Pompidou Centre (aka "go there if you need a good laugh")

After my irrefutable conclusion at the Tate Modern in London that modern art is cr*p, we decided to give it another go, and see if the French can convince me otherwise.  So off we went to the Pompidou Centre, Paris' modern art museum.  

So far, so good.  

The building is avant-garde, with exposed pipes and structures on its exterior.  According to its architects, the intention is to show how buildings operate, so they put the infrastructure  - structural steel frames, escalator tubes, utility pipes - on the outside, climbing all around the building, giving it a crazy snakes-and-ladders look.  The utility pipes are colour-coded - air-conditioning ducts are blue, water pipes green, and electricity lines yellow.

View from the top-most floors were also great.  You can see the Sacre Coeur in the Montmartre hills in the distance.

After that, it was all downhill (figuratively and literally).

First, let's admire this piece that Ju made in his sleep.

And here's Soph's masterpiece.  

All right, now let's admire some of the masters. 

It's so deep, and I'm only an ignorant shallow mess.  Read it for yourself.

Now at least this one takes a bit more effort to create.  It's supposed to represent the different kinds of light that filters into a typical Parisian room.  Something of that sort... 

This one is named "Six Round Wooden Barrels".  Tell me, where is the art in that?  Where is the inspiration that it is supposed to invoke in me?  Or am I just an ignorant shallow mess?

Some stuff I got from my local IKEA.  (you believed me, right?)

This installation highlights the tumours (violence, wars, pollution, etc) growing all around the world.  The "tumours" were made from plain old masking tape.

I have no words for this.  I didn't even realise it was an art piece.  

Last Light by Felix Gonzalez-Torres (1993), a Conceptual and Minimalist piece.

I am serious.  These things are displayed in the museum.

Now Sophie, tell me, what do you see here?  What do you think it is? 

Me neither.

OK, Ju, what do you see here?  Me neither.

A rake.  What else do you want to know?

The urinal, displayed in 1913 in New York by Duchamp.  

It is the genesis of Dadaism, where an "ordinary object is raised to the dignity of a work of art by the mere decision of the artist".  Yup, that pretty much explains all of modern art.  

At least the architecture was stunning.

Modern art is still cr*p.

Only in France Part II

Here is the long-awaited sequel to the "Only in France" post:

- When learning how to count in French, it is best to simply skip the numbers 70 to 99, unless you are very mathematically-inclined.  And this is a true story: A non-French colleague said that his French teacher told him outright that they will not learn how to say the numbers 70 to 99.  Full-stop. 

See for yourself: In French,

70 is 60/10 (soixante dix)
71 is 60/11 (soixante onze)
72 is 60/12 (soixante douze)
...
80 is 4/20 (quartre vingt)
81 is 4/21 (quartre vingt et un)
82 is 4/22 (quartre vingt deux)
...
90 is 4/20/10 (quartre vingt dis)
91 is 4/20/11 (quartre vingt onze)
92 is 4/20/12 (quartre vingt douze)

When the cashiers tell me how much I have to pay, I can honestly feel my brain churning into action, trying to do the sums to decipher the numbers. 

This explains why we have a whole sack full of coins and change at home, because it is just easier for us to pretend we don't have any small change and give notes to the cashier, than to figure out the numbers with our feeble brains. 

Add to that the tendency for French cashiers to spit out the numbers like fire, and you can certainly sympathise with our predicament. 


- Phone numbers are written and recited in two's, e.g. 06 89 92 51 77.

Now since I cannot count from 70-99, you can very well understand why up to this day, I am not able to give out my telephone number in French.  And if I did, it was probably the wrong number and I never heard from the other party again.  Which is great, coz if they really called me back, I wouldn't be able to understand them anyways. 


- The French language is a superior language.

There are many rules in the French language.  This is the first fact you will discover when you start learning French.  But fear not, my friend.  After several lessons, you will see that the rules are simply random ideas put together by mad Frenchmen whose lifelong ambitions are to show how brilliant they are compared to the rest of humanity.

So, just listen carefully to the teacher while he explains the "rule", smile politely and look interested.  When he is done, ask him with another polite smile, "mais, quelle est l'exceptions?" (but what are the exceptions?).  Then wait for him list the exceptions painstakingly.  There is no need to take notes because there is actually no rule, and the number of exceptions actually surpasses the norm. 

Every object has a gender.  A table is female (or is it male?), a restaurant reservation is female (or is it male?), a strand of hair is female (or is it male?).  Oh what do Anglophones know of this twisted universe!

In French, how you spell nouns depends on whether you are doing the action to yourself, who is doing them, the gender of the noun, the weather yesterday, and your favourite ice-cream flavour.  OK on this one I'm lying.  It changes a little if your socks are red.  

This is why, in France, I only exist for myself and in the present.  I have no family, no friends, no past, no present.  This is because I cannot conjugate verbs to explain "we would like...", "my daughter is...", nor can I talk about last weekend's outing or my plans for next month because the past tense and the future tense are in the advanced sections of my text book.  


- The English language is taboo in France.

In every European city we have visited, people spoke English to us when we ask them, no matter how little or how poor the standard may be.  When we were stuck in a small Tuscan town last month, trying a find a way back to Florence, we approached two young teenagers for help and they took a deep breath, and then tried their best to explain in English.  

In France, no one will admit to you that they understand or speak English.  They will bring this secret to their graves.  

The fact is, English is taught for at least 6 years in ALL French schools.  Every restaurant or shop play English songs over their audio system.  

But ask anyone, even the young ticketing agent behind the counter at Gare du Nord which was swarming with tourists, whether they speak English, and you will get a very adamant shake of head or hand, and the curt reply "Non".  Then they go back to listening to Rihanna on their iPhones.  


- On your birthday, the custom is to buy croissants for everyone in the office.  This also applies to your farewell or last day in the office.  

For those of us used to the Anglo-Saxon (or maybe Asian) way, it would be the reverse.  We would be receiving treats on our birthdays from colleagues, and farewell parties from well-wishers.

So last week, when a couple of colleagues found out it was my birthday at the end of the working day, instead of being apologetic or wishing me a Happy Birthday, they lightly chided me for not bringing croissants that day.  No worries, no harm done; I did not take offense.  They are really very nice people, it's just a matter of cultural differences.  


- Nudity is tres French.  

The French expect to fully disrobe in front of their doctors.  When you have to go for an X-ray, take off everything and stroll across the busy corridors to the X-ray room.  No fiddling with sheets or towels to cover up, just the plain birthday suit will do, thank you. 

A French acquaintance told me that she once went to the doctor's in the UK, and when the doctor examined her using the stethoscope through her shirt, she was offended.  She wanted to get naked.  

Yup, Anglo-Saxon/Asian ideas of decency have no place here. 

There's the naked lady!

- Elevators are overrated.

Paris is full of hundred, two-hundred year old residential buildings, where elevators were some futuristic invention when the buildings went up.  So today, if you are lucky, in these buildings, you will find the tiniest of elevator is fitted to bring some 21st century comfort to the residents.  

I tried to explain to KM and C when they visited from London, about those tiny boxes.  I told them, "You go in with your stroller and the baby, and I will take the stairs and meet you upstairs".  KM replied, "No, no, no...we can surely fit in this.  Look, I will show you".  He opened the lift door and immediately he was defeated by the wily French.


Once again, Anglo-Saxon ideals have no place in France.

The lift in my building is the width of its door.  All you see in this picture is all there is.  

Amsterdam

YL was in Amsterdam last week for a medical seminar, and we took the opportunity of the long weekend (Friday was a public holiday in France because it was Armistice Day) to join him there for 2.5 days.  


In an unprecedented turn-of-events (I missed our train - gasp!! - c'est n'est pas possible!), we ended up with only 1.75 days in the city, but I think we managed to cover the highlights pretty well.  If you ask me to name the things that Amsterdam is known for, off the top of my head, I would say:
- hashish 
- Red Light District
- canals
- windmills
- clogs 


No, we did not try hashish, because we are *sob, sob* responsible adults with *bwaaah* two young children to look after.  

All those varieties

Lollipops too!

We did not check out the live sex shows either, because, again, we are *SOB, SOB, SOB* sensible parents with *bWaaaAAAhh* young cute kids who do not restrict our freedom to do wild things as we please at all.

The famous Red Light District is named such for a good reason 

Close-up of one of the windows.  It's functional - there's a bed, a mirror next to it, and a sink.  The girls rent the room (and window display) for EUR 150-200 per night, and charges around EUR 50 per ...err...service.  They were dressed in skimpy bikinis, long blond wigs, and killer boots or heels, and posing, dancing or just sitting behind these windows.  When the curtains are drawn, it means they are busy with a customer.     

So we did the next thing on the list - a canal tour *ppfhhf*

The canal houses were fascinating.  They looked so cosy, and many are equipped with all  the modern comforts you can imagine, and were decorated stylishly.  Canal houses is a way to solve the problem of limited land space in the city.  There are around 2,000 moorings available in the city and all have been issued.   

Sunset over Amsterdam

More canal shots

No windmills or clogs, because we only have 1.75 days remember?  


We did do a couple more things that are unique to Amsterdam/the Netherlands.  As Indonesia was a former colony of the East India Dutch Company for over 200 years, there is a strong Indonesian community and presence in Amsterdam.  The rijsttafel (rice table) is a Dutch concept created during the colonial times.  In order for the Dutch to sample different local dishes, they were served in small portions all at once, accompanied by plain white rice.  We tried one somewhere in the city center, and it was the best Asian food we've had since we moved to Paris.  Mmmm....satay....sambal....keropok....

 Rijsttafel at the Restaurant Selecta

Also, on the topic of food - I had an apple pie, supposedly a popular lunch time choice in the Jordaan area, in this corner cafe   

Amsterdam people are also known for their love of cycling.  There are bikes everywhere - chained along bridges, strewn on street corners, parked along buildings. There are also all sorts of weird and wonderful combinations of the two-wheelers: bicycles with wheelbarrows hitched in front for kids to ride along, bicycles with a small tent behind for the dogs, tandems, etc.

A common scene in Amsterdam

The highlight of the trip was definitely the visit to the Anne Frank House.  I remember vague details from her diary that I read as a student in secondary school (I wonder if they are still enlightened enough to continue doing this back home?).  To see the house, the rooms, and the entrance to the secret annex, was a fulfilling experience.  Her story is tragic and disheartening, and all the powers that be have the duty to make sure it will never happen to humankind ever again.  


For those not familiar with Anne Frank's story, she was a 14-year old Jewish girl, who, in the midst of the WWII, hid in a secret part of a building that housed her father's company for 2 years to escape capture by the Nazis.  She lived there with her father, mother, older sister, another couple and their teenage son, and an acquaintance of her father.  What is remarkable is that they lived a relatively "normal" life during this period of confinement - the girls continued their school lessons by reading library books and studying through correspondence courses, they cooked celebratory meals on birthdays, anniversaries and festivals, and the adults read the daily newspapers and magazines.  Of course, the fact that they could not step out of the building nor see the sun during daytime nor talk to people other than those hiding in the same apartment make it not-so-normal.  


Unfortunately, they were betrayed, and were caught and sent to the concentration camps in the last few months of the war.  Anne and her sister died from illnesses contracted in the camp one month before liberation.  Her father survived the Holocaust and published her diary after his return to Amsterdam.  


It's a fascinating story - read the book, Anne Frank's Diary.  

 Anne Frank's House.  The facade was left untouched, and so were the rooms inside. 

OK, onto lighter topics.  I just realised that we do not have a single photo from the two other museums we visited: the Van Gogh museum and the Rijksmuseum (National Museum).  Admission was included in our Amsterdam City Card, so we did a cursory tour just to get our money's worth.  But thanks to the card, I now have an appreciation for Rembrandt's works.  


Van Gogh's story was touching, not in the way his illness tormented him, but in the way it showed love among siblings.  His younger brother, Theodore, looked after him financially, physically, and mentally, throughout his difficult years, and Van Gogh died in Theodore's arms after shooting himself.   


So, yes, we had a great time in Amsterdam, despite the rocky start.  

I was not kidding about the bicycles.

Popo is back!

Popo returned to Europe last month after her well-deserved break back home in Malaysia.  This time, she is lending her services to the two clueless, jittery, sleep-deprived zombies new parents (hahahaha.... sorry, not funny) in Italy.  

Shooting the evil Emperor Zorg of the Buzz Lightyear ride in Disneyland.  Sophie did surprisingly well.  Do not expect Popo to kill aliens.

Before heading over to Florence, Popo spent a few days in Paris reacquainting with Sophie & Ju, and also to allow YL and I out of our cage to taste and smell ...errm...what do you call it again?...you know, the thing that you take for granted before kids invade your lives.  Oh yes: freedom.  

A REAL dinner without kids fighting over utensils and waiting to be fed and eventual meltdowns.  Two full hours of adult talk, of selfish indulgence, of appreciating flavours and soft jazz music.  ...Yes, we were bored.  

View from Le Jules Verne on the third floor of the Eiffel Tower.  Here you can see the Trocadero plaza and the tourist boats going pass on the Seine.  Food was good, but probably not worth the money.  You are paying for the view and the Michelin star.

Another indulgent meal, this time in Florence.  La Tenda Rossa (The Red Tent) was promoting a white truffle menu, which I ordered.  This was baked apple stuffed with foie gras and sprinkled with white truffles.  Again, not sure what all the fuss about truffles is about, but now I can tick it off my list :P

Back to Popo's visit.  We took the overnight sleeper train that departs Paris at 7:30am and arrives in Florence the next morning at 7:30am.  It wasn't a bad experience, but don't expect too much in terms of comfort, especially if you have to share your sliver of a "bed" with a 2-year old who usually sleeps splayed.

Anyways we safely delivered Popo to two grateful, haggard zombies new parents (hohohoho...sorry, not funny).  No photos of them, coz haggard doesn't look very nice on photos.  Plus, one of them was in the same pyjamas that she had worn since she got out of the delivery ward 3 weeks ago.  The other one had always been a hopeless case when it comes to producing a non-threatening smile for the camera, so let's just not give him this challenge during this time.  

I want MORE grandchildren!

All the best to Popo and her new mission!

We shall not pass on the opportunity for Popo to make the customary Leaning Tower of Pisa pose no matter what YL says.

3 Birthdays

Somewhere in this world, there must be a prize for the world's laziest parents when it comes to celebrating your kids' birthdays.  We are the indisputable winners. 


Ju turned two last month, and in contrast to the celebration we had for Sophie's second birthday, his was simply pathetic non-existent.  The day was almost ending when YL produced a home-made car as his birthday present.  Ju was impressed.  So was I.  

 Toy car made from a SK-II box, egg cartons, bottle caps and glue to keep it all together

 OK, OK, I was more than impressed; I was, in fact, very proud of YL.  Such creativity, such prudent use of waste materials.  (No, I am not being sarcastic for once)  Seriously, two-year olds who boast of two-hour attention spans does not warrant expensive toys.  And we are notoriously known for NOT giving birthday presents to our kids.  Not until they learn to appreciate what they have around them and how lucky they are.  Which means .... hmmm .... when they are 21.  At which time, they should be old enough to get their *own* presents.  Humph!


So thanks Aunty PC, for the Cars backpack, otherwise known as the-ultimate-present-for-a-two-year-old-boy, so Ju can say that he received at least ONE present before he turned 21.   


We did redeemed ourselves by giving the boy THREE celebrations, each one progressively better and larger.  


Celebration number 2 was 2 days later, in Disneyland, with Popo, who returned to Paris after a 3-month hiatus back home in Malaysia.  It was a fantastic meal at the Mickey Cafe surrounded by Disney characters, who all came to give Ju (and Sophie, and err also Popo) hugs. He must have felt good, because he got up on his highchair and treated us to a hilarious 3-minute dance, complete with bottom-shaking, hip-swaying, leg-thumping moves.  Come visit and I'll show you the priceless video clip.  

Goofy stopped to say Hi...

So did Mickey

And so did Stich...and Minnie...and Tigger....and...

A few days later, we had celebration number 3 in Florence, with Yiyi and Yi Cheong, and finally, a cake.  Yiyi, even in the midst of her confinement, organised for a Cars-themed party, and that, needless to say, has earned her the privilege of being Ju's best friend.  At least until the next person who comes along with more Cars offerings.  

Popo was too lazy to get changed for the pictures, and so she declared that it will be a pyjama-party.  So here we are, in our tatty pyjamas, celebrating Ju's birthday for the third time, and this time with an ice-cream cake from the local gelateria.  

Yup...the boy will have lots of stories to tell his friends when he's older. 

Ju now sings Happy Birthday regularly, courtesy of his 3 birthday celebrations.  


So I guess we did well after all :)