs some chopping and mixing and we're pretty much set.

8 PM rolls around and I've got the soup on its way- not quite there, but close. Gotta add the fish and let that simmer for about 20 minutes and we'll be good. Of course, Bev isn't home yet, so groovy.

8:20 rolls around. I'm about 2 minutes away from being done when Bev gets in and talks to Elmo and some of Elmo's friends who are around (I think doing some stuff with dreads but possibly learning letters and numbers and colors- I had my headphones in, so it's hard to say).

8:25 rolls around. I've taken the bread out of the oven where it was heating, I've got the soup ready- just adding some parsley as a last touch- and Bev comes in and asks:

"So what are we having with the soup?"

For your reference, dear readers, bourtheto normally has tomatoes, onions, white fish, and potatoes. I throw in some beans as well for good measure, but very little. It's a pretty hearty soup. As a result, I respond with:

"Well, Bev, it's a pretty hearty soup." To which she says something along the lines of,

"Oh, I know there's fish in it, but I don't think that'll be enough. I think rice would go well with it."

I take the hint, but am rightly pissed- I've been working on this soup for the past hour or so (easy, but time consuming with the chopping and moreso with the finely chopping so as to feel more manly), and Bev comes in to say what should go with my dish. I respond with a slightly (okay, more than slightly) angry but still controlled:
"Okay, I'll make some rice, but I'll take about 20 minutes." I honestly do not think we need rice- bread is implicit and will go fine with the soup, and the soup really is pretty goddamn hearty. I also don't want to be up until 9 cooking, because they'll take forever to eat and I'll be stuck at the table and I need to get to sleep so I can work tomorrow (I would be in bed already, but this needed writing. I'm currently an hour behind schedule. Thanks Bev.) But I make the mistake of being overly accomodating, like I do, and start to make the rice.

A couple of minutes later, and a conversation with Elmo (basically, "Wow, that looks like a hearty soup." "I know, right? But your mom doesn't think so." "Oh. Is that why you're making rice?" "Yep.") later, I've put the rice in the boiling water. NOW Bev comes in and says that she had forgotten about the potatoes, and boy, I guess it is a really hearty soup and we don't need the rice, huh? But we can have it anyway. (Bev ends up being the only one who eats any of the rice at dinner. The rest comes with me for lunch tomorrow. Bitch.)

I make the rice. The soup, rice, and all that get out there. We start eating. Oh, also, the implicit bread? Apparently not implicit. That will also get used by me tomorrow. If they use it, I will be rather ticked. If they get mad at me for using it, they get a rant.

Anyway, we start eating. And their response? "Oh wow, the potatoes aren't cooked." Admittedly, to their credit, they proceed to compliment the soup afterwards and Bev remarks that it's bizarre that they weren't cooked after the were on the stove for as long as that. Me, I thought they were a bit firm, but there's nothing wrong with a bit of firmness, even in a soup.

And yes, through all of this, I made some key errors. I didn't tell Bev about the potatoes. I didn't refuse to make the rice. I didn't mention the bread and assumed it was implicit.

But that does not give you the right to guilt me into adding something to a dish I'm making.

What the FUCK Bev? Where the FUCK did you learn- oh yeah. Here's the other good part.

Remember in the last Oh Bev when I mentioend how she believes there's this medical mafia? She's been on that the past few nights, and how drug companies run the world and keep good, alternative medicine down (alternative medicine including theories that HIV doesn't cause AIDS, by the way), and how they prevent drug discoveries from happening because it would keep them from making money.

Wait- what does Rob sorta want to get his PhD in at MUSC? Pharmacology and drug discovery? So Bev is basically insulting his hopeful future profession in medicine AND in science?

And this brings me back to my interrupted question.

Where the FUCK did you learn tact?

Seriously, my chest is hurting a bit because I'm so pissed. I need to get out of Combs this weekend- I can't take Bev this weekend. At all. Trains will get booked and I will get the fuck out of dodge, because I don't need her shit right now.

Sorry about the profanity. And I'm sorry this rant wasn't as funny as the boron rant.

Fucking boron...

ANNECY HAPPENS NOW After I talk about the GREs

Okay, I'm one post into my blogstravaganza (patent pending) tonight, and I clearly haven't had enough wine. But I don't want to use all of it tonight, so I'm making do. I guess the next logical post (screw it, I'll follow a somewhat reasonable chronology for this) would be Annecy.

AND IT HAPPENS NOW. (See, this is what happens when you get Rob writing at all, much less with wine.Caps Lock (had to see if there was a space in it) and parentheticals happen. ALL. THE. TIME.) (Well, not all, that would be an exaggeration, but you can probably see why Rob was able to dig on what he got through of The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test and Douglas Adam's body of work.)

Around mid-October (maybe after the Nuit Blanche? Let's assume after to avoid the embarrassment of having said Rob would follow a reasonable chronology and discovering he was lying.), I went to Annecy! Why Annecy? Well, first off, I love me some French Alps. I really would have loved to have been placed in/around Annecy for the people, architecture, and scenery, but I'm glad I got to be in Paris, because I really like a lot of the assistants around here. And I'm tangenting again. No, I don't ramble. I just tangent. Repeatedly... But I digress/tangent.

Anyhoo, the other and honestly more important reason for going to Annecy specifically is because Lindsay "FrauBrow" Brownell was going there with her Swiss Semester kids. Kelvin Bates (of The Nuances fame) also came up, and although he said he would, Ben Riffe was unable to make it. But I don't really know Ben, so it worked out nicely for a Davidson reunion. And I took a TON of pictures, all of which are up on my facebook (http://www.facebook.com/?ref=logo#!/profile.php?id=9421694- friend me if you like) and my Picasa Web account (http://picasaweb.google.com/rbcameron3), and hold on my parents are calling on Skype so I can find out my Chem GRE results.

Okay, so the Chem GRE results are in! And I suppose I'll break chronology to talk about the GRE and add a bit to the title to reflect that change. So! I took the Chem GREs in France. There's a GRE site waaaay up north in Paris, and the guy who runs it is a total jerk. I think he was a New England transplant to Paris, but he was clearly unhappy with his job either way. He refused to speak anything other than English when giving priority instructions (even though he spoke French reasonably well) and was generally a pain. But hey, that's what the Subject GREs are all about, right? Pain and suffering. Anyway, I felt pretty good about the GRE, and I ended up scoring an 860 (90th percentile), which is great if I decide to do just a PhD while those scores are still valid. Unlikely, but hey, things like that can happen.

And back to Annecy after that sojourn into pain, suffering, and chemistry. Anyway, the reason why were actually there was teh Alpenage festival. For those of you not in the know about Alpine farming habits (I hear they're famous for their nuts), the Alpenage is when the farmers bring their animals/herds back down from the pastures in the mountains down into the barns and fields closer to home. Most cities might have a little parade or something. Not Annecy. Annecy brings every shopkeeper, every artisan, every giant horn-blower, every animal, and every bit of cheese or apple in a 10 mile radius into the city center for a delicious smelling festival. And the apples are made into cider. Delicious, unpasteurized cider.

Let's take a journey though pictures, shall we? Also Grace is totally IMing me right now and I'm trying to keep a flow, but she's quite awesome and will get some of my attention. Sorry blogosphereotopia!

Anyway, pictures?

Yes. Pictures.

Oh you wacky hostel dwellers.

First off, the hostel. It took some doing, but I DID find a hostel in Annecy, i.e. the only hostel in Annecy. It's a FUAJ one I think, and it's cheapish if you've got a FUAJ card, which I didn't. But they were out of cards, so I couldn't buy one even though I totally would have, and as a result, they gave me the FUAJ rate. Good story, right? But it gets better! After the Parisian hostel experience, I wasn't expecting much, so I left my computer at home to discover that the hostel was PHENOMENAL and had free Wifi. There was also a great continental breakfast (wonderful for working off hangovers when, say, you've had most of a bottle of red wine the night before), and it was super spacious. The only two complaints I had about the place were 1.) it was hard to get to. You had to walk up a hill on a pretty steep (30 to 45 degree) incline to get up there. Since Annecy is a skiing town, I can't imagine what it's like in the winter for backpackers, much less cars. The other one was that it was so spacious that it was hard to meet people. Granted, I was only there for a night and was meeting friends down in town, so that one might not be the best assessment, but it's what I saw.

Another funny story about the hostel! So I get there on the first day and wander into the kitchen, because I brought some snack food (fruit, cheese, bread), not expecting a full kitchen to work with. I feel a bit curious and decide to explore. And by explore, I mean see if the stove burners are on. And by see if the stove burners are on, I don't mean check the dials. Nor do I mean put the back of my hand a reasonable distance away to check the heat. No. I mean stick two fingers on my left hand (I'm left-handed) on each burner in succession to find that the one with the tea kettle was actually on and get two ridiculous 2nd degree burns on my fingers. But they're healed now, so it's groovy.

Anyhoo, I got to Annecy and started to explore that night/meet FrauBrow and co. for drinks. I did see a bunch of rollerbladers around city hall, but I couldn't get a good picture, so you'll have to settle for these pictures of Annecy's canals. If that's a problem, then please dial 382-5968 for a refund.

A nice side street

A main drag of restaurants and cafés

So after a good night's sleep and that wonderful breakfast (Cocoa puffs, toast, milk, etc), I headed out for the festival! And what a festival it was! For example, there were horns!

Everywhere. I cut the pictures down to a minimum on this, but if you look on the Picasa and the Facebook, you'll see that they. Were. Everywhere.

But for now they're right here, along with Kelvin who didn't know I was there yet.

And of course, since it's a festival about cows, you need more cowbell. And boy howdy was there. Possibly more than you needed.

False. No such thing as too much cowbell.

And honey. But more than that, your basic Nicolas Cage repellent: THE BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES.

Thankfully not stinging my face. But I'm not punching women while in a bear suit.

And like most French open air things, there's this delicious stew. I wish I could make this delicious stew. I think they put it on sandwiches, but I would totally eat that straight. I can't really tell what's in it other than sausage and spices and probably onions and garlic, but I can say that it's absolutely delicious smelling. One day I'll actually try it. One day...

You tell 'em, Rob.

You also have your basic absurd amounts of meat. Wait. Why am I not doing this exposition in captions? Oh wait, because captions are groovy but they can cause issues and I can't remember what they are. Clearly I need more wine. Be right back as I get some maybe. Shouldn't, and actually I won't. Take that, liver!

Aaaand your basic folk-singers. There were yodelers and accordian players- I don't think there were any yodelers in this picture, but there's the accordian guy. And everyone is playing these slappy percussive instruments and dancing. It... was not as good as the food.

This gets captioned. I will leave you centered and caption you. The geese are supposedly in bowties for the parade, but we missed that part of the parade. Alas and alack, right? Right.

And more importantly than any of the other animals and such was, of course, the cider. The delicious, delicious, delicious, unpasteurized, got carbonated on the train ride home but was still deliciious, cider. Here's me with the cider. Also, this apparently shows how unhealthily I was eating the first month here? I don't really see the sunken cheeks people are talking about, but maybe I'm just in denial.

Or focused on that receding hairline.

And there's a picture of the prison and the canals in the daytime! And also the absurd amount of people at this thing. Seriously. You could barely move in some parts. Still, the cider and free samples from the cooking school made it totally worth it.



This would have been a caption, but that would have been stupid.

 Pies. The French can do pie in a very appetizing way, but they always seem a bit light for my taste. Speaking of pie, I"m going to reward myself with some once I've got this blog a bit more caught up. I would do it once it's totally caught up, but man, it's late. I had a 14 hour bus ride with a French dick who thought it was okay to crush my legs with his seat. And then I didn't get enough sleep last night. And then I taught today. I'm tired and will sleep. But I will have pie before I go to bed, because Bev is worried about it spoiling (not as if she's helping with the eating much, because apparently it's too heavy for her sensitive French tastes. This will go into a future Oh Bev, but I'll throw the tag on for the heck of it.), and it's too delicious to spoil. But the pie pictures will go up tonight!

And here are some pictures of the crowd and the parade. Wait.

Wait.

The flow is gone for a bit. Let me get it back. I can so do better than what I just did. Also the wine is done from my glass. Saaad day.

Okay, let's get this flow back. Mafia Wars is always good to numb the brain for a bit.

So after a day of wandering, FrauBrow, I-Got-A-Fever-And-The-Only-Cure-Is-More-Kel-Bell, and Yours Truly, The Insane Nicknamer and Blogger Who's Probably Not Reaaally Insane But Who Can Tell These Days Anyway And Where Are the Hyphens And Why Is The Capitalization Not Consistent went out to the parade. Probably a bit later than we should have- we had wonderful coffee with gummy gators...

I feel like we named the gators. Did we name the gators?

... and it was groovy, though pricey. But hey, Annecy. But we got to the parade and found this:

Pictured: This.

Thankfully, some people did end up moving, so we were able to shift up and get some good pictures. Such as these!

What? Nine-Cowsand?

But wait! There's more!

Christmas? A humbug, uncle?

Yeah, those captions subtle enough for you? I thought so. BECAUSE I READ SHIT. Ooops. There's another swear. And an irrational one at that. We'll see if I can actually get those pie pictures up. I hope I can. Eep.

But then we've got some nice couple shots.

Frau Brow and IGAFATOCIMKB

Whatever the long nicknames were and Rob's fanny pack birthing a cider

Don't judge the fanny pack. It has swallowed up greater men than thee.

And before my sanity slips tooooo much more, let's leave with a nice picture of the mountain by Annecy (taken from the Annecy park).

That's right. Soooooothe the crazy.

All in all, a fabulous Davidson reunion in Europe. If only there had been more cider to take home...

Okay that's a crappy way to end the post. We can do better than that? We can do better than that.

Okay, maybe I can't. I'm getting a bit groggy and such. We'll end with the thought of the upcoming entry on pie. Nothing can beat that.

NOTHING.

Oh Bev- An overview

As a teacher in the Paris area, I basically could either live in Paris proper or in one of the suburbs. Frankly, I had initially not wanted to come to Paris (for reasons I'll explain in the forthcoming general updates post), but that's where they offered me a job, and it's been proving me wrong to a point thus far. However, since apartments are absurdly expensive in Paris (potentially my entire salary for a smallish studio once phone and utilities are accounted for), I opted to widen my search to the banlieues. Thankfully, I found something pretty quickly and am renting a room from an older (early 50s) French lady. She lives with her 18 year old daughter who is prepping to take her bac, and the rent was cheaper than anything I'd find in Paris- potentially cheaper than anything I could get even if I received CAF money (which I can't because it's a sublet).

Anyway, I moved in, and discovered that while my landlady- let's call her Bev to protect the innocent- has some... interesting views on some things. She really does mean well, but she'll occasionally say some things that I find absolutely ridiculous, and not just because I put a bit more faith in science than she does. That's what Oh Bev is all about- venting about things my landlady says and does. This is really me just venting, so please don't be offended, but if you are offended, please remember that it's just a blog and not that important in the grand scheme of things. I'm happy to hear opinions- just keep it civil in the comments and I'll try to do the same (outside of venting about Bev, of course).

Let's go with some starter examples of some notable Oh Bev moments from the past few months:

- Bev believes that vaccines are among the worst things ever. She has gone so far as to say that they're the mistake of the century. She backs this up by mentioning some studies she's read and referring to other (probably more respected) studies as "propoganda." She prefers not to consider that the "propoganda" might be more respected because it's more scientifically sound, because there's a big pharmaco-medical mafia that controls all publications. This was an early discussion, wherein she also said that...

-She believes that AIDS is not caused by HIV. As evidence, she mentioned those who are seropositive for HIV but never develop AIDS. According to her, we are told that HIV causes AIDS (and that we should take vaccines) because the medical establishment is only in it for the money and doesn't really care about people. As a chemist and hopefully future doctor, I had a bit of righteous anger over this.

-Bev takes a looooong time to sit down for dinner. A fresh example of this is last night- I ended up making her dinner, pictures of which will be posted later tonight. (Part of our understanding as landlady/renter is that we'll make each other food every once in a while and share a meal. How Rockwellian.) When I was maybe... 2 or 3 minutes from being done cooking, she asked if I wanted some small thing before the meal. I made the mistake of accepting, and she proceeded to spend about 10 minutes preparing the darned thing, took about 10 minutes to get everything together, and another 10 minutes to FREAKING SIT DOWN. In retrospect, I should have kept the food on the stove a bit longer and just let her get situated first, but there were pots on the table to serve from, and she kept on going. THEN she started on the small thing she prepared, and when we got to the meal, she made a few comments about how it would have been better warmer. Yeah. Sorry about that wall of text. That one still grinds my gears a lot more because it happened so recently. It's also unfortunately what an Oh Bev post in the future might end up being like. This one's got more abbreviated ones because it's 3 months worth.

-Bev seems to believe in feng shui but keeps a remarkably cramped kitchen. Including two plants, which seems like it might negate all the cleanliness she tries for by having people wear slippers/house shoes when they come in.

-Bev is an anti-capitalist who believes that we should standardize labor costs across Europe. Seems to me like that might cause some problems with inflation, but I'm no economist- then, neither is she.

-Bev has expressed that she wishes the world was run by a group of (let's see if I can remember the exact quote) "people with great spirits," who would tell us how to run our lives and be happy.

-Bev thinks that "pensée cause." As context, I mentioned that, given my family's history of cancer and my rather extensive work with some carcinogens in the lab, I will quite possibly die of cancer. She said that thinking that would cause cancer just as well as the other factors.

The list on her... unconventional views on medicine and science goes on a bit. As I say, she really does mean well, and she really is a pretty solid landlady. I've just had to learn to nod and smile a bit rather than let myself get sucked into an hour long discussion where I don't get to say much (she's a bit of a chatter- I've tried the interruption technique that I've heard is necessary in France, but she'll have none of it and gets offended before she interrupts me again).

That ended up being a bit longer than I'd hoped. I'll try to tone down the ranting a bit, because no one wants to read that much negativity, and I'm in France! There are better things to hear about! Like the Regalia post that'll be coming out later. If Flickr will load my pictures.

Took me long enough

Hey everybody!

I know it only took me 3 months and a day to get to this point, but I've finally started a blog! For those of you who found this through Lord knows what means, let me tell you a bit about myself, in a handy bullet form (because nobody loves walls of texts)

-I'm Rob! Hopefully you'll figure that out from something like the signature at the end, but I'm not 100% on that yet. We'll find out, right?
-I went to Davidson College (go 'Cats) and majored in chemistry with a minor in French.
-I'm currently making wonderful use of that chemistry degree by working as an English language assistant in France. I'll actually be using it next year, most likely in an MD/PhD program.
-I tend to write long and rambling messages with lots of expletives. I think that the former would be appropriate for this, while the latter might offend some family that might end up reading it. We'll see what happens.

... There probably should be more that I can say about myself, but it's not coming to me off the top of my head. Oh! I teach in Orly and live in Combs-la-Ville. Yes, I could have gone back and added that as a bullet, but I'd rather not start copping out and editing my posts as I go. Hooray for stream of consciousness, yeah?

So, here's what I'm hoping to use this blog to do, with their labels in parentheses (okay that I went back and edited to say. Yay inconsistency?):

-Update people on my life and travels (General updates)
-Show food that I made and maybe get some recipes (Regalia)
-Vent against my landlady (Oh Bev)

More labels may arise as time goes by, but that seems like a first start until that point at which Sam starts playing. Also, that whole thing about rambling posts? Not a lie, and they tend to be peppered with references.

Anyway, I think that will do as a first post. I'm going to post again shortly with a better overview of what I've been up to and what the whole Oh Bev thing is all about.

Onwards and upwards!