Recent Posts:

Mark Zero's books on Goodreads
Blood & Chocolate Blood & Chocolate
reviews: 2
ratings: 19 (avg rating 3.74)

Give the Drummer Some Give the Drummer Some
reviews: 5
ratings: 9 (avg rating 4.11)

The French Art of Stealing The French Art of Stealing
ratings: 6 (avg rating 4.50)

The Scarlet Dove The Scarlet Dove
reviews: 1
ratings: 2 (avg rating 5.00)

Need the Feed? (RSS)

1080343 visits.

Archive for October, 2011

Bedtime Stories for Adults

Sunday, October 30, 2011 @ 08:10 PM  posted by Mark

This video is from a nightly television series called Voyage au Bout de la Nuit (Journey to the End of the Night), in which beautiful women and handsome men read classics of French literature as bedtime stories for insomniacs. This episode features actress Louise Pasteau reading from a collection of love letters exchanged by playwright Beaumarchais (Barber of Seville, Marriage of Figaro) and the love of his life, Amélie Houret de La Morinaie, in the late 18th century.

YouTube Preview Image

No Money, Please, We’re a Bank

Saturday, October 29, 2011 @ 02:10 AM  posted by Mark

After passing through a gauntlet of sliding glass bulletproof security doors, code-locked elevators, and skeptical personnel at Crédit Agricole yesterday, I had a lovely meeting with a woman I’ll call Manon, to establish a French bank account. Manon’s rather plain, bare office came as a surprise, considering the formidable infrastructure guarding it. In fact, all of the offices on her floor sported drab indoor/outdoor gray carpeting, with a kind of low-rent Swedish aesthetic and no prints or paintings on the walls. It could have been the corporate headquarters of a paper clip manufacturing concern. Even more surprising, there were no vaults, locked filing cabinets or safe deposit boxes in sight, nothing at all of apparent value to warrant the Get Smart security. I asked Manon about it.

“It’s not all that secure.” She shrugged. “You just have to know which buttons to press and which codes to enter.”

I filled out five different sets of forms, each about half an inch thick. Most of them were more or less identical but contained overlapping rather than exactly duplicated information. Each packet wanted such basic pieces of information as my name, place of birth, residence and income with slightly different proofs (IRS 1040, bank statements, utility bills, passport, etc.). One set was for Crédit Agricole, one for the Bank of France, one for the European Central Bank, one for the French Ministry of Economy, Industry and Employment, and one for a guy named Guillaume, who waited outside the office for it and then ran down to the street, where I saw him race away on a black Vespa. I think he was taking the application to Sarkozy. Finally, after all the forms had been signed, I signed another form stating that I had signed all the other ones.

“Why don’t I have to sign another form stating that I signed the form stating that I signed all the other forms?”

Manon thought about it. “You know, I should suggest that to the people upstairs.” She jotted a note to herself.

Finally, I produced the few hundred euros in cash I had brought to open the account, as a stopgap until I had the appropriate routing numbers to make a wire transfer from the States.

“Oh, no, I’m sorry, Monsieur,” Manon said. “We don’t handle money. You’ll have to go to a different branch.”

“Why all the security, then, if there’s no money in this building?”

“Well, we’re a bank!”

I followed her back through the locked and coded sliding glass door in front of the elevators, the security coded elevator door itself, the locked and coded turnstile, the security guard at the front gate, and the locked and coded secondary entrance, before finally opening the main door and emerging on the street, holding exactly as much cash as I’d had when I’d arrived. Why did I need a bank account again?

Oh, yeah, because the ticket vending machine at the Goncourt metro station wouldn’t accept either my euro coins or my American visa card, and I had to jump the turnstile. Now I have a French visa card, so I can buy such everyday items as metro tickets wherever I go; all that’s left is to find a bank branch that will accept my money.

Making Poetry on the Way

Thursday, October 27, 2011 @ 03:10 AM  posted by Mark

It’s my first day back in Paris after nearly two years away, and I still feel like a rag doll after the long trip, so for now I will simply affirm the truth of the rather common observation that a bad Parisian croissant is still a good croissant. Apropos of which:

Playwright and music video director Melissa Vicaut

My friend Melissa dropped by this morning to welcome me and bring me pastries. The croissants were burnt on the outside and doughy on the inside, but that’s not the important thing; the important thing was the massive amount of butter in them. No complaints. Melissa’s new play is in rehearsals now, and she invited me to a preview performance this Sunday. Before she left for the theater, we stood at my window and took a gander downtown:

View from my apartment toward Notre Dame

I told her I had an appointment in the 12th arrondissement later that afternoon to open an account at Crédit Agricole and asked how long she thought it would take to walk there. “It depends,” she said. “If you’re making up poetry along the way, allow half an hour.”

I’ll plan on forty minutes. I’ve never been good at writing verse.

The Forgotten Peninsula: Baja California

Wednesday, October 26, 2011 @ 11:10 PM  posted by Mark

Baja California, Mexico, a thousand-mile desert peninsula pointing southeast from California like a withered finger, boasts a political past as rich and strange as its interior territory is desolate. Despite its formidable terrain, harsh climate, and nearly barren soil, Baja has been conquered and re-conquered by the Spanish, Americans, and Mexicans, claimed by corporate-sponsored guerrilla privateers from the United States, and annexed by anarchist revolutionaries from Mexico’s mainland. All of its conquerers eventually gave it up for lost except the Mexicans, who, like inattentive dinner guests stuck with the check, got saddled with Baja when everybody else excused themselves and never came back.

Though the Mexican government recently completed the paved two-lane Benito-Juarez Highway, linking the northern and southern sections of the peninsula, Baja remains in large measure an isolated outpost, a struggling desert frontier, a less fortunate stepsister to Northern California’s Cinderella.

“Of poor shrubs, useless thorn bushes and bare rocks, of piles of stone and sand without water or wood, of a handful of people who, besides their physical shape and ability to think, have nothing to distinguish them from animals, what shall or what can I report?” —Father Johann Jakob Baegert, Priest of the Society of Jesus, in a 1772 report about Baja.

With Father Baegert’s admonition in mind, I set out for Baja California. Early one January morning, I rode south out of Los Angeles on Interstate-5 to San Diego.

The San Diego-Tijuana border crossing, even though it’s the most popular one, should be avoided at all costs, unless you want to participate in one of Tijuana’s tourist or “sin” industries. Driving in Tijuana is like materializing into a 1975 driver’s education film that keeps jumping off the school projector’s sprockets. The often-unmarked streets are difficult to navigate, and, around the border crossing, the streets are usually too congested to navigate at all.

As a vastly better alternative, take California Highway 94 east, about forty miles, to the Mexican town of Tecate. Beyond being an easier crossing, the road itself is a thousand times more interesting than the jammed parking lot-thoroughfares of San Diego and Tijuana. California 94 is a rural route made for cycling: it loops and dives through the northwestern foothills of the Sierra de Juarez Mountains, where horse ranches nestle into deep mesquite groves and the road finds and follows one black mossy stream after another. Every few hundred feet you encounter an unexpected switchback or an oblique S-curve hidden behind the overhanging branches of a manzanita or an oak tree, and the sheer suppleness and surprise of the curves makes for a magnificent ride. The profuse gray-green chaparral vegetation and the thoroughbred horses trotting to and fro behind white board fences contrast so starkly with the endless pavement of San Diego that you feel as if you’ve entered an entirely different world.

After forty miles of bobbing, banking and weaving along 94, I turned off onto Highway 188 into Tecate, pleasantly exhausted from the abundant twists and turns. The border was practically deserted when I crossed, and the crossing itself was merely a formality (neither the Mexican nor the American border patrols bother themselves much with motorcyclists). Be advised that you’ll need Mexican auto insurance and tourist cards if you’re going to travel south of Ensenada, or if you plan to stay longer than 48 hours, but these documents can usually be acquired at the border with little difficulty. Note also that motorcycle permits are different for Baja than for the mainland Mexican states, so it’s important to call a Mexican consulate ahead of time if you have any concerns (though Baja’s requirements tend to be lax compared to the mainland’s).

“The Spaniards thought they would find rich gold and silver veins in [Baja] California, as well as rich and productive soil.  Since they found neither and were forced to live off the provisions they had brought along on their ships, all of them soon lost courage and turned back.” — Father Baegert

I crossed into Tecate at just after noon and decided to stop at a cafe for some lunch and a bottle of the town’s namesake beer. Tecate produces both Carta Blanca and Tecate beers, at the encouraging rate of 1200 cans per minute from the Cerveceria Cuauhtemoc-Moctezuma, the town’s biggest building. This brewery flourished as a whiskey mill during American prohibition and then was converted to beer production when prohibition was repealed, after which it promptly went bankrupt and had to be rescued by the Mexican government.

The brewery offers daily tours (with complimentary beer tastings) starting at 10 am, but you need a group of at least 10 people before the brewery officials will open their doors. If you’re determined to go but can’t afford an entourage of 9 other people, you can just show up in the morning and try to look like you belong to a group that already has reservations (people in Baja tend not to be sticklers). Failing that, you could get drunk, punch the SAP function on your tv, and watch the opening credit sequence to “Laverne and Shirley” fifteen times in a row, and you’d get the general idea.

I sat down to lunch in Tecate at La Escondida Restaurant, just a block off of the town’s central plaza, Parque Hidalgo.  Parque Hidalgo, a town square in the old Spanish colonial tradition, was once the site of an anarchist revolution. In 1911, during the general upheaval in Mexico that deposed the despotic government of Porfirio Diaz, an anarchist named Ricardo Flores Magon directed a small band of foreign mercenaries and armed Mexican intellectuals to march on Tecate (notably, Flores Magon himself didn’t participate, but simply engineered the proceedings from the United States). The “Magonistas,” as the anarchists were called, took the town without a fight and raised the red Liberal Party flag over Parque Hidalgo. The Magonistas then pushed west to Tijuana, where they took over that city, again without a fight, and declared it the capital of the independent “Republic of Baja California Sur,” while curious American spectators looked on from the San Diego side of the border. Flores Magon arrived in Tijuana in person shortly after the victory and began setting up a provisional government for his new country. Unfortunately for him, most of his troops then left, as they were foreign mercenaries who had no interest in Mexican politics as such. When the Mexican Army got wind of this insurrection six weeks later, they marched north to combat it, but found no Magonistas other than Flores Magon himself and a few of his bohemian friends. Flores Magon fled and the anarchist government folded, thus ending the world’s shortest-lived revolution outside of a Bugs Bunny cartoon.

After a few carne asada tacos and a Tecate beer at La Escondida, I was ready to hit the rode again. I suppose I should mention that my eventual destination was the fishing village of San Quentin, about 120 miles south of Ensenada, although my selection of that goal contained about as much forethought as Ricardo Flores Magon’s anarchist revolution had. Mostly, I just liked the sound of the name:  San Quentin.

Say it out loud. San Quentin. See? That’s how decisions are made in Baja.

From Tecate, the only highway south is Mexican Highway 3, which links up with the Benito-Juarez Highway (Mexican 1) at the village of El Sauzal, just above Ensenada. The distance from Tecate to Ensenada is about eighty miles, which I figured to cover fairly easily in the afternoon. This turned out to be wishful thinking.

The Sierra de Jaurez Mountains around Tecate reach a height of 4500 feet, and Mexican Highway 3 traces a torturous graded route through this range down to the Pacific Ocean. Conceivably, this road could be as fun as its sister road to the north; instead, Mexican 3 is California 94’s doppelganger, its murderous twin: Mexican 3 is barely wide enough to accommodate two cars side by side, much less the caravans of freight trucks and buses that barrel around its curves at precarious speeds. There has been no grading of the mountainsides at all except beneath the asphalt itself, so that the lip of the road is also frequently the edge of a canyon or the beginning of a steep slope into a desert valley below. And even this wouldn’t be so bad if the road weren’t strewn with rocks and pocked with helmet-sized potholes. Although the views of the rugged mountains and, toward El Sauzal, the panoramic vistas of the Pacific Ocean are breathtaking, it’s nearly impossible to enjoy them since you’re constantly preoccupied with the oncoming transport trucks taking up half your lane, the craters in the asphalt right at the edge of the canyon you’re about to daredevil into, and the snakiness of the route itself, which, unlike its benign and entertaining northern counterpart, here seems plainly malevolent. To make matters worse, on the afternoon that I happened to be tooling down Mexican 3, a bank of deep black clouds had formed over the Pacific and had started moving inland to meet me, which it did just outside of the village of Sordo Muda.

The rain fell in spits and splutters, a cold winter rain whose frosty accompanying wind found its way under the sleeves of my jacket and down my neck and beneath my helmet. Combined with the truck traffic and my general fatigue from the day’s ride, the rain tempted me to stop, but I simply couldn’t find any lodging around Sordo Muda, so I pressed on. The rain continued just long enough to slick up the oil in the road, but even as the brief shower relented, the black clouds continued to press lower overhead, and the sun hid behind them. It was growing colder by the minute, and by the time I reached Guadalupe, about fifty miles south of Tecate, it was time to stop, dry out somewhat, and get a second wind for the remaining thirty miles into Ensenada.

Guadalupe is a tiny farming village which contains the ruins of the Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe mission church. Almost nothing is left of the mission, which is notable for being the last Spanish mission church built in the new world, in 1834. The mission was destroyed in an indian uprising just six years after it was built.  Guadalupe is also distinguished by its population of Russians. In 1906, Pofirio Diaz granted permission to a group of about 350 people from what is now eastern Turkey to live in Guadalupe. These Russians, who had fled the repression of the Czar and hoped to improve their lot in Baja, established a poor farming community and gradually intermarried with the locals. Their history is commemorated in the Museo Comunitario de Guadalupe, where you’ll find artifacts like samovars, clothing, and old photographs, along with turn-of-the-century farm implements.

After wandering around town long enough to regain my composure, I was ready once again for the carnival stunt driving of the Mexican 3. It was almost four o’clock, and I realized that I’d have to punch up my dawdling pace if I expected to make Ensenada by nightfall.

The wind was kicking up and storm clouds still loomed above the road, and the inclimate weather had slowed traffic. Just outside of El Sauzal, Highway 3 begins plunging rather steeply toward the sea, through deep mountain gorges whose walls completely block out the sun. Between the gulchy terrain and the storm clouds and the rapidly approaching evening, I soon found myself riding in near-darkness, and it became increasingly clear that not only was I not going to make it to Ensenada that evening, but I might not even reach Highway 1. A rutted, pock-marked canyon highway, slicked by rain, with no banks or guard rails, dominated by massive trucks whose drivers would sooner submit to police questioning than stay in their own lane, is not a road you want to risk after dark. I started looking for likely stopovers.

There were none. Every couple of miles or so along Highway 3, you’ll find a strip of rickety buildings masquerading as a village, usually containing a poorly-stocked market and a couple of shacks, but almost never a gas station or lodging. As the sun sank, I felt as if I’d entered a worm hole of accelerating time: the sixty miles from Tecate had taken longer than any two hundred miles I’d ever ridden.  I was utterly exhausted from the ride, and I finally decided to throw in the towel.

I pulled off of the highway onto an unpaved road, bumped and slithered and fish-tailed half a mile away from traffic, and pitched my tent in a fallow field. Luckily, I managed to heat and eat my Ramen noodles before the rains came.

“On one occasion, I had to spend three consecutive nights in the field.  Because of a particularly bad stretch of way that I did not care to traverse in the dark, I had not been able to reach my house…”— Father Baegert

* * *

The night passed uneventfully (unless you consider sleep deprivation an event), and in the morning, I finished my trek out of the mountains to El Sauzal, the Pacific Ocean and the Benito-Juarez Highway (Transpeninsular 1).

The most important thing you should know about the Benito-Juarez Highway is that, around population centers (about every ten miles or so), you’ll encounter a series of completely unmarked speed bumps about half again as high as the speed bumps in your local supermarket parking lot. Realize: you’re cruising along at highway speed and suddenly, there in the road in front of you, is an unpainted hump of asphalt. You only have to get airborne by surprise once to learn to moderate your speed and adjust your Dick Tracy Ultra-Vision Goggles toward the road’s surface.

North of Ensenada, Highway 1 clings precariously to the coastal mountains, sometimes seeming to dip almost into the ocean itself, but as you enter Ensenada, the road widens and moves inland toward the city center. Ensenada is a smaller, grayer version of Tijuana with a population of about 250,000 and the largest ratio of mariachis to pedestrians in the western world. It is Baja’s third-largest city, a seaport that provides commercial shipping for the huge ranches and farms to the south and east, and it’s also a major tourist destination for gringos from Southern California. From 1882 to 1915 Ensenada served as Baja California’s territorial capital, and it played a part in two of the futile revolutions that have regularly visited the peninsula.

After the Mexican-American War concluded in 1850, a contingent of American industrialists argued that the United States settled for too little in the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, that we should have annexed Baja California along with Alta California and the rest of Mexico’s northernmost possessions. In 1853, William Walker, a pro-slavery adventurer, led an army of mercenaries into Baja in order to claim it as an independent state and open it up to exploitation by American business interests. Walker sailed south with his army to La Paz, which he overran; he then declared himself head of the new “Republic of Sonora and Lower California.” When the Mexican Army appeared, he fled with his troops to Ensenada and then declared that the new capital, before attempting to fight his way across the peninsula to Sonora. Failing that, he then escaped overland to the United States. Sixty years later, Ensenada would again be taken by revolutionaries, this time the Magonistas, who would repeat Walker’s spectacular failure.

Today, the most popular attraction in Ensenada, a giant ocean blowhole called La Bufadora, gives you an idea of the character of the region as a whole. Out on a craggy point, off of a road marked by glaring signs from the Benito-Juarez Highway, La Bufadora is a v-shaped rock crevice through which the incoming tide forces minor explosions of ocean water and foam. This is a slightly more violent version of the “tidal waves” you made by scooting back and forth in the bathtub when you were six. La Bufadora is surrounded by taco stands and touristy souvenir booths, in case you’d like to commemorate your visit to this heroic hole with a t-shirt.

“Of all places we have touched since our departure from England, [Baja] California is least capable of supporting its inhabitants.” — Woodes Rogers, English sea captain, 1710

South of Ensenada, the Benito-Juarez Highway peels a little inland and runs through mile after mile of farmland, mostly tomatoes grown for winter sale to the frostbitten northern cities of America. The farms survive solely on irrigation and pesticides, since the lack of sufficient rainwater prevents sustained natural cultivation in Baja: the unnatural, irrigated lushness of the vegetation here attracts desert critters in swarms.

The 120 miles from Ensenada south to San Quentin are largely uneventful, which I took as a great relief. Traffic fluctuates maddeningly between open throttle and school-zone speeds, and the pattern of small towns with speed bumps every ten miles continues, but compared to the disquietingly adventurous slowness of Mexican Highway 3, the oscillating pace seems almost agreeable. Whereas it had taken me all afternoon to travel the sixty miles from Tecate to an empty field the day before, it took just under three hours to make it from Ensenada to San Quentin.

San Quintin is primarily a fishing port, but it has gained increasing prominence recently as the center of the agricultural region of the Plain of San Quentin. Its official population is 20,000, though this figure includes a variable population of migrant workers, and there were nowhere near that many people in town when I passed through. It’s more than a village, however, with several adobe hotels, a fair selection of restaurants, pristine beaches and prime clamming spots. Notable among the hotels is a bed and breakfast called Rancho Sereno, which offers a free pitcher of margaritas on check-in.

The center of local night-life is a restaurant called Molino Viejo, which has good views of both the bay and the huge flocks of geese that winter on the beaches here. Molino Viejo is built among the ruins of a failed 19th century English settlement, whose colonists could not coax the barren soil to produce sufficient quantities of wheat to support them (even now, with high-tech irrigation systems, the land bucks at cultivation, and parts of the aquifer around San Quentin have been sucked so dry that sea water has trickled in from the ocean).

I arrived in San Quentin late in the afternoon, poked around for a while, and then, on the advice of a palatero (a vender of fruit-ice from a hand-pushed cart), I headed a couple of miles north to find a suitable seaside campground. Outside of San Quentin, the highway darts away from the ocean, so that half a mile of dunes separates the Transpeninsular from the beach proper. There are dozens of sandy unfixed roads in this area, criss-crossing one another without apparent plan or direction, taking odd turns and following paths that are completely counter-intuitive: as far as I could tell, there wasn’t a single road that led directly from the highway to the beach, and I spent more than half an hour spinning out in the silty sand, galumphing over crabby patches of fountain grass, and fighting to stay upright, without ever spying the Pacific. I dumped my bike once, dodged two snakes that I didn’t pause long enough to identify, and accumulated eight pounds of sand in each shoe. Finally, as the light was beginning to fail, I crested a dune and found myself staring at a beautiful creamy brown beach, as the bottom rim of an enormous burnt-orange sun just met the sea.

I found a little wind-swept knoll behind which to pitch my tent, and I parked my bike and set up camp. For the remainder of the weekend, I strolled hither and yon enjoying the pounding of the surf, cruised for miles in both directions along the wet-packed beach at low tide, and watched dozens of local clammers in black wetsuits troll the surf and harvest mollusks into old yellow buckets and wooden crates.

Mostly, though, I sat staring at the sea, drinking occasional cans of Tecate, thinking about William Walker and Ricardo Flores Magon, the blundering revolutionaries. After failing to take over Baja in 1853, Walker recruited another army of mercenaries. In an attempt to curry favor with the American South, he declared himself pro-slavery and then led his army in an invasion of Central America. He conquered and proclaimed himself president of Nicaragua and then invaded Honduras, which was then a British possession. The British Army, not known to suffer fools, captured and executed Walker in 1860.

In 1912, Ricardo Flores Magon was arrested for violating the United States’ neutrality laws and was sentenced to two years in prison. He got out and was arrested again for sedition in 1916, and after serving that sentence, he was arrested in 1918 for violating the U.S. Espionage Act. He died under mysterious circumstances in Leavenworth in 1921 while serving his final prison sentence. Ironically, in 1945, the Mexican government interred Flores Magon’s body in its Rotunda of Illustrious Men in Mexico City, and the man who had spent his entire life cursing the existence of the Mexican state now lies in Mexico’s political Hall of Fame.

I wondered what it was about this peninsula that had inspired such diametrically opposed and equally incompetent ambitions: Walker had wanted to establish an ultra-capitalist slave state in Baja, and Flores Magon had wanted to found a radically egalitarian anarchist state here. In theory, Baja must have seemed equally adaptable to either ambition; in practice, it accommodated only much more modest ones: some unsustainable agriculture, subsistence fishing, and the production of 1200 cans of Tecate beer per minute, to help ameliorate the misfortunes of the other industries.

“All reports which deal favorably with [Baja] California, her wealth, fertility, or other things necessary to make life comfortable, belong to the category of false reports, regardless of who their authors are.” — Father Baegert

Enhanced by Zemanta