All that frenzied commotion for a kiss

Many years ago, on a warm Saturday afternoon, I happened to be strolling towards the Place de l'Hôtel de Ville in Paris with a female friend. Reaching the Rue de Rivoli, we discovered that this busy street was the scene of a cavalcade of horn-tooting drivers who were celebrating a wedding. They thought it well to occupy this public volume at the heart of Paris—not only the length and breadth of the street, but the auditive space, too—as if they had a right to usurp it all, momentarily, for their nuptial festivities. I was annoyed by the selfish arrogance of the noisy revelers, but I thought it preferable to refrain from expressing my anger, since they would soon be gone. My friend was less tolerant than me. She turned to me and exclaimed loudly in French, so that everybody around us heard her explicit complaint, which seemed to amuse quite a few eavesdroppers: "Ah, all that frenzied commotion for a kiss!" In fact, she didn't use the word "frenzied", but rather an adjective that might best be translated by "fucking". And she wasn't really evoking a kiss, since she used a vulgar French term that can be translated by "cunt".

I was surprised by my friend's unexpected outburst, and no doubt a little shocked by her sentiments, because I had been so preoccupied by the frenzied commotion that my mind had at no stage been tempted to wander to the image of the bride's vagina. But, when I thought about it… why not? If indeed the young lady's sexual organ could be thought of (even indirectly) as a significant element in the event being celebrated, then it was a fact (I agreed) that her friends were kicking up a huge fuss about it all. To clarify things, I should point out that my friend had always behaved with me, in the sexual domain, in a totally down-to-earth manner. It was something that we both thought of as quite ordinary. In the case of a guy with whom she was prepared to jump into bed, she was hardly the kind of lass who would expect him to be so awed that he would want to go blowing his horn down through the middle of Paris.

I think of that trivial anecdote, today, when I see what's happening in the case of the British prince and his bird. The media have shown us photos of the transparent outfit she was wearing when the prince's lusty gaze first encountered her anatomy. If I understand correctly, that primeval visual encounter gave him a royal erection that has since stretched all the way to Westminster Abbey. And why not? Clearly, the woman was half naked! Great idea for British Cinderellas looking for a Prince Charming!

What the fuck! If that's what the people want, then—as John Lennon put it—let it be. In any case, a royal sex story is about to be rammed down the throats of half the kingdom, not to mention countless millions of the Earth's non-British inhabitants, invited along as dumb observers. From time to time, natural catastrophes and mad dictators bring us back down to earth. They remind us that there's something literally indecent about all that frenzied commotion for a basically sexual affair.

But everybody knows that posh vulgarity has always been a trademark attribute of the so-called Royals.

Ten minutes of French TV news

This evening, on French TV, it was wonderful to see crowds of joyful Libyans expressing their gratitude to France for masterminding the UN Security Council resolution designed to halt the barbarity of Gaddafi. Since there were no surprises—merely pride to realize that France had been capable of obtaining this state of affairs, with the help of our friends on the other side of the English Channel—the national TV took no more than 10 minutes to give us the news. Then the journalist turned to the grave events in Japan.

It was one of those rare moments when we felt that the world—viewed, in any case, through French eyes—might indeed be in dire straits, but some kind of basic humanitarian logic seemed to be prevailing. We now have to await tomorrow's meeting in Paris, in the hope of getting an idea of ways in which the Libyan situation might finally be handled.

The day my grandfather woke up in Australia

My grandfather Ernest Skyvington [1891-1985] once described to me his joy upon arriving in Sydney Harbour on the SS Marathon on Christmas Day 1908, where he was greeted by his London-born seafaring uncle William Mepham and his Australian-born wife Gertrude Driscoll, who lived at Rushcutters Bay.

The next day was important in 20th-century boxing history and, indeed, in world racial history, for Australian boxing enthusiasts would witness a match that had been unthinkable, in the Northern Hemisphere, up until that summer afternoon in Sydney. A black Texan, Jack Johnson [1878-1946], whose parents were former African slaves, would finally seize the world heavyweight championship from a white Canadian, Tommy Burns [1881-1955].

My grandfather, aged 17, spent the 26 December 1908 wandering around Rushcutters Bay, where he was impressed by the crowds who were gathering for the big match. He would tell me much later (with a hint of pride in his modest origins) that he obviously didn't have the necessary cash in his pocket to pay for a seat in the stadium.

Click the above image to see a panoramic photo—which I've only just just discovered—of the entire view of the Rushcutters Bay stadium on that famous afternoon.

Exactly 46 years later, my grandparents would take me to that same Sydney eastern-suburbs neighborhood to watch another great match: the Davis Cup tennis finals, described in my article of 27 December 2007 entitled Over half a century ago [display].

POST SCRIPTUM: A fascinating video summarizes the celebrated Johnson-Burns title fight of 1908 (which I recently heard described on French radio).



There's a terribly significant detail, which may or may not correspond to what we tend to imagine when we hear this story today. Finally, it was not the referee, but rather the Sydney police, in the 14th round, who intervened to halt this one-sided combat, which looked as if it might culminate in a fatal issue. But, before stepping in between the boxers, the police ordered the news filming to be stopped. Today, historians consider that the Sydney police had orders to do everything that they could to avoid the idea that the sporting archives might contain the terrible images of a black man hammering a white boxer to death. As you can see for yourselves in the video, the Sydney police did in fact succeed in this censuring mission.

Who will finally eliminate Gaddafi?

Nobody knows yet exactly how Obama intends to actually participate on the Libyan scene. The UN vote has clearly given the Franco-British coalition the green light for a military intervention in Libya, even though the resolution, worded in diploTalk, had to speak fuzzily of a "no-fly zone" in order to avoid scaring off certain necessary collaborators. To call a spade a spade, this language minimized the risk of a veto from Russia or China. But nobody knows, for the moment, exactly how and when the mad Libyan dictator will actually be wiped off the scene. The operation could be executed clinically, of course, by a single small bomb dropped on a bunker… but that would be an unfortunate way to end this drama. Ideally, the job should be performed on the ground by Libyans: that's to say, by the same citizens whose stolen productivity and resources were used by the dictator to purchase weapons that were then turned upon these innocent folk in a totally uncivilized and barbarian fashion.

The iconic European parliamentarian Daniel Cohn-Bendit (instigator of mai 68 in France) imagines that Gaddafi could either commit suicide, or "be suicided" by his compatriots. But those solutions, too, would be a pity.

Incidentally, Cohn-Bendit has just congratulated Nicolas Sarkozy on his handling of the Libyan affair.

The only decent way of dealing with Gaddafi is to lock him up and then judge him for crimes against humanity.

To my way of thinking, while preparing his defense, the ex-dictator might even be allowed to reside in a simple well-guarded tent.

BREAKING NEWS [Friday 15.45 France]: The rebel chief Khalifa Heftir has suggested that, if Gaddafi's ceasefire offer is genuine, then he should give himself up into the hands of Libyan rebels, rather than await his arrest by foreigners. Will the mad dictator be moved by that gentlemanly idea from one of his beloved compatriots? A French military blog has indicated that the aircraft carrier Charles de Gaulle will be leaving on Monday for Libya. Meanwhile, Italy seems to be edging towards the Franco-British coalition by evoking the likelihood of allowing her military bases to be used. Italy has also decided to close her embassy in Tripoli.

Tomorrow morning [Saturday], Sarkozy has convened a tripartite meeting in Paris, on the question of Libya, with David Cameron, probably Ban Ki-moon, and various European partners and representatives of the Arab League and the African Union. A question remains: Will anybody from the US be present in Paris?

UN resolution passes

The French foreign minister Alain Juppé was present in New York to support the UN Security Council's resolution designed to end Gaddafi's barbarity.

As planned, French and British aircraft are no doubt getting ready to take off in a vast protection operation aimed at implementing this resolution.

The mad dictator has threatened to react to the imposed protection operations by attacking both military and civilian targets in the Mediterranean. This is equivalent to declaring openly that he intends to get back to employing his old terrorist techniques. That kind of talk, these days, has become totally unacceptable, to say the least.

POST SCRIPTUM: Many French observers of the UN vote were shocked to see our European "partner" Germany abstaining. Incidentally, as an Australian, I would be thrilled if Mother Gillard were to authorize at least a single symbolic Australian fighter jet to fly over the Gaddafi stronghold, maybe to take a few photos, but I don't suspect she has enough imagination and courage for that. Meanwhile, Canada, Denmark, Norway and Poland have pledged their forthcoming air support in the skies of Libya. And [breaking news, a minute ago], Qatar has also announced that it will be participating.

BREAKING NEWS: The French air-defense frigate Forbin, which first went into service last year, has just arrived off the coast of Libya.

Its radar and combat system can detect and track enemy aircraft within a range of 400 km. Its ground-to-air Aster missiles can destroy multiple targets at a distance of up to 100 km. Meanwhile, the aircraft carrier Charles de Gaulle remains berthed at Toulon.

When the drummer drops the beat

I belong to a generation of jazz enthusiasts for whom a revolution took place when the Dave Brubeck Quartet produced their 1959 Time Out album. At that time, I went along to a Brubeck concert at the Stadium in Rushcutters Bay. Mesmerized by their complex rhythms, accentuated by the fabulous ethereal saxophone of Paul Desmond and the punchy bass strumming of Eugene Wright, I watched in amazement as their drummer Joe Morello drew a large white handkerchief from his coat pocket, in the middle of a piece, to wipe his sweating brow. Without losing a beat, he used the handkerchief as a drumstick for a second or so, nonchalantly, to the applause of the crowd. OK, it was a rehearsed gesture, but you needed to be Joe Morello to pull it off convincingly.

My description of that magic evening marked my first-ever momentary incursion into the world of creative writing, for the Honi Soit weekly of Sydney University. For the moment, I can't put my hand on that totally uninteresting document, but I promise to reproduce it here on my blog as soon as I find it. I've noticed, too, that there are web videos of this celebrated Brubeck excursion to the Antipodes.

We learn today that the maestro Morello has finally dropped the beat.



OK, Joe, take five...

Chicken pie

I consider this dish as a simple variation on the theme of meat pies, since it's inspired remotely by my adolescent gastronomical memories from Australia.

As you see, contrary to what I said recently in a comment to my reader Annie, jokingly, I do in fact keep stocks of canned peas… which are just right for this quick-good-food preparation.

The recipe is elementary. Throw a few bits of white chicken flesh into a small quantity of boiling water. After a few minutes, hang on to the greasy liquid while using a knife and fork to transform the cooked meat into shreds. Make an ordinary white sauce with melted butter, flour and cream. Take it momentarily off the heat source. Use the above-mentioned liquid to enlarge the volume of sauce, while placing the mixture back onto a lowered heat source and stirring continuously. Add the shredded chicken, followed by salt, pepper and Provençal herbs. Use this mixture to fill a traditional puff-pastry pie (with chimney). The surface, painted with egg and milk, was sprinkled with sesame seeds.

If ever you felt like serving up this dish with leeks or peas (maybe in an ambiance of authentic Breton music from Princess Nolwenn), make an effort to get the spelling right. Avoid the presence of pie-loving dogs.

Steve Irwin clone in Holland

A delightful detail in this story is the hero's name, Freek Vonk, which sounds great in English. Besides, this is the first time in my life that I've ever understood immediately a media heading written in Dutch (by four vowel substitutions): Steve Irwin is dood, lang leve Freek Vonk.

This Dutch guy—whose enthusiasm for reptiles and biting creatures is infectious—is in fact a serious biologist at the University of Leiden, and he hunts snakes to milk their venom, which he then uses in his research. You can find out all about him through his websites, here and here, which provided illustrations for the present blog post. Not surprisingly, Freek seems to spend a lot of time doing field work out in Australia.

His Irwin antics emerge in the following otherwise serious video:



Apparently, the proteins used by snakes to capture their prey are of great interest to researchers in genetics. A good introduction to this subject is provided here by the US scientist and writer Carl Zimmer.

POST SCRIPTUM: I'm happy to see that my Antipodes blog, as a consequence of the automatic Twitter announcement of the present post, is getting quite a few visits from the Netherlands. In watching Freek's video once again, with joy, I was suddenly reminded of a tone of voice that I had forgotten for half a century. In Sydney, when I was an adolescent (working as a computer programmer for IBM), there used to be a hardware store in George Street, not far from the town hall, called Knock & Kirby. They employed a wonderful English-born hawker who officiated in a sidewalk stand before his being transformed by his voice and talents into a TV celebrity. I forget his name, but I'll never forget his vocal marketing style. He sold vegetable-slicing gadgets in much the same way that Freek Vonk is now selling snakes. In fact, like yesterday's snake-oil charmers, exceptional individuals of this caliber succeed in using their voice to sell excitement and joy to us intrigued listeners. And what's wrong with that?

In the case of Freek Vonk, of course, there are three additional factors of a weighty nature. First, the guy is exceptionally bright and dynamic. You don't work at a doctorate at Leiden unless you know what you're talking about. Second, he's no ivory-tower academic, in that (like Steve Irwin) he knows how to communicate with us ordinary folk in the outside world, and expresses a desire to do so. And third, he seems to have mastered a spectacular real-time art of dancing out of the way of mortal bites from his friends. While touching wood, I wish him well. For Chrissake, man, don't go all the way by doing us an Irwin…

Extraordinary virus

In Israel, they breed 'em tough and smart. Alongside a hardy Sabra (Hebrew name of the Prickly Pear, used to designate Jews born in Israeli territory), even our legendary Queenslanders [display] can look like delicate choirboys. Take this fellow, for example:

His name is Gabi Ashkenazi, 57 years old, and he grew up in the agricultural settlement (moshav) of Hagor, on the inland edge of the Biblical plain of Sharon which extends from Tel Aviv up to Haifa, not far from Netanya. Since 2007, and up until a fortnight ago, Ashkenazi was the chief of Tsahal (Israel's defense forces).

When I dare to suggest that such a man is tough, I don't mean in a ruthless sense, like the disappearing dictators of the Mediterranean. Like many of Israel's great leaders, he has the mental toughness of a determined survivor. Ashkenazi appears to be endowed with intelligence and imagination, as well. And exceptional computer know-how.

It was only last summer, in July 2010, that the world first heard of a Windows computer worm called Stuxnet (which happens to be a meaningless name). Surprisingly, it didn't get into action in many countries. A month later, a few thousand cases had been detected in India, the USA and Australia, and twice that volume in Indonesia. But one victim, Iran, had affliction figures that were already measured in tens of thousands. Clearly, the worm was equipped with some kind of road map that encouraged it to attack Persia, above all.

And what did this software worm actually do? That's where the story becomes utterly amazing. Most folk imagine that computers linked to the Internet are used primarily to broadcast subtle and profound messages to the universe: Hey, you, gonna be my friend? But they can do much more than that. Many computers drive machines. So, if you can exploit the Internet to inject a worm into such computers, you can easily screw up the machines they're supposed to control. You only have to get a machine to operate, say, on fluctuating voltages, and it soon starts to cough and hiccup, and finally do certain crazy things. Sooner or later, because of such a worm (inside an Iranian factory, for example), everything can be forced to shut down. Well, I can't say much more about such technology, because I'm not smart enough to understand it. But it impresses me. There's nothing nicer than the idea of a worm in the works of an otherwise clever but obnoxious device.

Positive thinking

Whenever I think back to the pompous emptiness of the Anglican church environment in my native town of Grafton, a sad anecdote jumps into my mind. I've already alluded in this blog to a ridiculous book I was offered when I was about 13 years old: The Power of Positive Thinking by Norman Vincent Peale.

The man who gave me this book was a prominent Anglican clergyman, the Reverend Arthur Edward Warr, dean of the Anglican cathedral of Christ Church.

I can hear parishioners saying: "Well, that was nice of him, wasn't it!" My contention, retrospectively, is that it wasn't nice of him at all. In suggesting that I should read a best seller penned by an American snake-oil evangelist, published in 1952, Dean Warr (who knew me well, since I was a server in his church) was deliberately shirking his spiritual responsibilities as our pastor. He was acting lazily, saying to me (as it were): "I don't know what to say about Christianity to a local boy who appears to be more interested in science than in other pursuits. So, why don't you take a look at this."

The gist of the Peale book might be summed up tersely as follows: Ideally, Christian believers should be happy individuals, with an optimistic outlook on their personal existence. [Recall that, timewise, we were just a decade after Auschwitz and Hiroshima.] Now, the best way to become a contented and optimistic individual is to force yourself, through personal discipline, into "thinking positively" about every aspect of your life and your expectations. To put it bluntly, you should delude yourself by deliberately avoiding to recollect or cogitate upon anything of a harsh (negative) nature.

You don't have to be a profound thinker to realize that advice of that kind does not really belong to the traditional domains of science, philosophy or religion. It's what you might categorize as popular psychology, on a par with self-hypnosis. These days, many young people might even interpret this advice as a justification for the consumption of various kinds of "instant happiness drugs", from music, alcohol and hedonistic sex through to hard chemicals. Others, of a more introspective nature, might see it as an incitation to adopt Buddhism. Peale himself probably intended his "theology" as a good reason for dropping in on, and maybe donating cash to, the Marble Collegiate Church in Manhattan.

Since settling down in France, I'm annoyed most of all about this Yankee preacher and pop psychologist named Peale [May his soul rest in peace!] because I now know that he stole all his clunky theories from a notorious Frenchman: the pharmacist and quack therapist Émile Coué, generally considered today as the founder of a school of so-called autosuggestion. Everybody in France is accustomed to hearing of the celebrated "Coué method" of solving problems: Abracadabra! Simply force yourself to imagine that the problem no longer exists!

Must we therefore imagine that a worldly and cultivated American named Norman Vincent Peale, in the course of his peregrinations in the Old World, would have met up with the ideas of Coué, in French, and set about translating and expounding them into English? Don't be silly. A Yankee bumpkin like Peale wouldn't have known enough about Europe to protect his ass. It was Coué who got invited to the USA, where he was received personally by the president Calvin Coolidge. He presented his theories to enthusiastic crowds in New York and elsewhere… and it's quite possible that Peale heard summarily about his future spiritual guide, not in a lecture theater, but on radio or through newspaper cuttings.

In any case, today, I've lost interest (if ever I had any) in mesmerizing myself into believing in the remedies of the original inventor Coué, and certainly not in the Christian snake-oil variations of his Yankee imitator Peale. As for the clergyman Warr of my youth: Dear Dean, you might have been a little bit more inspired, as a spiritual mentor, back in Grafton in the '50s.

Hands up, or you'll die!

This news photo of a child being examined for radioactivity in the vicinity of Fukushima is poignant.

The child is too young to understand what it's all about, but the troubled expression on his face (his brow appears to be wrinkled) and the docility with which he is standing with his legs apart and holding his hands outstretched in the air indicate that he realizes that it's a no-joking situation. His big sister (?) in the background appears to be leaning forward as if to understand clearly what is being asked of her.

If all goes well, and these kids grow up to become normal young Japanese citizens—or, better still, future citizens of a new and more intelligent planet—their parents and teachers will tell them about 20th-century ancestors upon whom the night once descended.

And the adolescents will react: "Yes, we remember that terrible night… when we were kids."

Beautiful people of Brittany

Hordes of tourists visit France constantly. Many spend their time in places such as Paris, the Loire Valley and Provence. Some people, generally with kids, consider that the term "France" designates little more than a touristic package including the Eiffel Tower, Montmartre, the Champs Elysées and Disneyland, with remote exotic sites such as the Mont St-Michel thrown in for the adventurous. Certain visitors (probably not many) imagine that France is surely a romantic wonderland where determined explorers can find medieval knights in armor, incredibly beautiful long-haired princesses and Druidic magicians: a bit like corners of the British Isles, once upon a time, with the advantages (for visitors) of good weather and decent food.

My advice to visitors in this third category is to head directly to Brittany. In this north-western region of the territory controlled by the French Republic, a lot of excitement has been stirred up as a result of the recent discovery of a beautiful Celtic maiden known as Princess Nolwenn. It is said that she grew up in the dark woods of central Brittany, where she was raised by fairies, who fed her on berries and nectar. The beauty of her voice is said to calm ferocious beasts such as dragons and bunyips (which originated in Brittany before swimming to the Antipodes). Up until recently, Nolwenn spoke only a primitive form of a Gaelic dialect, but she's now getting along remarkably well in French. Here's a sample of Nolwenn chanting a French version of one of her childhood poems. The glorious princess is surrounded by her beautiful people from the Breton forests, some of whom are preparing peasant pie:



Breton nuns and priests are currently attempting—thank God—to persuade Princess Nolwenn to abandon her ancestral pagan beliefs and to accept Sarko's Savior.

POST SCRIPTUM: Over the last few weeks, I've noticed that videos picked up from YouTube (such as the above one) are proposed with iframe tags, which make it possible to use a simplified reference to the video source. I trust that the various browsers employed by readers of the Antipodes blog are all capable of recognizing these tags correctly, and that the videos in question get displayed optimally. A blog author often fails to realize whether something like this is, or isn't, the case.

Fitzroy art collector

I haven't had the courage to fill in Fitzroy's water hole yet, because he seems to like to take a sip there from time to time.

Judging from the muddy appearance, it's surely a more exotic beverage than the clean spring water that I offer Fitzroy in a glass bowl. There is now a network of half-a-dozen similar holes in the vicinity, and this means that I have to pay attention when I'm walking around there. For example, when I was gazing into my Nikon to take the following photo, I put one foot in this puddle and fell backwards onto my bottom.

These are typical specimens of the artistic objects that Fitzroy collects in the early hours of the morning and lays out all over the lawn. The pieces I picked up and placed on the table have forms that I too, like Fitzroy, found attractive. But they're a small proportion of his total collection in front of the house. Although he has access to a huge pile of sawn firewood behind the house, Fitzroy always prefers these natural wood forms—often fragments of fallen branches—that he finds on the outskirts of the house. Personally, I would say that he has good taste.

French quiche

This everyday French delicacy is known here as quiche lorraine, and this name is transposed into English (I'm told) as egg and bacon quiche. The term quiche (pronounced keesh) is derived from a German word for cake, and the adjective Lorraine designates a north-eastern region of France that shares a common border with Germany. This foodstuff, generally in the form of individual pies, is now sold in bakeries and pastry shops right throughout France, but the commercial product is rarely as tasty as the homemade dish… because the home chef normally uses generous quantities of superior-quality ingredients.

The recipe is quite simple. The bacon used in France is marketed, not in slices (as in English-speaking countries), but in the form of small cubes about a centimeter thick. They're fried for a few minutes, placed on the pastry, and then covered with a mixture of four eggs beaten with cream. Sprinkle grated emmental on top. I also decided to place chopped parsley and halves of miniature tomatoes on the surface. Cook slowly (about 25 minutes) in an oven at 180 degrees.

Asymmetrical faces

At first sight, you might—or might not—imagine that these are portraits of two sisters, who could well be twins (but surely not identical twins):

In fact, these two reconstructed images are based upon a unique original photo of a single individual whose facial features are rather asymmetrical. To form each image, one half of the woman's face has been copied and then combined with a mirror image of itself.

Click the double-portrait to access the website of the photographer, Julian Wolkenstein, who presents several samples of this technique. It's a pity (I feel) that he doesn't show us the original photos.

In reality, many ordinary-looking human faces turn out to be quite asymmetrical when examined closely.

La plume de Fitzroy

Everybody who has studied a little bit of French has heard of "la plume de ma tante" (my aunt's pen) which has been lying for countless generations of students "sur la table" (on the table). In fact, the word "plume" designates a feather. So, we must imagine that the aunt is an old-timer who still writes with a goose quill dipped in ink. And that trivial anecdote suggests that the teaching of French in the English-speaking world might be a little antiquated. Maybe it's time that French teachers got around to an example such as "l'ordinateur de ma copine est sur le bureau" (my girlfriend's computer is on the desk).

The word "plumes" designates (among countless other things) ostrich feathers adorning the backsides of female dancers at places such as the Lido and Folies Bergère.

In the second half of the 19th century, the French had the impression that "plumes" of the peacock adorned the backsides of strutting Prussian military commanders.

These days, I'm often under the illusion that my dog Fitzroy has a thick "plume" sprouting from his backside.

When you compare the tails of the two dogs, that of Fitzroy is indeed feathery, to say the least, and he often moves around with his curved tail held high in the air. (This is a behavior also adopted by Christine's dog Gamone, the daughter of Sophia, who is in certain ways a similar kind of friendly animal to Fitzroy). When Fitzroy drops his tail, it looks quite normal, because he's woolly all over in this cold season.

Contrary to what Christine and I might have imagined when we first met up with little Fitzroy as a pup, up in his Alpine abode, he is turning into quite a big animal.

In his head, though, Fitzroy remains a playful young dog, who rarely winds down. For me, it's a fascinating pleasure to have two canine companions of such totally different mentalities and behaviors. In fact, the two dogs seem to complement one another.

Apple devices that are beautiful to look at

Apple devices must be beautiful to look at… otherwise there's little point in designing and marketing them. Everybody is aware of that by now, even those skeptics who persist in sticking to antiquated tools, maybe because they're anguished by modernity. The two beautiful and interesting devices that I'm about to present are for different categories of users. The first one can be manipulated immediately by totally inexperienced beginners, maybe with a little help from friends. The second device, on the other hand, is quite sophisticated, and it can only be handled efficiently by individuals who have gone to the trouble of examining closely its operational principles.

I'm obliged to point out that neither of these two devices was accompanied by any kind of user manual, although I acquired a lot of basic guidance from this well-written little book (in French), full of interesting suggestions of all kinds, that I came upon—of all places—at the local supermarket. It was fun to play around with the two devices until I finally succeeded in mastering their concepts. But now that I'm more or less enlightened on their use and usefulness, I'm happy to have made that slight necessary effort. Besides, I have a weird inner feeling of having attained some kind of superior spiritual union with the designers and manufacturers of these devices, as if we were truly on the same wavelength and speaking the same language.

Apple shops in Provence surely stock this first device. I say that because mine was given to me as a gift by friends in Marseille who know I'm a crazy fan of products in this exciting domain.

Critics might say that this device is so simple that it appears to be a toy, and that it hardly deserves to be described as a high-tech tool. Apple products often provoke that kind of reaction, particularly from individuals who have never dared to try them out. You might be wondering about the actual use of this device. While insisting upon the fact that questions of that kind are excessive (often spiked with malice) and hardly worth asking, I will limit my explanations to pointing out that the only way to appreciate this device is to sit down of a wintry evening in front of a log fire, and let the red coals do the rest, transporting you into a marvelous new sensual world…particularly if you happen to be fond of charred fruit.

Apple devices of the second kind are, as I said, a quite different kettle of fish (if I can be pardoned for using an inappropriate metaphor).

A critic said that only a trained engineer could use this tool, and that only an untrained engineer could have designed it. To my mind, that's a blatant exaggeration. Even a skilled tradesman with experience in the assembly of agricultural machinery could no doubt figure out, after a while, how this device is to be put in action. As for the idea that an untrained engineer has designed this sophisticated tool, that's sheer rubbish. Not even a first-year apprentice attending a technical college with a view to obtaining a certificate as a machine operator in a factory would be sufficiently audacious, indeed rash enough, to imagine a machine such as this. Personally, I wouldn't be surprised to learn that the designer went mad while trying to get his device to function, and then he was probably removed in mysterious circumstances by the owner of the workshop that had agreed to manufacture the device. Or maybe they were both assassinated by an investment banker who saw his company's hopes mangled like mashed apples as a result of plans to build and market this device on the international scene.

But I can hear you all screaming out an obvious question: What's it supposed to actually do? Well, let's say that it's a processor. Apple specialists would call it a core processor… and the above photo reveals that this designation is perfectly correct. But it does much more than provide you with a core. It also makes a bloody mess… where the adjective applies literally if ever you were to place the fingers of one hand in the vicinity of the core while turning vigorously the handle with the other hand.

Incidentally, I should point out that the devices I've just described date from some time back, and it's quite possible that they've been replaced since then by more advanced models. In that case, if ever you happened to have the technical specifications of the latest versions of these devices, I would be most grateful if you were to refrain from going to the trouble of informing me. Apple products don't necessarily have to be replaced every time that new models are released. For the moment, I'm perfectly happy with the devices that I currently own.

APOLOGIES TO THE KIND PEOPLE WHO OFFERED ME THESE GIFTS: I've been joking, of course. Your gifts are proudly displayed in my house at Gamone, where they draw attention from puzzled visitors. If only I were young and seductive, I'm sure I could score in the village pubs and nightclubs with the line: "Why don't you come up to my place for a glass of cider, so I can show you my Apple devices..."

Daydreams of a solitary stroller

Soon after starting to work as an English teacher at the Lycée Henri IV in the Latin Quarter of Paris, I discovered this wonderful book by Jean-Jacques Rousseau [1712-1778]… whose tomb is located in the national sanctuary called the Panthéon, just opposite my lycée.

It might be considered anachronistic that the start of my life at the intellectual hub of the great city should coincide with my fascination for the rural daydreams of an 18th-century philosopher and musician from Geneva. In fact, it's only since my arrival here at Gamone that I've discovered—with a little surprise—that I've become a passionate solitary stroller of the Rousseau kind. And that discovery caused me to realize that my propensity for daydreaming while strolling around on the slopes was surely the outcome of a habit I first developed when I was a child, accompanying my father during our excursions to his bush property out at Deep Creek.

These days, I've had ample opportunities of noticing that younger people—particularly those who were born and bred here—rarely stroll. Even when deprived of their motor vehicles and obliged to move around on foot, they gallop from one spot to another, with no obvious passion for anything that might be termed daydreaming. Yesterday afternoon, for example, I met up with friends at Presles, and a group of seven of us spent half an hour pacing along a delightful circuit up behind my friends' newly-constructed chalet in the village. Frankly, it was annoying that I had to augment considerably my habitual strolling speed, and refrain from halting to admire anything whatsoever in the magnificent landscape, if I were to avoid getting out-distanced. And, back home at Gamone at the end of the day, I found that I had sore feet.

Funnily, some of these same friends expressed their astonishment that a newcomer such as myself had acquired an awareness of various aspects of the background of this region in which they had always been living. For example, they weren't aware of the international importance of the local laboratory mentioned in my article of 30 April 2008 entitled Source of the cheese industry [display], nor did they seem to know that the old-timers here were wine-makers for centuries before turning to the production of walnuts, or that there used to be three great medieval castles down in the valley. I felt like saying to my friends: If you're interested in delving into interesting tales of that kind, then you should first stop galloping, and take time to look around you.

Admittedly, other factors of a strictly personal kind are involved. Whenever I travel in a train or a bus, I would find it unthinkable to "waste my time" by sticking my nose into a book. The spectacle of a landscape (be it rural or urban) unfolding before my eyes, through the windows of a moving vehicle, has always been for me an immense visual pleasure. Even in a tram in Grenoble, I could never imagine myself reading a newspaper. I prefer to gaze at anything and everything in the world around me: not only interesting sites and attractive females, but even dull views whose interest resides in their very dullness. To my mind, failing to communicate constantly with the surroundings, even though my mode of communication might remain essentially passive, would be like getting invited to a dinner evening and asking my hosts if I could watch TV.

Peasant pie

This so-called peasant pie is a delicacy from the wooded Jura region of eastern France.

The basic ingredient is the celebrated sausage from the village of Morteau, to the east of Besançon, just alongside the Swiss border at the level of Neuchâtel.

These pure pork sausages are smoked slowly using resinous woods (pine, spruce and juniper), and this operation gives the sausage skins (natural pork gut) their amber color. As for the peasant pie recipe, it's remarkably simple (and there are no onions or liquid):

— roll of puff pastry
[Authentic peasants would have made their own pastry.]
— bottom layer of steamed potato and carrot slices
— middle layer of sliced sausage
— upper layer of cooked asparagus
[Peasants may have used leaks instead of asparagus.]
— topped (inside) with shredded Emmental cheese
— upper covering brush-daubed with mixture of egg yolk and milk

It goes without saying that many other kinds of cooked pork sausages might be used instead of the French Morteau variety. Don't forget the chimney in the middle of the pie. Best baked slowly (30 to 40 minutes) in an oven no hotter than 180 degrees. Eaten preferably in the presence of a genuine and admiring peasant's dog.

CONCLUSION: The only problem with my homemade pies at Gamone is that each one gives rise to several meals. I've never been courageous enough to test the possibility of deep-freezing dishes of this kind. Incidentally, I now know why the Good Lord invented big families, particularly in pious rural environments where food resources were meager and waste could not be tolerated. He did this in order to justify the preparation of king-sized peasant pies, which could be consumed at a single sitting.

REACTION FROM FITZROY'S FRIEND IN BRITTANY: I was surprised when Christine expressed her surprise that Fitzroy is absent from the first photo, as if I might be treating him harshly. I'm afraid that the idea of expecting Fitzroy to pose calmly for a photo alongside a dining-room table holding a peasant pie is unthinkable for the moment. Fitzroy is perfectly capable of scaling near-vertical rocky embankments. He does that regularly to inspect such things as the rustling of grass, or the movements of a lizard or a bird. So, the challenge of jumping up onto a table to devour a sweet-smelling peasant pie would be a quite simple and worthwhile affair for Fitzroy. When it's warm enough to sit outside for meals, I'll have to handle this educational problem.

Bicycle outing in Chile

Not only is the bicycle a pleasant, healthy and non-polluting way of moving around. It also enables you to travel quite rapidly from one place to another, often along unexpected pathways, as demonstrated by this video of a brief bicycle outing in Valparaiso, Chile.



Certain viewers might complain that such a cyclist has to pay so much attention to the road that he doesn't really have ample opportunities of admiring the scenery. You can't have everything...

Australian meat pies

My daughter and son have never forgotten their first day out in Sydney, when they were small kids. I bought three hot meat pies, and we sat down to eat them in a corner of the Royal Botanic Gardens. Since this would be the first time ever that my children were to taste this famous Australian delicacy, I warned them that the gravy inside the pies was quite hot. So, they must not be tempted to bite into their pies as if they were sandwiches, for they would burn their mouths. As a conscientious dad, I made sure that this message got through to my kids. And they attacked their pies expertly. As for me, I failed to heed my own warning. Biting into my own meat pie as if it were a lukewarm hamburger, I promptly yelled in pain as a stream of boiling gravy scalded my lips and splashed my shirt. Needless to say, my kids found the situation funny.

Yesterday, for the first time ever, I decided to prepare genuine Aussie meat pies (or almost) at Gamone, using ready-rolled pie pastry. It's remarkably easy. A packet of 400 g of beef mince enabled me to prepare enough mix for the equivalent of four individual pies, which I cooked in two sessions: yesterday, then this evening. My meat pies happened to be square, not round, since I baked them in a rectangular ovenware dish. Incidentally, that meant that I had to buy square pastry rather than the usual circular product.

I didn't worry too much about strict Aussie orthodoxy, in the sense that I did not incorporate Vegemite into the meat mix, and I didn't serve them up smothered in ketchup. My mix included chopped black olives and precooked French mushrooms, and there was no doubt a little more Italian olive oil than in standard Aussie pies. Needless to say, I used ample Worcestershire sauce both in the preparation of the meat mix (to dissolve the maize starch) and to accompany the cooked pies. The combination of olives and Worcestershire sauce gave my pies a distinctive flavor.

Incidentally, I found it necessary to erect a small parchment-paper chimney in the middle of the pastry, to prevent it from rising above the meat during the baking. I don't know how they solve this problem out in Australia when cooking standard-sized meat pies.

Problem still unsolved

At the end of my recent article entitled Hose running [display], I said that Fitzroy had been trying to figure out how to run around on the lawn with one end of a long hose in his mouth. Here's a photo I took early this morning.

Clearly, the problem hasn't been solved yet. I try in vain to imagine the turmoil in Fitzroy's brain when he discovers that, the more he runs rapidly around the young tree, the more the situation worsens. At no moment throughout the day has he decided to try to untangle the hose. Maybe my dear dog, realizing that the challenge is more arduous than what he had expected, has drifted into a state of frustration and discouragement. I don't think so. I certainly haven't noticed him acting like a despondent dog. But would he be hiding his despair in the depths of his soul? I hope I don't have to find him a psychoanalyst… unless, of course, I were to read up on this subject with the help of Wikipedia, and do the job myself. The problem, then, would be to get Fitzroy to lie down calmly on a couch while I analyze him. I could always put him on my knees, but he would fall asleep instantly, as he always does, which would prevent him from hearing my words of Freudian wisdom. So, we still have problems.

Man in stripes

Everybody agrees, I'm sure, that this gentleman looks great in stripes… particularly when we notice that the stripes are in fact composed of repetitions of his name: Hosni Mubarak.

Other men, in other places, at other times, have worn stripes.

One might imagine that everybody ends up wearing the stripes he deserves… but I don't necessarily agree with that simple way of looking at things. It all depends upon circumstances, and the forces for change. As we all know, neither tigers nor zebras can change their stripes… but I wouldn't be at all surprised if Mubarak's stripes were soon to be changed by force. For the moment, though, nobody can be quite sure of what these various Mediterranean dictators will be wearing next.

Remarkable ruins

In the special case of a great American city such as Detroit, which played a central role in the history of the automobile, it's fitting that urban vestiges should have the same stark forms as the rusty dislocated carcasses of antiquated limousines reposing in a junkyard, patiently awaiting their destruction.

The beauty of derelict sites in Detroit has been captured marvelously by two French photographers, Yves Marchand and Romain Meffre. To access several splendid specimens of their work, click the above image of William Livingstone's dilapidated house in the Brush Park neighborhood of the city (finally demolished in September 2007).

It is important to realize that most of this decrepitude dates from a long time ago, and had existed already long before the relatively recent slump when the Detroit Big Three (General Motors, Ford and Chrysler) were bowled over by Asian competition.

It was Mitterrand who gave the order

We learn today in a book by the French journalist Bruno Fay that, according to information from former French PM Michel Rocard, it was in fact the president François Mitterrand who ordered explicitly the destruction of the Rainbow Warrior in Auckland in 1985.

This revelation is likely to darken our memory of a great statesman whose heritage has already been somewhat stained by two or three items drawn from his past.

Investigation to be launched in Libya

The prosecutor Luis Moreno-Ocampo of the ICC [International Criminal Court] has just announced the opening of an investigation in Libya, which will concern Muammar al-Gaddafi, his sons, the minister of foreign affairs, Gaddafi's personal security chief, the chief of internal security in Libya, and other unnamed Libyan dignitaries. This UN tribunal—located at The Hague (Netherlands) and known in French as the CPI [Cour pénale internationale]—deals with cases of genocide, crimes against humanity and war crimes.

Gaddafi would be lucky, in a way, if he could be brought before such a court and examined in an almost gentlemanly fashion. But the chances are slim concerning the likelihood of such a civilized outcome. On the one hand, Libya has never signed, yet alone ratified, the Rome Statute upon which the ICC was founded. On the other hand, one must realize that Libya is, not so much a "normal" nation, but rather a collection of desert tribes. And, if Gaddafi were to lose his grip on the land, it's doubtful whether a majority of members of hostile communities would be happy to simply hand him over to a body such as the ICC.

Then said Jesus […]
all they that take the sword
shall perish with the sword.
-- Matthew 26:52

I've dropped my flag counter

It was amusing to see the number of nations whose citizens apparently visited my blog. At the end, the count had reached 171 countries. But I've never been particularly confident in the authenticity of all these visits, and I have the suspicion that certain visitors were dropping in merely to search for new flags to add to their personal collections. I've never bothered to look into how they actually go about this quest from a practical viewpoint, but I'm convinced that this business exists. So, I decided to drop my flag counter. In its place, I've reinstalled a simple site meter… just to be able to check, from time to time, that Antipodes still has readers.

Hose running

No, I'm not talking of running hoses, such as when you forget to turn a tap off in the garden. Hose running is a totally different affair. It's an outdoor occupation, a game… or indeed a sport. It's a straightforward activity, which consists essentially of grabbing a length of hose and running as fast as possible, and often in circles, while taking care not to let go of the piece of hose, or have it knocked out of your grip by an encounter with an obstacle. My dog Fitzroy (seen here from an upstairs window, in the middle of his untidy little universe of sticks and twigs) has become a top-class performer in this sport.

Sophia, on the contrary, has never been tempted to get involved in this sport. She looks upon hose running with disdain, considering that a dog has to be rather empty-headed to get a kick out of such a silly activity.

In fact, Sophia has never even bothered to take the first step for a future hose runner: acquiring the basic equipment, which consists of finding a hose and biting off an appropriate length for hose running. Fitzroy performed this task ages ago, not long after his arrival at Gamone, which means that he has now acquired some three or four months of solid experience in this sport.

Fitzroy is becoming competent in another occupation: pool construction. Maybe I should speak rather of making puddles.

The trick, here, is to do your digging at a spot where you've detected the presence of water. Fitzroy, who has always been particularly observant, noticed that there's a link in the hoses from the spring that allows a tiny quantity of water to escape. So, he calculated the ideal location of the excavation operations, which were carried out in the early hours of the morning. And the puddle was full a few hours later.

I now believe that Fitzroy's deep attachment to humans is permanently wired-in to the synapses between the neurons in his brain. Besides, I'm convinced that this wiring-in got under way right from the first instants of his encounter with Christine, who nursed him tenderly in her lap during a lengthy car trip from his birthplace in Risoul up through the Alps to Gamone. These days, of an evening, Fitzroy likes nothing better than to crawl up onto my knees when I'm seated in front of the fireplace, watching TV. The presence of the little woolly dog on my knees is warm and cuddly, and it's marvelous to see him fall asleep almost instantly, apparently in a state of serenity. But, with the weather about to warm up, it would be unwise of me to encourage this habit, because of the possible presence in Fitzroy's fur of ticks and fleas, both of which can cause terrible afflictions in humans. So, sadly, I'll have to draw a line that limits our cuddly proximity. There's another risk in these fireside sessions with Fitzroy half-asleep on my knees. Periodically, he decides to adjust his position, and this can result in his lashing out drowsily with his paws to get a grip on the surroundings, which can be my face and neck. So, I really must cease behaving like one of Fitzroy's favorite dogs, and leave that role solely to Sophia.

BREAKING NEWS: Even an experienced hose runner can encounter problems when new sporting equipment is being tested on inappropriate grounds.

In fact, when I first dashed for my camera, the hose was wound several times around the tree. In the time it took me to get my camera ready, Fitzroy had already started to solve the problem. And half a minute later, the hose was completely free. But Fitzroy has apparently sensed that something's wrong with this king-sized equipment because, for the moment, he has abandoned the hose on the lawn.

More precisely, although he's completely soaked by the light rain that has been falling all day (resulting in insufficient light for me to take acceptable photos), Fitzroy seems to be deciding what to do next.

Belief in an afterlife is a substitute for wisdom

I've just been watching an interesting video of a debate on a Jewish TV network on the subject of an alleged afterlife. The celebrated atheists Christopher Hitchens and Sam Harris converse with two US rabbis, David Wolpe and Bradley Artson Shavit.

[Click the portraits to access the video.]

Not surprisingly, within the group of four, the star was Hitchens. He really is a brilliant thinker and speaker. As for the rabbis, they come across as friendly guys, and far removed from familiar caricatures of crazed and biased religious fanatics. But their superficial friendliness doesn't make them one iota more credible at the level of their beliefs.

I've always felt that the historical and cultural foundations of Judaism (which have always interested me enormously, and still do) are so rich and dense that it must be difficult—well nigh impossible—to ditch them overboard, even in the name of common sense and/or science. For a goy (such as me), on the other hand, brought up in a typical Christian environment, it's much easier to rid oneself of all religious beliefs, mainly because many of the fairy-tale tenets of Christian theology (virgin birth, miracles, resurrection, Heaven and Hell, etc) are frankly ridiculous, and much of Christian ecclesiastic history (handling heretics, conflicts with non-Christians, crusades against infidels, immorality of the clergy, pomp and vanity of the Catholic church, conflicts between different branches of Christianity, sects, etc) is quite nasty, and best forgotten. A Jew who turns to atheism might say to himself: "Am I committing an irreparable error is abandoning my great family?" A Christian, devoid of nostalgia, is likely to exclaim: "Thank God I've been able to move away, at last, from that ugly mindless herd!"

Ideal bread recipe

People who make their own bread at home often find that it's not easy to create a standard product, whose quality never varies. Some people find that the inevitable variations from one session to another are actually part of the fun, and they deliberately experiment all the time. As far as my personal activities in this domain are concerned, after screwing up completely a recent bread-baking session [display], I have the impression that yesterday's trial session has enabled me finally to hit upon an ideal recipe. And, exceptionally, it doesn't even include my usual walnuts… which is a sin of omission, here at Gamone, that might be considered a bread-making equivalent of blasphemy. Here's what my ideal loaf looks like (after having been tasted abundantly by me, Sophia and Fitzroy):

I'm noting down the recipe here so that I'll be able to come back to it, if need be.

— Pour a third of a liter of cold water into the bowl of the bread machine.

— Add a teaspoon of salt.

— Add a tablespoon of olive oil.

— Add a tablespoon of poppy seeds.

— Add 450 g of white flour.

— Add 300 g of whole-wheat flour.

— Add a packet of yeast.

Select the program for whole-wheat bread, which takes about 4 hours (starting with a warm-up period of half-an-hour).

For the moment, the upper crust of the baked loaf tends to be lumpy, and the lumps often become detached when the loaf is sliced. Maybe there's a way of getting this surface to be more regular.