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Sundries

Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrel:
I try to avoid any book that I see people reading on the train. It's not so much a stance against popular culture as it is an egomaniacal need to feel above whatever it is others are interested in (I should probably take this up with a therapist sometime). When Susanna Clark's massive tome made its US debut, dozens of readers lugged it around for months. I wrote it off as an extension of the Harry Potter phenomenon and thought nothing more of it. A pity, really, as now that I'm lugging the book around myself, I find it quite engaging. With lots of characters, side-stores and footnotes (that go on for pages) Clark has crafted a pleasant world to get lost in.

A Young Adult Novel that I Cannot Mention:
A dear friend just signed a two book deal with a respected publisher. I was honered to read the first draft and offered lots of suggestions and notes. Fortunately, the book really is good. There's nothing worse than having to tell a friend that their book, band, artwork, poetry, or similar expression is . . . really great! No, really, you're totally talented!

I've been in that position more than once. It's hard to maintain a pleasant countenance when, deep down, you feel rather nauseous about the whole thing. This experience was pleasantly different. I'll plug it when it's actually in book stores. For now, I've been sworn to secrecy.

Chris Thomas King
In college, I spent countless hours listening to old, scratchy recordings of blues and folk music. I'd scores of albums, many of them from the amazing Smithsonian Folkways catalog. Sadly, in the days before albums were easily ripped to hard drive, I sold the entirety of my collection to (a very happy) used record store. I needed the cash to support an incredibly stupid relationship. Chris Thomas King, with his extraordinary rendition of the classics, has reunited me with the music that once meant so much to me. I've more or less forgotten about the girl.

His Name is Alive
Fuzzy, geek-synth, electronica from Michigan. With sexy vocals. I downloaded Detrola the other day but have yet to listen to it extensively. I think it's good, but it requires a certain situation (and headphones) to be properly appreciated.

Information Aesthetics
I've been on the job interview circuit for the last couple of months. In countless conversations I'm asked "What sites to you read regularly? Where do you draw inspiration?" The answer, inevitably, is Information Aesthetics. It's the sort of site that looks great to prospective employers and has the benefit of actually being a source of great inspiration.

Journal

Thursday, June 22

THE MAYPOLE
I’ve only a few moments to write as I’m slightly tipsy (my state of being for the vast majority of my travels) and need a bit of sleep tonight. Tomorrow brings two Midsummer celebrations here in Stockholm. The first will be attended primarily by young children and old people - a bit boring, I suppose, but I’m looking forward to it. Only the most hard hearted can resist cute kids jumping around in the grass while their great grandparents play an accordian.

The second party promises to be a bit truer to this ancient fertility rite. There will be much drink, and I’ve been told to expect naked swimming in a cold, Swedish lake.

The day is a bit like New Year’s Eve and the Fourth of July combined into a single, excessive experience. It’s about rebirth and renewal. To be crass (but far more accurate), it’s about fucking. The Maypole is a massive cock impregnating the earth. Who knew Swedes could be so utterly pornographic?

Wednesday, June 21

IN STOCKHOLM
This city feels like home. Though they’re somewhat distant relations, I have family here. Returning to Stockholm seems comfortable and natural.

My hotel, however, feels a bit artificial. It’s impossibly cool. The furniture is clean and modern, the bathroom fixtures are clever, and the bar out front is packed with people so beautiful I have to look away from time to time. Not the sort of place I usually meet my parents, aunt and 15 year old cousin. It’s a nice place to hang out, but not exactly conducive to family - which is what I came here for.

Tomorrow my 81 year old adopted grandfather (I decided to adopt him just moments ago - technically he’s my father’s cousin’s husband, whatever that is) will be showing me around the museums and cultural landmarks of the city. Though he speaks slowly and with a slight slur, his english is precise and elegant. The man is an incredible font of knowledge. He simply knows everything about everything and has traveled everywhere. I look forward to spending a few hours with him.

After what I’m certain will be a profoundly enlightening experience, I plan to drown it all with a night on the town with my cousin (who is technicaly my father’s cousin’s grandson). While not the pulsing, glowing city that Paris is, Stockholm offers a sophisticated nightlife. Everything from expensive champagne bars to nightclubs that require proper, leather based attire for entry (I suspect we can find a happy medium).

On Friday I’ll be joining a small villiage for a day long Midsommar festival. There will be much drink, dancing, and my first experience with a Maypole. Rooted in ancient pagan traditions, and set amongst a forest of pine and birch it promises a scene straight from the Rite of Spring. I’ll be there with a glass proffered and my cameras at the ready.

Tuesday, June 20

BANDWIDTH
There comes a point where travel writing breaks down. The level of experince overwhelms the potential for comtemplation. There simply isn’t enough mental bandwitdh. This is especially true when one struggles with a keyboard at 2 AM.

DOISNEAU
This afternoon, by way of friends of newly made friends, I had a private tour of Robert Doisneau’s photography studio. He is, with the possible exception of Cartier-Bresson, the most important photographer France has ever produced.

In a small apartment just outside Paris, Doisneau’s daughter Annette manages his estate and is in the process of cataloging thousands of negatives and prints. Crates of framed images awaiting exhibition crowd the floor and the shelves are lined with carefully labled boxes. Though Doisneau has been gone for more than 10 years, the studio still oozes creativity. You can feel that an artist once lived there.

I sheepishly snapped a few photos; it seemed disrespectful, but Annette encouraged me. I’ve no doubt that they’ll look terrible - poorly framed shots of a darkroom timer and drawers of negatives captured at an odd angle. I was more comfortable simply absorbing the environment. For an amateur photographer, it was a profoundly inspiring experience. I’ve no delusions of grandeur, but I’m now certain that I’ll be shooting black and white film for the rest of my life.

I left bearing gifts of photography books and a massive collection of postcards. Rarely have I met somone as generous and caring as Annette Doisneau.

THE GUIDE
It’s hard to say goodbye. I’ve had a better time in France than I imagined possible. I leave with incredible memories and a new and very close friend. Tomorrow morning (later today, to be more precise) it’s off to Stockholm.

Monday, June 19

THE LONG WALK
So the wedding was beautiful. Set against an ancient castle in the countryside, it’d be hard for it to be anything else. More on this later…

After the reception, it was decided that walking the 5 kilometers back to Beaune would be an excellent idea. Sadly, only three brave souls were drunk enough to be up for it. I was, of course, among them.

5k on a pleasant day isn’t difficult, but it becomes a bit more challenging when one is in dress shoes and wobbly with drink. Still, the effort was entirely worthwhile. I wandered into a vast vinyard, looked up at the stars and had the most glorious piss of my life. Could there be a better memory of France?

AN EVERYDAY PARISIAN
I’ve no particular interest in visiting the Eiffel Tower or similar Paris standards. I got all of that out of the way during a day trip a couple of years ago. Riding the busses and trains through neighborhoods where people actually live is where it’s at.

My new friend and tourguide Solenne has graciously shown me around the less traveled (at least by tourists) areas of the city. I write this from a small copy shop in Minimartin (I’m almost certainly misspelling that) while she finishes practicing with her band.

I’ve no idea where we’ll be off to next, and I don’t really care. When visiting a new and unfamiliar place even the most mundane activities become adventures.