The Liberation of Paris

The wait is over, I've finally written something!! Don't believe me? I don't blame you, but have a look for yourself.

It's been a long wait ...

It's been a long time and I still haven't written more; I chide myself infrequently, but sincerely. My only news is a relocation of this blog due to geeky concerns.

Cinq jours en Bretagne

Brittany is one of six Celtic nations. The other such nations (Cornwall, Ireland, Isle of Mann, Scotland and Wales) lie within the United Kingdom. Brittany stands isolated in mainland Europe, a north-west arm of France that projects out towards Cornwall like a drowning man reaching for help. It is a country unto itself, and the French would have you believe that it is a land of eternally dark skies and endless rain. I've also heard it said many times that of those Bretons who live beyond its borders, all wish to return one day to Brittany.

See the photo gallery.

Recommended (red) wines ...

I am no wine connoisseur. On the rare occasion that I buy a bottle of wine, I've followed the advice (given to me by many people here in Paris) that anything at or above 5€ is probably fine. But what do you do if you're buying wine as a gift for someone with a more refined palate than mine? It is common knowledge that price is not always an indicator of quality (although sub-3€ bottles are distinctive). If price is no problem at all, you could hunt down a bottle of Pétrus or Romanée-Conti. As a mere mortal, I decided to ask for some recommendations and received the following list (in no particular order):

• Mercurey (Bourgogne) 2006, 2007;
• Châteauneuf-du-Pape (Côtes du Rhône) 2004;
• Savigny-lès-Beaune (Burgundy) 2006; and
• Bourgueil (Indre-et-Loire) 2008.

As a general guide, you should be able to find these wines for 20€–30€.

Plants, trees and bicycles

Summer in Paris has been ... interesting. The city empties itself of Parisians and replaces them with tourists, both French and foreign. This has given me the opportunity to hone my tourist-radar, but to be honest most of the tourists are far too obvious.

I have been approached on the street and asked questions in English, and depending on my disposition I either respond in basic French or let loose in my mother tongue. This often draws a surprised "oh, you speak English!" from my inquisitor, which makes me wonder why on earth they began in English, without even a simple "bonjour" or "parlez-vous anglais?" ... I have not yet become a rude Parisian (a particular strain of the French I am yet to encounter), but I can empathise.


Much like the cold, dark winter that brought snowfall to a particularly unsuitable city, and which inspired many Parisians to tell me that such a winter was not normal, my first full summer in Paris has been colder, cloudier and rainier than I had hoped for, or had even expected. I am repeatedly told that such a summer is not normal, and start to wonder...

But when the sun shines and I'm not at work, Paris is a certainly a lovely city to explore. Especially by bicycle. Some weekends I cycle off in a random direction with a book, a baguette and a beer, getting myself thoroughly lost before finding a sunny spot to sit and read. And there's always something to see or do (although it often helps to be fluent in French).


One of the spectacles I haven't taken advantage of yet is the "Paris Plages" (Paris beach), where thousands of tonnes of sand have been shipped in by barge and dumped on the (closed-for-summer) expressway that runs along the bank of the Seine. Call me old fashioned, but I certainly prefer a beach where you can enter the water (illegal and highly inadvisable for health and safety reasons) and catch some waves.

I also took the opportunity to watch the final stage of the Tour de France from a shady street corner. As you can see, I wasn't the only person to come up with the idea. In particular, devout fans of Norwegian cyclist Thor Hushovd lent a festive atmosphere to the proceedings, when lesser fans might have become sedate as support vehicle after support vehicle passed, with nary a bicycle in view. Thankfully, we were finally treated to eight laps of hectic, densely packed cyclical madness.


Even the support vehicles got in on the act, tooting their horns and waving (especially the medical staff lounging in the back of an open-top sports car). One of the motorcycles took the corner too fast, tires slipping and squealing, before regaining control and retaining both occupants. My inexpert eye was able to spot Cadel Evans in the yellow jersey, although there was another rider who wore a red/yellow affair, which confused things somewhat. And, through sheer blind luck, you can even spot Cadel Evans in the (above?) photo, wedged between the idle policemen and the proud Norwegian flag.

And my plans for next weekend? I fly to Knoxville, Tennessee for a three-day workshop on modelling renal hemodynamics. But I'd rather skip the hours of dealing with aeroplanes, airports and the good ol' folks of the TSA, and stay here in Paris.

À bientôt

Pardonnez moi, mais je ne parle pas français!

May 16, 2011, marks a milestone both personal and professional. For a period of slightly less than thirty minutes, I was reduced to a nervous wreck the likes of which I have not resembled since my undergraduate days. The occassion was the XXXI^ème Séminaire de la Société Francophone de Biologie Théorique (the 31^st Conference of the Francophone Society of Theoretical Biology). To finish the very first session of talks, I stumbled my way (not completely awkwardly) through a hastily concieved and poorly rehearsed overview of my research. Entirely in French.

Apart from some minor errors—milliard means billion, not million—and a problem with the sound-system, the talk went surprisingly smoothly and the audience was very friendly. But despite a plea for the questions to be given in English, as a reward for my linguistic efforts, the discussion soon left me adrift in a sea of French, and grinning slightly foolishly as my chef (boss) responded to the questions. This, at least, gave me time to recover from the adrenaline-fuelled pounding in my chest. Ultimately, I emerged unscathed and buoyed by the supportive atmosphere.

Several people offered charmingly positive feedback as we broke for the first intermission of the day, though I cannot say if was offered in honesty or out of politeness. Perhaps the most memorable moment was that, as I stood outside in the sun and nursed a coffee, a friendly Frenchman happily noted that I "spoke English very well". I was taken aback at this remark, visibly so, and he grinned before correcting himself. "You speak French very well." Such was my introduction to French humour.

The rest of the conference was notable for the wine (served and consumed at every lunch, as well as at dinner), for the beautiful surroundings (Autrans is a small ski-resort in the winter), and for the unending barrage of French to which I was submitted for 72 straight hours (minus sleep). The first two somewhat compensated for the third, but I was left in an almost-vegetative state by the time the final talks had concluded.

I shall end by tempting the ire of the March Hare, who famously advised Alice to "start at the beginning". The six hour drive from Paris to Autrans offered me my first chance to drive in a country where one drives on the right side (this is not, as some people insist, the correct side). I negotiated the initial difficulty of changing gears with my other hand, and the continual difficulty of staying within the lane markings when seated on the left-hand side of the car, all at 130 kph. But before my stint behind the wheel, we were treated to the unusual sight of a DeLorean, which lingered in our vicinity for perhaps an hour. Photos were hastily snapped before this rarity had a chance to disappear from view. The Back-to-the-Future vibe was only reinforced the following day when my chef donned a puffy vest, eerily reminiscent of a young Michael J. Fox...

Chefchaouen

Awaking to the crisp morning air, Eddie and I look across the rooftops of Chefchaouen and admired the pale blue shades of the low buildings while we considered our plans for the day. The small tower of the Kasbah called for our attention over flat roofs covered in lines of washing. A short walk through the narrow, muddy streets led us past noisy children to the main square, three sides lined with small cafes and the fourth by the damp stone walls of the ancient Kasbah.